Chapter Text
Sharing a tent with Maxwell is hardly the burden everyone in camp assumes it is.
He’s a quiet sleeper. Doesn’t move much. He keeps an odd schedule sometimes, slipping out of the tent hours before Wilson even opens his eyes or finally settling into his bedroll when the birds have started to chirp outside, but he’s generally very polite about it. Often, the only evidence of his departure is a tiny rustle of fabric.
Still, when Winona offered to build Wilson a new tent and he declined, making the conscious decision to keep sleeping next to Maxwell, she looked at him like he had three heads.
That’s understandable. Wilson tolerates Maxwell more than most people in this camp. He suspects it’s got something to do with that awful, awkward three months of vulnerability they shared before the florid postern was built: Wilson had to watch Maxwell relearn how to eat, for god’s sake, and had to watch him have night terrors every time he laid down to sleep. He seemed older and frailer than ever, those times. It had been hard to hate him.
It’s different now. Maxwell’s old, yes, and the full effects the throne had on him are yet to be understood, but he’s more than regained his strength. He moves in a full stride, he can hold and swing an axe, and the combination of Warly’s cooking and the near-constant activity it takes to survive in the Constant leaves him looking healthier by the day.
It’s been a long time since he had a nightmare, either. No matter how subtle Max used to be during them, Wilson took notice—he’s a light sleeper, and Max’s tossing and turning, the tiny frightened animal noises he made, were enough to wake Wilson up. It was worrying, and Wilson’s glad it’s over, not entirely for selfless reasons. He still has the occasional throne-centric nightmare himself, and seeing Max writhing in fear didn’t bode well for his own recovery. Now, when Wilson’s feeling particularly anxious at night, the sight of Maxwell calms him down instead of worrying him further. He chances a quick look at that angular face, peaceful in sleep, and tells himself that if Maxwell is okay, he’ll be okay, too.
It’s a restless night like that now. Wilson’s been curled up on his side for ages, trying to calm himself down enough to go to sleep, but he just… can’t. Every soft, benevolent thing only makes it worse somehow—the fur roll feels itchy beneath his cheek, the wind outside takes on an unnerving, howling edge—and at last he sits up with an explosive sigh of frustration.
In a last-ditch effort to relax his nerves, he looks over at Maxwell…
…and frowns at what he sees.
Max’s face isn’t relaxed like it should be. There’s a tension in his features—and in his body, Wilson notes, looking down to where Maxwell’s hands clench and unclench in the fur roll.
He’s relapsed, Wilson’s mind immediately supplies. He’s having another nightmare.
Wilson sighs again. It’ll be a rough night for both of them, if that’s the case. He knows full well there’s nothing he can do for Maxwell at this point—he gets snappy if Wilson asks about it, sulky if he doesn’t. The best thing he can do is roll over and pretend to sleep when Maxwell inevitably gasps himself awake and flees the tent.
Wilson’s irritated at first, but the wave crests and falls in moments, leaving only concern and exhaustion behind. It’s impossible to be angry when he looks at Max, tense as a bowstring and with a little worried crease between his brows. He makes an uncomfortable noise and shifts in his sleep.
Wilson props himself up on one elbow, turned towards Maxwell. There’s something different about this, but he can’t put his finger on it. So, like any good scientist, he observes.
The minute tremors Wilson is used to seeing when Maxwell has a nightmare aren’t present. He hasn’t gone pale, either: instead, he’s almost flush. He tosses and turns, seemingly unable to get comfortable. It’s all so far removed from how Maxwell would behave if he were awake, and Wilson is totally baffled. Even when the first obvious indicator of what’s happening appears, it takes him a minute to comprehend it.
Maxwell rolls over onto his side, now facing Wilson, and crosses his legs.
Oh, Wilson thinks. Oh.
Wilson’s face is hot. It’s not like he hasn’t been in the same situation before; he’s had a few close calls where having to make a torch before going out at night to relieve himself nearly cost him, but…this is Maxwell. Were it anybody else, Wilson doesn’t think he would feel quite this strange about it. By daytime he clings so desperately to his restraint, his composure, his privacy, but he can’t do any of that now.
He must need to go quite badly, if his body language is any indication. Wilson reddens further when one of Maxwell’s slender hands joins the equation, snaking down in-between his thighs. Wilson can tell he doesn’t have the strength to really grip himself like he needs to. Instead, his legs clamp down around his hand.
He’s going to lose it if he doesn’t wake up, Wilson thinks, and immediately feels a surge of arousal that surprises him in its intensity. Then comes the crushing shame.
No, no, no—he knows this is a proclivity of his, but letting these particular wires cross is a terrible idea. And Maxwell would be absolutely mortified if he knew. Wilson actually feels a little pang of secondhand embarrassment at the idea, but…of course, it’s tempered with something else.
Wilson is a curious sort. He always has been. He’s also not in the habit of denying himself things.
So he keeps watching.
The tension in Maxwell’s body slowly climbs. It’s not impossible to reconcile this Maxwell with the Maxwell Wilson knows—he’s a restrained, repressed sort, still so embarrassed by the little indignities he has to suffer every day while living with them. Wilson’s seen this flush on his face before.
There’s also always been something about watching Maxwell give into the demands of his body that makes Wilson feel oddly charmed. The way his eyes slip shut as he warms up by the fire, or the contentment in his posture when he’s eaten a full meal after days of scraps, or how earnestly he sighed the first time he got to lie down on his fur roll…all of them are giving him away, bit by bit. He seeks warmth and softness like the rest of them. Wilson thinks he’s finally learning that it’s okay to do so.
He’s still embarrassed to relieve himself in front of people, though. Wilson’s never seen him do it. Only on their multi-day expeditions has he ever excused himself, and even then he finds a spot as far away from Wilson as he possibly can. Maxwell in such an obvious state of desperation is something Wilson never, ever thought he’d get to see—he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he has.
Maxwell’s stopped moving for the most part, save for the tiny squirming motions of his hips. He probably needs to go too bad to get hard from it, but watching him rock into his own hand like that is so frighteningly reminiscent of self-pleasure that Wilson has to cross his own legs for relief. His eyes flutter shut at the feeling, but he forces them open again. He needs to see.
It’s a good thing he does, because another wave seems to hit Maxwell shortly after. He turns onto his back, seeking any position that’ll ease the pressure on his bladder, but the shift in position only seems to jostle him more: he gasps sharply and his hands ball into fists at his sides. Wilson waits for the moment to pass, but Maxwell stays rigid, fighting against the demands of his body.
“Oh my god,” Wilson whispers. Suddenly, he’s certain of what he’s seeing, what he’s about to see—this is the moment of humming tension before the inevitable happens, and Maxwell’s overtaxed muscles finally relax. I’ve really got to wake him up before he wets himself, Wilson thinks, and does absolutely nothing.
He knows he’s run out of time when Maxwell releases a pained-sounding sigh, and the pattering of liquid on fabric becomes audible. Then, Maxwell’s posture relaxes, and his voice becomes deep and rich with relief, almost a groan. A faint acrid smell laces the air as he melts into his quickly-darkening bedroll.
“Oh,” Wilson says again, voice edging recklessly away from a whisper, “oh my god. ”
He knows he won’t get to watch for much longer. There’s no way Max won’t realize he’s soaking the floor. With a pang of regret, Wilson flips over so he’s facing the tent wall. Safely hidden beneath the blankets, he shoves a hand between his legs. He’s aching with the need to touch himself properly. If Maxwell doesn’t wake up soon, he might lose it just like this—just from the pressure of his hand…
Moments afterwards, though, there’s a shuffle of fabric from the other side of the tent. Maxwell makes a frustrated sound as he sits up, still half-asleep, but he goes completely silent when he realizes what he’s done—what he’s doing, if the faint hiss Wilson can still hear is anything to go by. Then he gasps, mortified. The hissing goes quiet after a rustle of fabric, and Wilson has to bite back a moan when he realizes that Maxwell must be grabbing himself to cut the flow.
He’s disappointingly quiet after that. Wilson hears him get to his feet and scoop up his soiled linens before he flees the tent. He can barely wait until Maxwell is out of earshot to touch himself—when he gives in and tugs down his fly, he can still hear hurried footsteps in the distance, and it only makes him harder. He must still need to go so badly, Wilson thinks, and allows himself a tiny whine.
His eyes slip shut when he finally shoves his pants down to his thighs and wraps a hand around himself. Feeling oddly exposed even under the blanket, he stays curled up on his side, obscuring the movements of his hand as much as he can. The different angle doesn’t bother him. He’s nearly there already.
Wilson sinks his teeth into his lip, trying to keep quiet even as the frantic, jerking movements of his hand make it almost impossible. Without stopping, he fumbles for the spare bit of cloth in his pants pocket, and cups it around himself with a trembling hand.
Maxwell comes back to the forefront of his mind. Their tent is far enough away from the main fire that he can slip out of camp unseen, but he’ll need to make a torch before he goes out, and that’ll take a few minutes. Wilson imagines Maxwell—arrogant, domineering Maxwell—squirming in place as he cobbles a torch together, desperate to get out of camp before he loses it, and he shivers, working himself over faster.
And what about when he finally does get out of camp? How far will he get before he can’t take it anymore, before he has to stop and piss, at last running up against his body’s limits? Wilson pictures the full-body shudder of relief when Maxwell finally undoes his fly and lets go, emptying his bladder onto the forest floor. He imagines how Maxwell’s much-abused body might relax for once, how the horizon line of his shoulders might soften.
In the end, it’s the thought of Maxwell’s voice that does him in. He remembers that sigh from before and makes it longer, clearer, maybe ending with a shaky little puff of air as he finishes, and it’s just too much. Wilson turns his face into his bedroll to muffle his voice as he comes.
The orgasm is all-encompassing, pulsing outwards in waves and lasting for what must be fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. Wilson just shakes, totally overcome, and strokes himself through it, coaxing out pulse after pulse of come into the little piece of cloth. It’s soaked by the time he’s done, and Wilson is completely spent.
Well, mostly spent. Curled up on his side, he shudders through legitimate aftershocks, something he’s only experienced a couple times before in his life, and then only after sex. He’s never come this hard on his own, and the knowledge that it’s because of Maxwell is…something he’ll have to think about.
For now, he’s exhausted, vaguely unclean, and more than a little guilty. Wilson shoves the soiled cloth in his pocket and tries to steel himself against the ache in his chest. Suddenly, Maxwell’s situation is much more worrying than exciting. Where will he sleep? What is he going to tell Wilson in the morning? What if somebody saw him leave camp?
Wilson balls up the blankets in his arms and holds them tightly to his chest, attempting to self-soothe. There’s a scientific explanation for why it’s so much worse all of a sudden, he knows. Something about dopamine, oxytocin, touch-starvation…he’s too tired to remember it properly. All he knows is that he desperately wants to be held, and that he probably doesn’t deserve to be.
He contents himself with burying his face into the blankets. His eyes slip shut, but he’s not really sleeping— every time he starts to drift off, a spike of anxiety wakes him right back up again. He knows he won’t have any real rest until Maxwell is accounted for.
Just as he’s entered another shallow doze, he hears the tent flap open. He keeps quiet, of course, but his synapses light up with relief. Maxwell, he thinks, and nothing of substance follows the thought. It doesn’t need to.
From the sound of it, Maxwell’s procured another bedroll from somewhere. Not a good one—probably straw—but he lies down on it all the same, huffing quietly.
When they’re both laying down like this, there’s barely a foot of space between them. Even with his back turned, Wilson detects the scent of mild soap. Maxwell must’ve washed up before he came back to the tent.
The scent, the warmth, the lingering pleasure of orgasm…all of it impossibly soothing. Wilson is hopeless to resist the pull of sleep any longer. His worries from before are muffled: they’ve been pushed aside to make room for the simple comfort of having Maxwell lie down next to him.
Wilson sighs, properly dozing off at last. Whatever happens, he’ll deal with it in the morning.