thearena | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| Maximus and OPEN
What| Wyatt is injured, Maximus decides he's done with this Arena, he meets up with Shepard, they agree to kill some people, and... well. Clusterfuck happens.
Where| Desert to Candy then back to Desert Again
When| Final Week
Warnings/Notes| Death, Gore, Violence, Beheading, Bromance and Bad-Assery

[ooc: planned out threads will get individual sub-headers, but feel free to throw your characters in here if you want to be taken out by Max / Shepard / Both.]

He was starting to see things.

Not horrible things, not even disconcerting things. Simply chilling things. His son, running into the sand, out of the corner of his eye. His wife, standing at the top of the Dune. He knew they weren't real. No one could see the dead, not even here, but it didn't keep the chill from his spine. He didn't mention them to Wyatt, there was no point.

He kept his ghosts to himself.

He didn't know where R was. They'd gotten separated when the worms crashed through the world, and Maximus hadn't seen him again. He wasn't exactly torn up about it, though he slept lighter, now. Waiting. He and Wyatt took shifts sleeping - the rhythms off as the nights and days lengthened and twisted the world around again.

It was dusk when he woke. An endless dusk. And he was alone.

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He slammed into the sand next to him, arms already reaching, hand sliding behind Wyatt's neck to press hard against the wound there and keep it from bleeding.

"Damn it, Wyatt," he said, his voice shaking with... Anger? Or fear?

He didn't waste any time. He wasn't going to let Wyatt bleed out here, not when who knows what could show up at any moment, hungry for a meal. One arm behind Wyatt's head, the other snaked under his body as he pulled Wyatt up out of the dirt and into his arms. He grunted, a sudden warmth under the bandage around his leg, the effort opening the scab.

"Gods you are heavy," he grunted as he half-carried, half-dragged Wyatt back towards the shelter.

He half-expected claws again. Teeth in his flesh. Max's face to warp at the last minute into that leathery nightmare he'd left at the bottom of the dune.

But it was hands that found him, warm and strong and reassuring, even as one clamped down hard on the back of his neck and sent a bolt of lightening through his body. His teeth clenched, his fingers biting into Max,... but he tried to get his feet beneath him, tried to help as they lurched across the sand.

Tried to laugh, relieved, despite his weakness. Despite the pain.

"Promise me that ya won't write my epitaph, Max."

Edited 2013-08-08 15:24 (UTC)

"As if Gladiators are meant to have memories," Maximus grumbled bitterly, though relieved that Wyatt was aware enough to be able to speak, and joke, however morbidly. "Besides, my English... is terrible..." He grunted as he shouldered past the make-shift door, as he nearly dropped Wyatt to the ground but managed to slowly lower him instead.

"What happened?" He asked quickly as he was already pulling Wyatt's head forward to get a look at the gash on his neck. Animal bites, of some kind.

In the pit of his stomach, he pictures his son morphing into a rabid dog, attacking--

But why would his son lead him to Wyatt to help him, then? His son would want him to help, not betray his friends. He --

Wasn't real. He was dead. Maximus just had to keep remembering that.

It was a rough handling, but Wyatt took it stride. Wincing as the wounds pulled and oozed wetly, but not resisting as Max's hands moved over him.

"Somethin' in the sand," he murmured, eyes fixing on the shining blade at Max's hip. "Some kind of over-grown lizard. The Gamemakers set it loose, I think."

A mutt, one of their ever growing list of horrifying pets.

"The worst of it-" he tried to stretch, to reach back, and a stab of pain had him jerking, stiffening beneath Max's fingers.

Maximus let out a hard breath as he pulled Wyatt's shirt up, showing his back... and sucked in another breath as he saw the mess of flesh and blood that it was.

"I see it," Maximus said, his heavy hand keeping Wyatt from trying to reach back again. "Do we have anything left in that kit..?" He asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He'd seen hundreds if not thousands of wounds in his time, knew which ones a man could survive from, knew which ones would require much more help than he could possibly provide.

His stomach twisted, guts wrenching, but he was determined to offer as much help as he possibly could. He moved, fingers clumsily trying to get the buttons of Wyatt's shirt undone so he could get it off of him. "Anywhere else?" He asked tightly.

The shirt dragged up over the wounds, the light touch like knives raking over the tender, ragged flesh and the hand beneath Max's curled back into a hard, white fist, his teeth biting into the inside of his cheek.

"Needle." He worked the word out through his teeth. "Thread." He sucked in a breath, his whole body moving with it, a ripple... and his fingers relaxed with the ebb of the black tide. "Some bandages left..."

His fingers brushed Max's, shakily slipping the buttons free.

He looked up, blue meeting blue, swallowing thickly. He couldn't see the wounds for himself, but they were there, reflected in the other man's eyes.

"No... nowhere else."

But that would probably be enough.

"Max..." What? What was he going to say - goodbye? He trailed off, the words dying before he could get them out.

Edited 2013-08-08 16:56 (UTC)

Once he had Wyatt's shirt off he put it to the side, in the cleanest corner he could manage, without getting blood on their meager supplies.

"Lie down on your stomach," He commanded, his voice still somehow stable. He tried not to think of what Wyatt could be trying to tell him. He'd make sure Wyatt had plenty of time to tell him whatever he wanted, later. He grabbed the last of the medical supplies, as well as the bottle of cactus water that was the last of what they'd collected. He hoped there was nothing in the cactus water that would make the wounds worse, but if it was good enough to drink...

He pressed a careful hand to Wyatt's shoulder to hold him down.

"This is going to hurt," He murmured lowly as he took a breath and tipped the water over Wyatt's torn up back.

He did as he was bade, holding his breath under he was down, until he trust himself to simply pull the air and out. Forehead on his arm, he watched Max move, frowning slightly when he returned with the water.

All they had.

What kind of man would he be, what kind of friend, if he let Max waste it on him?

He started to protest, but then Max's was holding him down and his back was arching under the cold splash of water, his lungs emptying in a rush, and all he could do was bury his face in the crook of his arm. Squeezing his eyes shut, his hands into fists as he rode the wave.

Maximus grit his teeth, his chest tight as he carefully washed as much of the dirt and grime away as he could, with the least amount of water. He set down the bottle to the side as he grabbed the bandages. He wouldn't be able to use any of his clothes to make more - his were so soiled by this point that they would only likely make the risk of infection worse, rather than better, so he would just have to use the smallest amount he could to clean the wounds and then the rest to dress them.

"Can't imagine what kind of tangle you got into to get these," Maximus said, as casually as he could manage but his voice was shaky. He carefully ripped a few inches of bandage off, wrapping them around his index and middle finger, and then slowly began to clean out each of the ragged gashes on Wyatt's back.

"Should have gotten me up if you were going to wander out into the sand," He grumbled, his chest impossibly tight and only getting tighter.

The first touch was like a brand, red hot from the fire, digging into the open wounds, his whole body jerking with it. The groan, mercifully muffled, ripped from his throat before he could swallow it back down.

For a moment, he swore he could smell the seared flesh and something hot and bitter washed up from his gut.

The second... wasn't as bad, the sharp edge dulled by expectation. As he braced for it. The pain dissolved into a full-bodied throb, radiating from his back. His skin rippled, muscles fluttering and rolling across the broad shoulders, along the deep line of the spine bisecting his back, but he finally turned his head. Enough to breathe.

Enough to mutter weakly, his face pale, "I wish I had." His eyes rolled, tucked into the corner where he just make out Max's profile as the man bend over him. "I'm sorry, Max."

His chest seared with sympathetic pain, his fingers massaging into Wyatt's shoulder where he held him down, the most comfort her could offer.

"It's fine," He said tightly. "I'll get you bandaged up. Nothing is falling out, you can hold in there."

Not for very long though. It wouldn't be immediately, but if left like this... Wyatt was waiting for a very long, slow, agonizing death.

Maximus would have to do something.

He was as gentle as he could manage, but there's only so much gentleness one can offer when one is digging fingers deep into one's blood brother's wounds. He was sure they were blood brothers now, enough of each others spilt on the other that their veins must run thick with it.

"You hear me, Wyatt? Don't go soft on me now."

Edited 2013-08-08 21:42 (UTC)

Blood trickled down the curve of his ribs, pooling in the sand. Shining black in the firelight.

"It's almost over," he said quietly, eyelids sliding to half-mast, as a slow, numbing fatigue began to steal over him.

He didn't know how many were left, but the cannon had been coming slower - farther apart, over the past couple days. The victory Max had wanted (deserved) just over the horizon.

"I'll slow ya down now. Won't be able to--" Max's fingers dug deep and fire raced along his nerves, the words catching in his throat. By the time he unstuck them, they'd changed. Were more direct. Honest. "...I wouldn't blame ya, if ya just let it be."

Edited 2013-08-08 22:19 (UTC)

"I didn't come all this way to have you die on me for nothing," Maximus bit out, the manufactured calm of his voice slipping for a fractured moment. "We're in this together. So stay with me, Wyatt."

The wounds were are clean as he could make them, and he reached for the needle and thread.

"Remember how I said that was going to hurt?" He asked as he rolled out a length of thread and secured it through the needle's eye. "This is going to hurt more. So stay with me, Wyatt. I'm right here with you."

He sucked in a breath and held it to steady his hand, making sure there wasn't a single solitary shake in his fingers before he leaned over to stitch up Wyatt's flesh.

The pain had dulled to a humming, just beneath his skin, a heated pulse in time to the shivering throb of his heart, but the needle brought it slamming back, as fresh as the first.

The turn of his head wasn't fast enough to completely bury his hoarse cry. The word unintelligible, less language than instinct. A release, when, just for a moment, he wished Max would just let him die.

His fist pounded the sand, fighting the urge - the need - to pull away, to twist out from the stab and pull. Once, twice... but it wasn't enough.

The hand came out, grabbed on to the first thing he could find - Max's ankle - and squeezed.

Maximus bit out an apology, his hand gripping Wyatt's shoulder almost as tightly as Wyatt gripped his leg, but he didn't stop. He was determined to at least keep Wyatt from falling to pieces under his hands - determined to keep as much of him within his skin as possible.

His teeth were clamped down hard enough to make his jaw ache.

After what seemed like an eternity, the needle stopped, tossed useless into the sand by the fire. They were out of thread.

"There. I'm sorry, Wyatt."

For several long moments, the only sound Wyatt made was the shuddering rush of his breath. A hard pant, in and out... in and out. Then, it slowly began to fade, his fingers relaxing their grip and sliding weakly down, resting on Max's sandal.

His forehead rubbed against the inside of his arm, trying to soothe the new horseshoe shaped bruise in the crook of his elbow. "...It's alright," he said finally, a rough, low murmur. "I've... known worse."

His head turned, and he looked up at Max, fingers patting his foot tiredly. "Jus'... can't quite think of any right now."

He rubbed Wyatt's shoulder and arm aimlessly, trying to be reassuring, before it slipped away. He reached out, grabbing the water, and put a very very small amount on his hands, just to scrub the blood away. Only then did he grab the last of the bandages and slowly, gently, began to lay them across Wyatt's back.

"...Wyatt, I--"

But he cut himself off, and drew a tight breath as he carefully laid out the bandage.

"... We don't have much time. We can't stay here." He paused, his toes flexing under Wyatt's hand. "This game needs to end, Wyatt. As soon as possible."

A pause. Another long stretch of silence.

"...Yer right."

He patted Max again and slowly withdrew, rubbing his knuckles against his mustache - scratching away the fine grains of sand stuck there - before tucking his hand under his cheek.

"You should go." He swallowed (even that hurt, his throat dry and raw), and closed his eyes. "...An' come back for me, when yer ready."

Ready to demand the Gamemakers take them both... ready to kill him, when they refused.

"No. I'm not leaving you here." He pressed the last of the bandages to Wyatt's back before reaching out for his shirt. He didn't pull it over his shoulers (it was mangled, anyway) but lay it across his back and then pulled him up a little bit to tie the arms around his chest. Just to have another layer of something to keep the bandages down.

He stood up, tearing Wyatt's coat down off the wall and laying it down on the floor next to him. Then he grabbed a couple of the long femur bones of the Buffalo, and tied them tight into the sleeves, and one at the base of the coat.

"The world split open. Howard's face hasn't been in the sky. We'll go find him across the divide, and he can watch over you." He didn't know a lot about the youth, but knew that Wyatt cared about him. Trusted him. And that was what he needed.

Wyatt struggled, once, to sit up, but settled for a careful turn of his hips and rested on his side. Wanting to at least be able to see Max as they argued.

"An' if we find other tributes? More monsters? ...I won't be of any use to you, Max."

"Then I'll deal with them," He said darkly. Satisfied with his make-shift stretcher, he laid it out right beside Wyatt.

"... Besides. You can tell me what's actually there, and what's not," Maximus said, as casually as he could manage, the first time he'd admitted there was a problem, out loud. "I need your eyes, Wyatt. And I need to know I'm not leaving you to your death."

He watched Max, his fingers as they worked, stretching out the coat, tying the bones in, then up to his face, blue meeting blue.

He took a breath, as deep as his injuries would allow, and slowly let it out.

It wasn't smart. And he would never forgive himself if something he did, or didn't do, cost Max his life...

But how did he fight that? How did he fight his brother?

(He couldn't. Even whole, he couldn't go through that again.)

"Brothers," he murmured. He nodded, and reached out. "To the end."

He reached out instantly, clasping Wyatt's hand and gripping it firmly.

"To the end," He promised with a tight nod.

He held on, perhaps, a little longer than he normally would, taking reassurance in Wyatt's grip. But eventually he cleared his throat and let go.

"Here, can you roll onto this? On your front."

The idea of being dragged across the desert like the dead weight he was stung a bit, a bitter guilt and shame crawling through his veins, but he didn't argue.

He knew he wouldn't get far on his feet.

Fingers falling away from Max's, he reached for the coat instead, gritting his teeth and holding his breath as he lifted his hip an inch, two, and dragged the make-shift litter beneath him.

He dropped heavily, a jolt of pain riding up his spine, but managed to bite the cry back into a mere grunt. He shifted his legs - lifting with his hand to help - and rolled carefully onto his stomach, as Max instructed.

His face fell, while Wyatt moved and couldn't see him. Brows creased and a deep frown set on his lips, the worry slipping into expression as long as he was sure it couldn't be seen. Once Wyatt was in place again he reached out, squeezing his hand once more. Confirmation.

"Need to get out of here anyway," He joked weakly, "This place spells like a pigsty."

He quickly gathered up what was left of their meager supplies and rolled them into the bedroll.

Edited 2013-08-09 15:26 (UTC)