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Every generation, there were so many Gotch brothers.
It was frankly ridiculous when you thought about it. Tracing up the branches of the Gotch family tree, the disproportion between male and female descendants was staggering - for the last three generations, there wasn’t even one Gotch sister. Maxwell’s father liked to bring this fact in dinner conversations with his guests, like this was something to be especially proud of.
The Gotch brothers. A group of boys who succeeded in all important parts of a gentleman's life, like finance or politics. A pack of sons, striving for their father’s approval like a bunch of dogs hungry for affection.
It’s been some years since Maxwell thought of himself as a Gotch brother in anything but a name.
Longspot Gotch, ever so cautious of the way people perceived their family, must have noticed Maxwell’s otherness even before the boy himself did. Why else would he have sent Maxwell to Revington, this palace of unseemly things where the rich of Gath paid a handsome sum for members of their families to be kept away from polite society?
How did his father know? This, Maxwell has never figured out. Maybe it was some long-forgotten accident from his youth. A blush or longing stare Maxwell didn’t even comprehend at the time. Maybe it was the lack of interest in young heritresses Maxwell’s brothers had always so gracelessly chatted and danced with while Maxwell coerced other men into talking about the golden age of aeronautical exploration.
Or maybe his father could simple sense that something was wrong with Maxwell and that was more than enough of evidence for Longspot to send Maxwell away, to draw a thick line between Maxwell and the rest of his brothers, as if by simply being in his vicinity they could have gotten infected by his “strange predilections”.
What his father probably hadn’t accounted for, was that the time spent in Revington was a blessing. For the first time, his big, square hands with wide knuckles and rough skin were seen as something good. As something others desired and found praiseworthy. And under the tutelage of his upperclassmen, Maxwell had learned the rules. How to pay attention and find people who shared his interests. How to be discreet. How to cover the parts of himself the society didn’t want to see without having to reject this part of himself.
At times, it was still hard to restrain himself, like when he saw those men in Pilby. But, for the most part, Maxwell made it work. Looking in the mirror, he almost could see a Gotch brother looking back at him. When he stood in his three-piece suit at the prow of the ship, he almost felt like a real Gotch.
“I’m gonna fuck this old man,” Wealwell said, standing next to him. His stance, as always, exquisite - a seemingly effortless mixture of casual lean against the railing and keeping his limbs in a way that emphasized the shape of his form.
Maxwell’s eyes glanced to where Daisuke Bucklesby was cleaning his guns, Ghost Dog napping next to Daisuke’s boot. “He’s going to shoot your dick off as soon as you get within ten feet of him.”
Wealwell chuckled, moving into stance #23 or something. “Oh, little brother, that’s just foreplay,” Wealwell said with that confident smile of his.
Maxwell envied him. He kind of hoped to be a little more like him. To be able to show people the most embarrassing parts of himself and still act confident enough in his skin to make everyone like him.
Wealwell didn’t need white gloves to hide his proclivities - everyone seemed to be content to never speak of his one, soiled hand when the other one was perfectly capable of holding a ladies’ hand to his lips for a kiss.
But this wasn’t a possibility for Maxwell. Both of his gloves had to remain in place at all times. So yes, he envied Wealwell. And at the same time, out of all Gotch brothers, he felt the closest connection to Wealwell.
“Don’t look so sour, I know he’s not your type anyway. Everyone knows you keep your eye out for men with broad shoulders and strong hands. Someone you can get rowdy with,” Wealwell winked at him playfully. Maxwell felt all of his muscles lock. They were miles in the air, wind muffling their conversation, but it still didn’t feel private enough for a conversation like that. His hands felt too big for his gloves.
“I should probably go and see if Bert is done preparing dinner,” Maxwell turned on his heel, marching away as fast as he could.
“Oh, Maxwell, tell him to make some pizzookies, would you?”