thearena | (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

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.