Max

He looked at Cliff, watching his reactions carefully, and they both bobbed slightly in time with the one-two-three count of the drummer.  Then they fell into the tune together, sawing away each on his own instrument.  Max had come to cherish the borrowed fiddle he was renewing his skills on.  He'd grown to cherish even more the time spent in the rosy glow of musical enjoyment with the mechanicalized men, and Cliff in particular. 

They got along very well, and their musical tastes seemed nearly exactly in harmony.  Cliff was quite good on the harmonica.  They could fall into a tune together and make it sound just right, pleasingly so, even if a fiddle and a harmonica weren't the best instruments for the particular song.

It was wonderful to have a friend like Cliff.  Max felt very warmly when he thought about the man, enough so that thoughts of Cliff had begun to intrude into other parts of his life, and he would find himself wondering what Cliff would make of this or that patient if he should meet them, or what he liked best for breakfast, or any myriad of things he usually didn't think to ask him when they were together.

Max went to the manor frequently to practice with the makeshift band, and found himself welcomed there.  He enjoyed the atmosphere, the camaraderie.  But even more so he enjoyed being with Cliff.  He was just Max's sort of company, and he wished he'd known the man long ago.

Cliff was slightly older.  He was scarred, strong, brave, and clever and kind.  He was a bit taciturn, but could be very brave conversationally as well.  He would usually strike up conversations with Max, where Max was a bit hesitant to start them, and would often walk him home at nights, as well, so they could continue talking into the fine misty spring nights.

It was beautiful weather for discovering new things in life, everything seeming to come alive, reminding him of the joys of living.  It was spectacular, this countryside, and would only become more beautiful as the year progressed.  He could hardly wait, and yet the pleasure of waiting stretched before him, a long time to enjoy this bucolic pleasure, and music, and new friends — one in particular.

Sometimes when he was alone (and especially in bed), his thoughts took a darker (or at any rate, baser) turn, and he often felt quite guilty about that.  Still, it was sure to be solved with a bit more hard work and less lolling in bed — he simply needed to go right to sleep, get up as soon as he awoke, and not think about anything while he was between the covers.  Perhaps cold showers would help, too. 

It was just springtime asserting itself in his blood.  He didn't really fancy Cliff.  Not in that sense.  That would be inappropriate, even wrong.  Cliff was his friend. 

Max didn't think such crude and ridiculous thoughts in the daytime.  At least not usually.  He told himself he didn't think them at all, that it had been some sort of aberration.  This way he could still face Cliff and smile and be natural around him, when they were together.

Today they played long into the night.  He knew very well he had to get up quite early tomorrow to see patients, but it was worth it.  Not only because of Cliff, of course (though that was a large part of it), but he was also able to convince himself it had practical merit, playing music this way for people to dance to.  He had gained trust in the community from participating, and people recognized him on the streets now.  A quick "How do, Doc?" was a good sign, and he'd had more than one new patient mention seeing him at the dances.

And every new patient, every new bit of trust and social cachet he could wring from life, was a stronger shot at making a comfortable living, and someday bringing his parents somewhere nice as well.

He wondered what his parents would make of Cliff.  He wanted them to like his friend, wanted it very much, but it felt like a sensitive and hopeless wish, an area he was too raw to really pursue.  He wanted it too much, and hurt inside even at the thought of their not understanding how special Cliff was.

He played till he was flushed with a rosy glow, till his arms ached and he needed to stop, but he played just one more song instead.  Finally they finished, and yet it was too soon.  The moment his aches started to ease and strength return to his fingers, he wanted to dash into another song.  Instead he released the fiddle into Cliff's hands.  Cliff smiled gently, almost scoldingly, but with a great deal of affection in his eyes.

"Come on, Max," he said.  "Enough's enough."

"Yes, yes, of course."  He felt even more flushed, looking into those eyes burning bright with life and pleasure in the music.  He was so close.  Max felt restless and filled with want, something he shouldn't want, something to do with Cliff being so close, so...so beautiful.

No, he was a doctor, and Cliff was a man.  Doctors didn't have such thoughts.  That was, perhaps, for low-class dock workers, or the occasional house decorator with a feminine walk, and even then it was a bit shameful, something to laugh about and hide, not to feel this great swelling surge of affection and want.  He was being ridiculous.  And now he was staring.

Cliff just smiled slightly and moved away from him, tucking the fiddle back into its tattered case.  It belonged to one of the older men at the manor, but he was glad enough to let Max borrow it and make it sing, as he could no longer play more than a little bit himself, due to arthritis.  It caused him pain, but he loved that fiddle and all the memories and music it still held.

As the musicians packed up their instruments and everyone else headed out to go back home, Max gratefully accepted a glass of punch.  The simple jelly jar had bubbles in the thick glass; the punch tasted of lemons. 

He drank quickly, the liquid a relief from thirst, even though it burned on the way down.  He accepted another one in quick succession and drank it as well, making conversation with the vicar's wife, who had a concern about bunions. 

He didn't mind such shoptalk as much as he'd expected he would.  Most doctors were all too familiar, he'd heard, with the unpaid consultation, the amateur hypochondriac, and the cheapskate who didn't want to make an appointment but still wished to bend a doctor's ear.  However, it was all still too new to Max to be annoying. 

Sometimes he could hardly believe he was actually a doctor, an authority figure.  Though he'd earned it the hard way, and many long hours it had been, it was still strange to be almost looked up to now, even though he wasn't terribly old, and often still felt like the struggling student he'd been not so very long ago.

He promised to take a look at Mrs. Cobb's bunions if she'd call on him at the doctor's office.  He had a small space off to the side, more a converted cupboard than anything else, but he was actually getting some clients of his own, rather than just the leftovers the town's doctor didn't have time to handle.  And of course there were always the calls, where he had to travel to a farm or cottage to treat someone. 

Dr. Robinson was eager for Max to take on more of the travel, as his joints were growing achy.  He wanted someone young to do the running around, and gradually earn his place in the community to take over more and more of the practice. 

Assuming it worked out, and that Robinson ever wanted to retire, Max would move up the rungs.  There was already a partner: Dr. Peters.  He was busy with a lot of travel, though, as he lectured a lot these days and worked only part time in the practice.

There had at no point been discussion of making Max an equal partner, but there was a place for him if he could work hard to fill it, and get the people of the area to like and trust him.  Already, he was paying bills, paying back loans, and starting to fit in.  It seemed like a big step up in the world, though a lot depended on the circumstances of being able to do the long hours and hard work, as well as ingratiating himself enough into the community and with the two older doctors to maintain or improve his position.  Still, it was a challenge he relished, and one that he felt he was conquering. 

It had been more or less understood that his job would include taking on all or most of the mechanicalized patients.  The manor's newer inhabitants had become an important source of revenue to the practice, but neither of the older physicians was happy about treating them. 

This was probably a large part of why Max had been hired; he'd been asked in the interview if he minded treating such men, and had answered honestly that he didn't.  A patient was a patient as far as he was concerned, although he didn't have special training to deal with the problems a magical and mechanical addition might cause in men.

"That's fine," the doctors had assured him.  "They have specialists for the specific issues that go with that.  You would need to treat cold and flu, broken bones, and minor ailments." 

He had assured them in a way he hoped was short of gushing that he didn't mind at all and would be glad to take on any jobs the practice demanded of him.  While he was afraid he hadn't been anything like short of gushing, he had been accepted, and able to leave the awful hours at the hospital. 

His boss there had not been pleasant, and there was rarely enough time to devote to patient care, much less work on his bedside manner.  He'd been rushed from patient to patient, hurried along by irritable coworkers and the boss, made to feel as if it was his fault they were underpaid and under-supplied, understaffed, and indeed underperforming.  He had done his best, often dead on his feet and near fainting from exhaustion.

This was a good move for him.  The hours were long, but he was treated with benign neglect, allowed to find his own patients, for which he earned a larger part of the fee, or assigned patients the other doctors didn't want to deal with.  They could've treated him much worse and it still would've been better than the previous job.

He broke off his conversation when Cliff came over to him, striding in a way that captured one's attention completely.  He strode with power, a man worth paying attention to but who didn't care if anyone paid attention or not.  He just drew the eye — or at least he did for Max's gaze. 

"Ready?" he asked, barely sparing a glance for Mrs. Cobb, his attention all on Max.  It was flattering.  He had the fiddle tucked under his arm in its case and wore his jacket.  He looked no-nonsense, tough, and tireless, no more worn out than he'd been at the start of the dance.

"Sure.  Excuse me, ma'am."  He smiled and walked away with Cliff.  It felt great walking beside him, made Max want to stand taller.  He tried to keep a big grin off his face.  He shouldn't be so very proud of his friend; it was ridiculous.  Cliff's accomplishments and charms were nothing to do with him.  Nothing at all.

As usual when he was being foolish, he couldn't think of anything to say.  They walked in the dark in silence till they arrived.  Then Cliff cleared his throat and spoke.  His voice was a little gruffer than usual. 

"Mind if I come up with you?"

Max glanced at him quickly.  He'd never asked before.  Max thought of his socks drying over the end of the bed, of his ratty and threadbare room.  Well, they were good friends; Cliff could handle it.  Max had never pretended to be well off. 

"Sure," he said, with a heroic effort to be casual.  It would be embarrassing to be in the same room where he'd had those sorts of thoughts about Cliff, but he wasn't going to admit to it; he'd know, of course, but no one else had to...

Cliff was still awkwardly carrying the fiddle — he must've forgotten to return it — and seemed slightly uncomfortable as well. 

"Sorry, it's not much," said Max, drawing the curtains shut on his room's single window.  It suddenly felt even shabbier and more tawdry than it had before. 

He lit a candle with fumbling fingers; no electric lights here for him.  He turned and smiled, or tried to, and crossed his arms over his chest.  It was beating madly, for some reason, and he felt strange, a bit lightheaded.  "It was good tonight, wasn't it?" he said, and then cleared his throat again.

I'm being ridiculous, he thought, with that hopeless, overwhelmed sense of being out of his depths.  When he'd thought someone at school might actually want to be his friend...and far miscalculated his chances of that ever happening...when he'd had no money for lunch and had to pretend he wasn't hungry, was busy with something...

Cliff was staring at his mouth.  Was he really, though? 

True, he looked a bit distracted and intense, perhaps even mesmerized, but this was Max's overheated imagination, wasn't it? 

He should think about work, about staying busy...earning money to bring his family up in the world.  He should think about his parents, that should put a stop to that uncomfortable, needy tightness in his trousers.  Oh, dear, oh dear...  Cliff was going to notice.  He mustn't notice!

Cliff took a step toward him, his mouth opening slightly. 

"What?" asked Max awkwardly, swiping at his upper lip, feeling jittery.  "Do I have something on my mouth?"  He half laughed, but it wasn't convincing.

Cliff looked down and away, and then noticed he was still holding the fiddle in its case.  "Oh.  Uh.  This.  It's...from us."  He cleared his throat and passed a hand over his face.  "It's...we saved up.  A present.  Goodbye."

He headed toward the door, rather blindly, and had to try twice to get it open.

"Cliff?" asked Max, in a small voice, feeling forlorn and desperately sad.  Just for once, it would be nice not to get every single thing wrong.  Just for once, it would be nice if he were actually wanted.

Cliff stopped, with his hand on the door.  He looked back, cautiously.  By the sheen of sweat on his upper brow, and that tentative, fearful, longing look in his eyes...well, he looked like he was feeling just as uneasy and vulnerable as Max.

Max found suddenly he was able to relax, at least enough for a little smile.  "I mean, you could stay a bit longer, if you wanted."  He made a great effort to lean back against his battered desk, to look casual, like he was in control of the situation and calm about all of this...whatever it was turning out to be.  But it was getting pretty hard to hide from either of them.

"Thank you for the gift," he said softly, when Cliff still hesitated.

His cheeks looked flushed now.  He ducked his chin.  "It...it was from all of us."

"I'll bet," said Max very softly, not trying to hide the curve of a smile or the disbelief in his voice.

"It was," insisted Cliff feebly.  He shut the door, his fingers fumbling a little, and turned back to look at Max.  He leaned against the door, as if to hold it shut against the great dark outside, or monsters of some kind.  He was looking at Max's face, again, that look of concentration.  But he was smiling now.  They both were.  Smiles nervous, relieved, tremulous, and far too big for such a conversation.

"Thank you," said Max again, barely aware of his words.  He took a step forward.  Cliff did as well.  "I don't, really..." Max began.

Then Cliff kissed him, and all the words went out of his head.  The textbooks and scripts and novels and drawings, the complicated, filled-in, neatly detailed words and cautious scripts to run his life by, the things that were always there, yammering in the background that he tried uselessly to measure himself against — the pages went blank, and there was kissing and endless white sheets of paper, possibilities, and Cliff, Cliff's mouth, Cliff's touch, arms around him, and kissing...

They half stumbled to the bed together, not letting go, not looking where they were going.  It was like music, music or better than music, whatever this turned out to be.  He didn't want to look back, couldn't — wouldn't.

Cliff.

"You all right?" asked Cliff after a while, when they were both panting.  Their shirts were open now, and their trousers too tight to possibly stay shut for long.  He kept trying to tear his gaze away from Cliff's impressive bulge.  Cliff had already palmed him through his own pants, and it felt good and yet desperately not enough.

"I — I think so," he said, flushed and desperate and nervous.  "I-I've never really..."  He wanted to say he'd never done much, but that would be a lie, and he couldn't bear to lie to Cliff, not now, not like this.  "I've never..."  But he couldn't say the truth, either, and let it out in the silence that would follow such awkward words.  He looked down, face feeling impossibly hotter.

Cliff made a sound in his throat: avowal, comfort, and reassurance all at once.  He pulled Max back into his arms, holding him closer than ever, and kissed him.  "Doesn't matter.  It doesn't." 

Max put his arms around Cliff possessively.  He kissed Cliff back, and let all the pages go blank, waiting to be rewritten.