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Language:
English
Series:
Part 3 of Restraint
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Published:
2025-06-08
Completed:
2025-07-05
Words:
1,940
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
32
Kudos:
96
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Layers of civility

Summary:

Maxwell wraps himself in layers of civility. But he lives for when he can take them off.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Maxwell dresses slowly. Once, his manservant Eugene would have helped him with such tasks, but the signs of change in the family fortune have been many.

He pulls neatly pressed trousers up, lacing them with fingers that seem clumsy today. His father's words from the day before ring in his ears.

It's past time for marriage, boy. You've near completed your studies and I have a number of business partners willing to open a position for you.

Maxwell grimaces at his reflection in the full length mirror as he reaches for a crisp, white shirt, buttoning it to the throat, the starched collar tight around his neck.

You've left it late, but there are still a few prospects about. You could do worse than that Smyth-William chit. I had heard her brother is looking to offload her.

The waistcoat is next, a deep burgundy, the brocade still plush despite the fact that it was the fashion of several seasons past.

Maxwell feels the bitter choke of the words he cannot say stick in his throat as he ties the complicated knot of his cravat.

If it's all the same to you, father, I'd rather not marry at all.

He has the courage for many things. But not for that.

Maxwell slips the heavy jacket over his ensemble and smooths it down. He brushes his fingers lightly through his hair, neatly combed and parted, and smooths the points of his moustache.

He looks presentable. Sociable even. If one doesn't look too closely at his eyes. At the trapped creature they reflect, in its desperate struggle to get out.

He pulls the gloves on last. Crisp and white over scabbed and bruised knuckles. He clenches his fists and feels the way the material confines and constrains him. With a sigh he relaxes his hands, straightens his shoulders and turns away from the mirror.

~

The luncheon is inteminable. Lady Isobelle Smyth-William is as pleasant as always, chattering on about one subject or the next.

Maxwell wants to shake her sometimes. Grip her by the shoulders and say, Do you remember when we were young, Izzy? When we dreamed of pirates and adventures and writing our names in the sky?

Instead he nods in all the right places, returning meaningless platitudes and social niceties on queue.

He looks over at Lord Christopher Smyth-William more than once, but he's always occupied with some conversation or other, his beautiful wife holding court at his side. It's fair; he has a fortune to maintain in the months following his father's untimely death. Still, Maxwell feels the absence of Christopher's regard.

He's collecting a selection of tiny cakes, which Isobelle had declared she simply must try, when he feels a presence at his back.

He tenses, and then smells the hint of citrus that underlays the cologne Christopher favours.

'Tonight,' comes the low voice. 'Nine sharp.'

And then more loudly. 'Come now, Gotch, leave some for the rest of us!'

Maxwell turns with a put upon smile, but the thudding of his heart and the racing of his pulse is real.

'Of course,' he said, as he places another delicacy on the plate. He meets Christopher's eyes and sees the faintest reflection of a trapped thing there as well.

~

His fingers tremble as he unknots his cravat. It's anticipation that makes them clumsy.

He can smell the musk of sweat and the tang of blood. It has seeped into the small changing space over many years.

He shrugs out of his coat, stuffing it hastily onto a shelf, his waistcoat coming next.

He feels as though he can finally breathe as he unbuttons his collar, fingers hasty as they strip away his shirt.

He can hear the noise of the crowd already. It sounds like Kit has stirred up a few more than the regulars. Maxwell sets his shoulders, a low heat curling to life in his belly at the thought of it.

His shirtsleeves get stuck on his gloves as he tries to pull them off. He growls in frustration, bringing one hand up to his mouth, teeth nipping the end of his finger as he bites the glove, pulling it from his hand.

The pinprick of pain has the heat in his belly stirring higher. He shoves the gloves and then his shirt onto the shelf as well.

He's reaching for the oil when the door behind him opens and Kit walks in. The Lord Christopher Smyth-William from earlier is all but gone. The fancy clothes and haughty expression are banished. His hair is touseled and his eyes dance with excitement.

'Are you ready?' Kit asks, taking the oil from him and pouring some into his hands. He rubs them together and then begins to run his hands down Maxwell's shoulders and arms. Across his chest.

It's a ritual they have. One that settles him at the same time as it gets him worked up. Makes him want to hit something.

Maxwell nods, catching sight of himself in a cracked mirror behind Kit's head.

The trapped thing behind his eyes is vicious. Hungry.

'I'm ready,' he nods again.

Kit smooths the oil across his cheekbones, dabs a swipe across his lip. His grip is firm, but the pads of his fingers are soft. The ache in Maxwell's gut becomes a fire.

'Right,' Kit says, meeting Maxwell's burning gaze.

'Let's go get a bit rowdy.'

Notes:

A post-fight scene came to me, which I've added as chapter 2. Tone may be slightly different but hopefully it flows.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

‘Max? Max, I need you to open your eyes for me.’ The words are gentle, as is the hand on his shoulder.

Maxwell shakes his head with a groan and winces at the stab of pain and the rising nausea in response.

‘Come on, Max, just let me have a look at your eyes.’ The voice is laced with concern. It’s one he’s used to responding to.

Maxwell concentrates and cracks his eyes open, squinting at the increase of light, dim as it is. A face comes into view, and he focusses on it. Curly, dark hair, sharp cheekbones and a closely cut, neat beard. Kit. It’s Kit’s voice and Kit’s hand on his shoulders.

‘That’s it,’ Kit says. ‘Good man. You took quite a knock to the head there, at the end.’

Kit puts a hand under Maxwell’s jaw and tilts his face towards the light. The skin of his fingers is soft against the day-old stubble on Maxwell’s chin.

Kit frowns, as he looks into Maxwell’s face, moving his head from side to side. Maxwell feels dizzy, trying to follow the movement. He winces again, closing his eyes and leaning into Kit’s hand.

‘What happened?’ Maxwell mumbles.

Kit removes his hand from Maxwell’s face and he barely stops himself from making a noise of protest. Kit doesn’t touch him like that. Maxwell knows that. He’s good at rules.

‘Davies’ signature haymaker happened,’ Kit says in response to his question.

There’s a soft splashing noise and then Maxwell feels a cool, wet cloth at his forehead, wiping gently. It feels nice.

‘You have a concussion,’ Kit continued. ‘And your pretty face is a mess. You’re going to have to be creative with the story you tell your father about this one.’

‘Pretty?’ Maxwell asks, opening his eyes again, blinking to try and bring Kit into focus.

Kit laughs softly. ‘Comparatively,’ he says with a joking gesture to himself and a raised eyebrow. That’s always been true, Maxwell knows. Objectively. People – women – were always following Kit around. Maxwell had stopped being bothered by it a long time ago.

Kit wipes at his face again. The cloth comes away stained with blood. He turns to rinse it in a basin at his side and Maxwell realises they’re in the small changing space out the back of his regular fighting ring. He’s sitting on a bench, propped up against a cupboard door. He blinks to try and bring back more details. Kit’s words about Davies register.

‘Did I win?’

Kit grimaces and Maxwell has his answer. Anger and shame curl to life in his chest, mixing with the nausea and enhancing it.

‘Was your bet high?’ Maxwell asks, dreading the answer. It will be harder, now, for him to find the money to cover Kit for the loss.

Kit waves a hand at him, bringing the cloth back up to his forehead. ‘Don’t worry about that. You’ve made me plenty of money, over the years.’

Maxwell drops his gaze and lets it go, though the disappointment sits high in his chest. He doesn’t have many opportunities to feel Kit’s regard any more. His new wife and enhanced duties as Lord Christopher Smyth-William keep him too busy for late nights at back alley fighting rings.

To squander a night like this on a loss makes him angry at himself. On a win they would go out drinking, smoking, talking to all hours. On a win he would have Kit back, Lord Christopher put away until the morning.

Kit grips Maxwell’s shoulder, squeezing gently, drawing his attention back up. Kit’s dark eyes are concerned as he fixes Maxwell with an intense gaze.

‘Truly,’ he says. ‘The money is nothing. I was worried for you. You hit the ground hard and you didn’t move. It took three men to carry you back here.’

Kit’s hand grips convulsively at his shoulder, and Maxwell realises he’s still shirtless, clad only in breeches and boots. Kit is fully dressed, and despite the fact that Kit often patches him up after his fights, there’s something about the disparity in their clothing that sets him off balance. Maybe it’s the knock to his head. Maybe it’s the shame of the loss. He feels vulnerable in front of Kit in a way that puts him on edge, raises a shadow of that yearning want that he let go of a long time ago.

He shifts, shrugging his shoulder to release Kit’s grip. The hands on his body and the gentleness of the touch are too much, all of a sudden.

He reaches for the cloth in Kit’s hand, but misses it, fumbling against his wrist. Maxwell grimaces and Kit reaches out again, hand hovering slightly above his bare skin, not touching. Always so proper. Maxwell’s anger rises.

‘Easy, Max,’ Kit says, voice soothing, as though he’s calming a frightened horse. ‘Let me help.’

‘I don’t need your help,’ Maxwell mutters, grabbing for the cloth again and tugging it from Kit’s grasp. He dunks it in the basin and smears it roughly across his forehead. He feels a stab of pain and trickle of fresh, hot blood, and knows he’s probably pulled his wound open again.

Kit’s face darkens at his words and the sight of the fresh blood. Maxwell feels a small bloom of heat at what he might do in response. He used to push Kit all the time, just to get a rise. Words or fists didn’t matter. The thrill of the dark spark in his eyes was its own satisfaction. But they’re not boys any longer. They don’t challenge each other the way they used to. They’re men. With responsibilities.

‘Fine,’ Kit says. ‘Have it your way, you stubborn idiot. I would recommend not sleeping for the next few hours. Send me a telegram in the morning if you’re still alive.’

A part of Maxwell hopes Kit will change his mind. Push back. Fight. But Kit rinses his hands under the tap, straightens his clothes and leaves. He doesn’t look back.

Maxwell pushes the cloth more firmly against his wound and grits his teeth at the throb of pain in his head. It’s better like this. Kit has made his choices and Maxwell is respecting them.

It’s better like this.

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