thearena | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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)

It smelled of blood, to be more precise. Old and new. His own, and Max's, mixed together in the sand. Of bodies cramped together.

(Sweat and dirt in his nose as he drifted to sleep.)

"I ain't exactly had time to rinse out my socks," he groaned softly, as much humor as he could manage, head on his arm. Eyes closed, fatigue dragging at him. The hand Max had squeezed twitching and tucking against his chest, fingers curling around the thick knot. "Picky, picky...."

"Going to need to send slaves in after us just to clean up," Maximus murmured as he tied the bedroll tightly and then kneeled next to Wyatt.

"Here. Put this under your shoulders. It'll help if we run into anything."

The handle of one of Max's knives was tucked into the very center of the roll - secure, but easily accessible should Wyatt need it.

He wasn't going to leave him completely defenseless.

He shifted (the stitches pulled, he could feel the thread stretching in his skin), but other than a tightening around his mouth, he made no protest as he lifted himself high enough to pull the roll under himself.

"At least it wasn't snow," he muttered as he settled, fingers finding the finding the blade and slipping around the handle, rubbing the steel.

He exhaled, sinking onto the roll, and into himself, a weight stealing over him. Closed his eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Max."

This wasn't going to be pleasant for either of them. And it was his fault.

"Wish we had snow, now," Maximus pointed out as he waited until Wyatt was settled. "Could use a good, long drink. Some ice to go in it."

He shook his head.

"Don't. We'll make it." He crouched down in front of Wyatt, his back turned, hands reaching back to grasp the buffalo bones.

"Ready?"

"No," he admitted. But his fingers tightened on the knife, on the knot against his chest - bracing. A muscle tensing in his jaw, ticking as his lips thinned and pressed together. "But do it anyway."

Maximus only nodded, letting out a long breath, steadying himself-- before with as smooth a motion he could manage, he pulled the stretcher up onto his back with a low grunt.

A part of him knew Max was trying to be careful, trying to be as gentle as he could. ...The rest of him felt the movement like a stab. Like a red-hot blade deep in his spine.

The curse was there, riding his tongue as black lights flashed in his vision, but his teeth came together hard on the inside of his cheek and warm, wet salt washed it away.

"Hand," Maximus grunted, once Wyatt was in place. "Left one. If you see anything, anything at all, squeeze it once. Confirmed tribute, squeeze it twice," He said, his hands still gripping the bones at his shoulder. He wasn't even sure that it was really necessary, but something in him thought it would be easier with that connection than without it.

He was slow to move, the moment stretching, but his fingers slipped in against Max's, the touch cool and light. His head lolled, clammy temple on the back of Max's neck and he squeezed weakly, on the right, as much confirmation as he could give.

His chest lurched and he sucked in a breath. Nothing for it. Whatever way it happened, this was the end of the road.

"Good," he said, his mouth surprisingly dry. "Let's go."

And with that, he stepped out into the desert, carrying the man he cared about most in this strange, foreign world, stretched out and dying on his back.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only