thecapitol | closed

Entry tags:

closed

Who| Wyatt and Maximus
What| Wyatt gets respawned and Maximus goes to find him.
Where| Wyatt's suite.
When| Immediately after Wyatt is revived.
Warnings/Notes| Yeah I... am going to officially set sail the good ship Waximus. You've been warned. EDIT: this log might uh.. might include make outs and might include more than make outs so if you have a problem with two older gents acting like teenagers, you may want to turn back now

Maximus had kept to himself since he was revived. He had come back to the capitol and to find the promise he'd always assumed - that he would come healthy and whole - was a lie. At least this time. He'd awoken with his leg still cold and metal. Prosthetic, rather than flesh.

His stylist had been in tears when she came for him the first time. Sobbing uncontrollably as she told him how beautiful it had been, how she knew exactly how to style him and what he should wear, and he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about until he finally snapped at her and she mumbled about Wyatt as she dressed him in a three piece suit.

Pants. He hated pants.

He didn't complain, however, taking her stylings mutely as he lost himself in his own thoughts. Once complete, he went and found a screen where it was playing a repeat of his death, and watched. His face was stone, and he said nothing, but he watched.

Then he spent the next few days in near silence. He spent most of the time either watching the games or staring out over the city, flexing his hands into fists and straightening them; the hours going by almost without his notice.

He was watching when Wyatt died, but only barely - his eyes glazing over as he listened to the screams of the raptors, of Ellie, of Wyatt's breathless broken plea - and then he was up and off, marching straight for Wyatt's suite. He wasn't there yet, of course, the room was locked and empty, but Maximus resolutely stationed himself outside the door until he could hear the sounds of life inside.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Whether due to the messy way he died, or because they knew Max was waiting and they wanted to prove a point, it was several days before Wyatt returned. Waking as he always did, alone in his suite, the pale powdery blue of his ceiling the first thing he saw.

He roused slowly, testing each movement, his limbs as if he expected to find something wrong, that they'd forgotten something or left some piece of him back there in a monster's belly. That this time, would be one where there wasn't enough of him to bring back. That he was finally too broken to save.

Flexing an arm, rolling his shoulder (he could remember it in the beast's jaws, the pop when they'd torn it free), he flung back the blankets and found the floor, crossing silently to his closet. He found a new outfit waiting, as always, put there by his stylist, ready for his first reappearance, and, as always, he ignored it. He reached instead for a simple linen shirt, trousers. Serviceable, familiar, the closest thing he owned to the clothes he'd come in.

He dressed without a word, the token necklace knocking gently against his chest, watching the strange photo wall on the other side of the room that someone had turned on for him. A forest at night, complete with the soft sounds of night-birds and insects.

He rolled up his sleeves (wanting to see his flesh whole, untorn) and plucked his favorite hat from the bedpost (his own, dirty and old, the long tear in the side). Settling it on his head, checking the brim was straight over his boots with one hand, he grabbed the doorknob with the other.

Days. It had been days.

At some point an Avox had seemed to assign itself to him. Had brought him Ferox, fresh clothes, food. He took breaks to go to the washroom (though the toilet never did cease to confuse and annoy him, it seemed they had different ones on every floor). Sometimes he would let himself pace to the end of the hall to stare out the window there. Most of the time, however, he and Ferox kept a steady silent guard of Wyatt's door.

He was asleep, when Wyatt woke up. Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his chin tucked down against his chest while he slept. Ferox was curled up beside him, head on his lap and Maximus' hand on his head, purring with a low growl as his great bulk blocked the door.

He didn't wake, even as the doorknob turned and the door opened. He'd been keeping shifts long enough that now, finally, several days in, he was too exhausted to keep constant watch, and his sleep was deep.

Perhaps part of it came from the fact that he had begun to honestly believe that this time they might not actually bring Wyatt back. That they had realised, just as he had...

Wyatt would have said that he and the great cat had reached something of a gentlemen's accord. Before the arena he had stopped threatening to have it stuffed when Max's back was turned and it had stopped looking at him like it was trying to decide if he'd taste like fish or fowl.

But it was tentative truce, and Wyatt couldn't say if it would hold up over him tripping over the beast as he tried to leave his room. In a heartbeat the quiet of the hall broke into a chorus of curses and hissing, the cat starting as Wyatt crashed over it - just catching himself on the opposite wall before he could fall face-first into the floor.

"Mangy, lopsided--" he turned back, stopped fast, face smoothing in surprise. "Max?"

If the quiet whisper of the door opening hadn't woken him, the sudden cacophony of hisses and curses and stumbling certainly had, and Maximus snapped to attention as if he'd heard a gun shot go off. He staggered to his feet in an instant, though the sleep was harder to shake off - he was groggy and only half aware as Ferox growled lowly at his feet.

"Wyatt," He managed to get out after a minute, his voice rough before he cleared his throat. It was difficult to use the word relief, because he wasn't sure it was. It was more as if the ground shifted back into place under his feet and the world was set right again.

"It took a long time, for your return."

As easy as that, he all but forgot about the massive tiger snarling up at him.

"So ya camped out here?" he asked, half a laugh, half incredulous. All touched, and uncertain how to respond. He pushed off the wall, took a step closer. "I'd have found ya, Max."

It was where he'd intended on going. The first thing on his mind.

Howard had sent him that note and it had kept him in the arena, but it was knowing it for himself. Seeing and hearing and - feeling.

He reached out, griped the man's elbow in a strong, firm grip - confirming for himself.

"I had nothing better to do," Maximus said lowly, though Wyatt's infectious smile was already causing a mirroring one to pull at his own lips.

He received Wyatt's grip easily, and took his elbow in a firm grip as well, before giving up on pretenses entirely and pulling Wyatt in for a tight, firm hug.

He didn't resist, in fact, he met the embrace readily, his own grip just as fierce. It was then, finally, in that hallway that everything seemed to slide back into place, the world righting itself again.

He could feel it, steady and firm beneath his feet once more.

"Thank God for that," he murmured, the words almost inaudible. "Howard, he let me know, but... it ain't the same."

Maximus held on just a moment too long before he seemed to remember himself and give Wyatt a good hard pat on the back and release him. He cleared his throat gruffly.

"Did he tell you about this?" He asked, putting out his foot and pulling up the hated pant leg so that Wyatt could get a good look at the prosthetic underneath. He gave a good knock to his knee to hear the metal's sharp reply.

He was reluctant to let the moment pass, but had little choice to step back, to remember where they were and that making it back didn't mean everything was alright.

"He did," he admitted quietly, nodding slowly. "I'm sorry, Max."

"It seems they prefer the cripple," He said, a little tightly, before falling into a sort of anxious silence. Usually he didn't mind silence with Wyatt - indeed, it was a more comfortable place for him than nearly anywhere else in this world - but he could feel the weight of his thoughts at the back of his mind. The weight of his worries, the weight of the last few days...

He frowned, eyes falling to the floor, as he cleared his throat again.

"Wyatt--" He started, but nothing more came out, and he pierced his lips tightly. "... You are likely hungry," He said instead, pushing aside the heavy weight in his mind for now. He'd be able to tackle it later.

He wanted to apologize, for a whole mess of things, many of which he knew didn't even make sense, but the need was still there. He wanted to make things right, wanted to somehow take the lines from Max's face - the weight from his shoulders.

He chewed his cheek for a moment, glancing down the hall, then he looked back.

"...I could use a drink," he said. He reached out again, took Max's shoulder in a firm squeeze. "Have one with me?"

He seemed to relax a little, his muscles losing some of their tension under Wyatt's firm grip, and he gave a grateful nod.

"Yes. I could also use one, I think," He admitted before pulling his eyes up to meet Wyatt's. "I am glad you have returned. After several days passed--"

His hand moved, patted the back of Max's neck.

"I'm sorry I made ya wait, but I'm here now." His fingers squeezed, the tips pressed down in a rough, circling massage. "An' I ain't goin' anywhere..."

He paused, a moment, then his touch fell away.

"Not so long as I got a say in it."

His expression seemed to shift, oddly, as if he was struggling with it, before he forced a smile to his lips that was not very honest at all and gave Wyatt a hearty return pat on his arm.

"Man rarely does, Wyatt. But come. I believe you mentioned a drink, and I am thirstier by the moment."

Wyatt knew the smile was a lie. The real one, as rare as it was, was a sight - warm and bright, not unlike watching a sunrise crest over the horizon. That one, that Max tried to give him now, was a poor shade of it.

But he didn't know how to fix it. He couldn't make Max whole again. Couldn't give him his leg back. And somehow he didn't think pointing out that he might have another chance - what with yet another arena in Wyatt's future - would bring much consolation.

Instead, he nodded again, head tipping toward the common room.

"Come on, my treat."

He led the way, gesturing for Max to have a seat at the table as he started looking through the cabinets. It took a few minutes, Orc being prolific and decidedly through when he hit the bottle, but he eventually came up with a bottle of whiskey.

Fetching glasses from the kitchen, he joined Max at the table a moment later, pouring a couple fingers out for them both.

He let Wyatt lead him into the common room, which was thankfully empty at this time of day, and he sank into the seat with an easy weariness, reaching out for the glass as Wyatt poured him a drink, and gulping it down with impunity before setting it down to ask for another.

"Thank you," He rumbled lowly. Again, there were words just at the back of his throat, the weight of his thoughts pushing forward, but again, nothing would come. Not for a while.

"... I owe you an apology, Wyatt," He said finally.

It was a sipping whiskey, but he wasn't about to deny Max. Eyebrow raised, he poured out more of the amber colored liquid, filling Max's glass a bit more than he had the last time.

"Do ya?" He set the bottle aside again and picked up his own glass. "Gotta say, that's news to me."

Wyatt wouldn't be out of place for admonishing him, but he needed the drink for more reasons than he could name, at the moment, and he took the next one much more slowly.

"... I saw it. My death. On the screens. It was replayed for me."

Wyatt stilled, lips parting uncertainly. Not knowing how to respond, or even if he could. The moment was still raw in his mind, the fear and the grief and the overwhelming sense of failure.

When he moved again it was a slow shift in his chair, leaning toward the table, over his glass.

"...I think the apology's more mine there, Max. I got ya mixed up in it, brought Aunamme down ya... it should have been me."

"No." The word was firm, and instant. There wasn't a lot he could be sure of, these days, but he was sure of that. He would never want Wyatt to take his place. He raised his eyes and met Wyatt's with a careful, unwavering stare.

"No, Wyatt. That is not-- You cannot take blame for battles that I willingly entered. I said I would fight at your side, and I did. That is not--" It was rare that Maximus stumbled over his words but it seemed impossible not to, now.

"That is not from where my apology stems."

"Then where does it, Max?"

He met Max's eyes across the table, brow furrowing in confusion and the first edge of worry. He shook his head.

"'Cause the way I see it there is nothin' that happened there that is on you.

His lips parted, wordless, and then pressed together tightly again as Maximus' brows furrowed and he dropped his eyes to his glass. He wasn't sure he could describe it, if he tried, didn't think he could untangle everything whirling together in his mind. So instead he just looked frustrated as he tried to find words, any words, that would make a clear sort of sense.

Finally he just gave up and, with a sigh, took another drink.

Edited 2013-12-09 01:43 (UTC)

The silence descended again, unusually heavy between them. A long stretch that for the first time that he could remember, Wyatt wanted to break - would give anything to ease... but he didn't know where Max's upset lie.

He couldn't fix something he couldn't see.

Polishing off the rest of his glass, he poured himself another.

"...Is this about what happened after?" he asked finally, thinking of the fight with Eponine.

Yes, it was. It was precisely about what happened after. Wyatt's tangible grief...

But as he opened his mouth to reply, an avox walked by, a laugh echoed from one of the suites down the hall, and Maximus was made extremely aware of where he was.

"... Yes," He said finally, in a low voice. "Wyatt, I never-- I have served with many men, both during the war, and in the arenas after. I've seen many, many men fall. Men who were my brothers, whose lives were my responsibility. And I've--" He hesitated there, as distant laughter tinkled in the background, mocking him. He frowned.

"I've lost, Wyatt. I've lost more than-- more than most should, and I--" But somewhere behind him the laughter grew and his frown deepened. He reached out, finishing his other drink and setting the glass back on the table with a hard tap.

"Is there somewhere quieter we could discuss this?"

Wyatt listened, watching Max intently as the man spoke, trying piece together how the apology from before went along with what he was saying now.

The dawning was slow, but the more Max said, the more Wyatt thought he was beginning to see where he was headed - and it had nothing to do with the things he and the girl had said to each other.

He almost cut in, to try and explain, when Max asked to move.

Caught, he paused, then nodded, finishing off his drink before pushing back his chair.

He led the way back down the hallway to his room.

"Max," he began once the door was closed. "If yer gettin' what I think ya are--"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject