Work Text:
Hiding his rowdiness was a constant problem for Maxwell growing up. He tried smothering his violent tendencies several times, but he just couldn’t seem to stop. Maxwell had a craving for combat—for the stinging across his knuckles, for the blood in his mouth—that felt akin to a physical need.
And, even though it was unsightly to many, it was still a part of him. Throughout the years, Maxwell had to let go of many parts of himself in order to fit his family’s image. His rowdiness was something that refused to be thrown away though.
Because he couldn’t get rid of it, Maxwell was determined to hide it. Father already held disdain for Maxwell. What would he do if he found out his least favorite son was a rowdy?
With all of this in mind, Maxwell was quite reasonably petrified when his father arrived home early and found him—at the age of fifteen—with blood on his shirt.
They stared at one another for a few moments. Maxwell felt like his life was flashing before his eyes. Then, in a panic, he blurted out the first excuse that came to him. “It’s my monthlies!”
Longspot’s eyebrows shot up.
“Uh, there was a lot more than usual,” Maxwell said, unable to stop talking for some reason. “I got too much on my hands that—”
“Enough, enough,” Longspot said, nose wrinkling. “Spare me the details. If laundry cannot get the stain out, throw the shirt away. Here,” Longspot threw some money at the boy, who caught it despite his disbelief that it worked! “Buy…something to prevent future messes.”
From then on, whenever anyone questioned bloodstains on his clothes, Maxwell blamed it on his monthlies. No one seemed to catch on except Samwell, who had a wife he actually talked to.
****
14 years later, on the Zephyr…
“You’re covered in blood,” Van commented after a particularly harrowing sky battle. “Did you roll around in it?”
Out of habit, Maxwell replied, “It’s just my monthlies.”
There was a long pause where everyone stared at Maxwell before they all burst out laughing. Marya and Van seemed especially amused, practically wheezing with how hard they were laughing.
Feeling his face heat up with an embarrassed blush, Maxwell said, “It’s not that funny.”
“It is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” Marya said between giggles.
“What? Do you explode every month?” Van asked, doubled over and clutching her sides.
Folding his blood-covered arms over his blood-covered chest, Maxwell looked away and said, “I have a completely normal cycle. It’s just an old excuse I made to my father when he found blood on my shirts.”
“And he bought it?!?” Olethra asked incredulously. “Has he ever met someone with a vagina before?”
“Presumably, he’s not only met someone with a vagina but also conceived seven kids with her,” Monty commented.
“Yes, well,” Maxwell said. “My father never really liked thinking about things he didn’t deem ‘proper’.”
Several of the windriders frowned with varying levels of disapproval and sympathy on their faces. Which, alright, Maxwell knew his father sucked. He didn’t need other people dwelling on it or—ugh—pitying him. What could he say to bring the conversation away from this topic?
“What are ‘monthlies’?” Torse’s mechanical voice asked politely from somewhere behind Maxwell.
The blush on Maxwell’s face darkened. Hopefully, the blood would cover it up. The blood could not, however, suddenly give Maxwell the composure to explain monthly cycles to the handsome automaton he was maybe, kind of enamored with. He had asked the universe for a topic change, not a reason to throw himself overboard!!!
Thankfully, Marya saved Maxwell some embarrassment by answering the question herself. “Oh, we are talking about a cycle some humans go through. Those of us born with wombs are cursed to bleed from them every month.”
The noise of Torse’s inner machinery grew louder, grinding together in a distinctly distressed fashion. “Maxwell is cursed?”
“No,” Maxwell said, intervening before anyone could misinform their friend. “No, she’s exaggerating. It’s a pain, but it’s natural.”
More distressed whirring escaped the automaton, and he said, “These ‘monthlies’ cause you pain? How does one cure this condition?”
“That’s sweet of you, Torse,” Marya said. “But, short of cutting out your uterus, there isn’t much to be done.”
“Besides,” Van chimed in. “It goes away eventually. My womb’s all dried up.”
“I believe I have a few years left,” Marya commented. “I am blessed with little pain though.”
“Lucky,” Maxwell said under his breath.
“Are you in much pain?” Torse asked Maxwell. The automaton started patting him down, as if searching for an injury.
Certain that no amount of blood could hide how flustered he was, Maxwell caught Torse’s wrists and said, “I’m fine! It’s not actually my time of the month. Besides, it’s never that bad. I’ve never had to miss classes because of it or anything.”
Turning to Monty—which had Maxwell huffing indignantly: he was the expert of his own body, thank you very much—Torse asked, “Is there nothing that can be done?”
“I have some pain relievers if Maxwell wants them. I’m not exactly qualified to do a hysterectomy though.”
“It’s fine,” Maxwell hissed.
The human could tell Torse wasn’t pleased with his refusal of pain relievers, but the automaton didn’t push the matter further. He simply looked at Maxwell with his intense, glowing gaze and said, “If there is anything you need, you may rely on me for it.”
“I—um—thank you.” As frustrated as he had been by all of the fussing, that offer had Maxwell stumbling over his words. He cleared his throat to try to pretend that was why he couldn’t string a sentence together and said, “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. Right now, I just need to shower, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Maxwell left in a very dignified, not-running-away manner.
On his way back to his room, he ran into Wealwell. His brother looked him up and down. Instead of vomiting—as he was wont to do—Wealwell simply asked, “Is it already time for your monthlies?”
“...Yes,” Maxwell said. He already had to suffer through Torse asking about his cycle. He wasn’t explaining this long-standing lie to Wealwell.
****
Though they had only known each other for a short time, Torse was aware of Maxwell’s usual behavior. The man was easily riled up, but he was generally amiable.
Therefore, it was unusual for Maxwell to be so…snappish. Not without cause.
When Torse asked the human if anything was wrong, he said sharply, “Nothing! I just feel stifled on this goddamn ship!”
Taking a step away—so as not to stifle the human further—Torse said, “I see.”
The human’s anger suddenly morphed into contrition, and Maxwell sighed before saying, “That’s not—I’m sorry Torse. I know I’m being a pain in the ass. There’s just—I feel like I need to crawl out of my skin! And, my favorite pajamas are ruined!”
“How did this happen?”
“My monthlies caught me by surprise. This past week has been so eventful that I completely forgot about it.”
Recalling that this condition was painful to Maxwell, Torse felt his heart tick faster with concern. “Would you like pain relievers?”
“No,” Maxwell said dismissively. “What I really want is to spar.”
“Should you be sparring in this state?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked, his snappish anger resurfacing.
Unsure of how he had misstepped—and unused to doing so with Maxwell—Torse paused to choose his next words carefully. “Montgomery has emphasized the importance of rest when recovering from a wound. I assumed the same would be necessary for this one.”
Brows furrowed in confusion, Maxwell asked, “Wound?”
“Your monthlies. Are they not a wound of some kind?”
“Oh. No one actually explained this to you, did they?”
“No.”
Running a hand over his face, Maxwell closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. “Ask Monty about it later: I’m sure he’ll give a good explanation. The important thing to know right now though is that it’s not a wound.”
“That is good.” Torse was glad for that at least. He was still largely confused about what “monthlies” were. He wished Maxwell would simply explain the matter to him, but the man clearly did not want to.
When Maxwell looked back up at the automaton, his expression was softer. Closer to how the human usually looked at Torse. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. That was rude and unbecoming.”
“You are forgiven.”
“Thanks.” Taking a turn into bashfulness, the human gave him a small smile and said. “I really am good to spar. I promise. But, I can find Van if you’re not up for it.”
“I will spar with you.” Although he trusted Maxwell’s word, Torse would feel more at ease remaining by the man’s side. That way, he could help if this strange condition worsened.
****
Less than an hour later, Maxwell and Torse sat in Marya’s workshop. Torse was having his broken elbow joint repaired while Maxwell apologized profusely. There was no need for Maxwell to apologize though: the feat was quite impressive. The automaton said as much, and the mustached human looked sheepishly pleased.