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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

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--"

"We're not brothers," Maximus cut in before Wyatt could continue, his voice hard. "We're not brothers, Wyatt. We aren't friends. This--" He paused, gesturing between them as if his finger followed an invisible thread.

He was trying to work out what he meant even while he said it, and he was at war with himself. With what he believed, what he knew, what he felt, what he'd never even known that he'd felt.

"Whatever it is between us, Wyatt... I might not know what it is, but I know what it's not."

Cut off, his mouth hung open for a beat, then slowly closed, lips pressing together as he swallowed.

Of all the things he was expecting, that wasn't one of them.

His eyes flicked around the room, lingered on the strange mirage of the forest behind Max - the setting he'd chosen after their night in the park.

"...I know."

He looked back as he said it, the words rough against the stones in his throat. He didn't expect it from Max, but he knew what he felt, couldn't deny it when it was right there for the entire Capitol to see.

"It's more, than that. Bigger."

Deeper.

Fierce enough to drive him into the depths of grief.

He let out a hard breath. It could not quite be called relaxing, but one of the several weights on his mind shifted, and lifted. He hadn't been wrong. Hadn't seen something that his mind had wanted to see (before he knew that he wanted it); hadn't seen a reflection of what he felt alone rather than read Wyatt truly.

He had known grief. Personally. Deeply, and completely. Had been overwhelmed and broken by it, more than he had ever thought possible. It had defined him - it had been the only thing to define him, for so long now, that he hadn't really noticed when it had stopped.

Not until he'd seen it echoed back to him.

He knew what lay behind the grief. Knew there was only one thing that could.

"Yes," He said finally. Resolutely. He met Wyatt's eye with the same gaze that he might meet an oncoming battle. A growing storm. (He could find his courage, even here, in territory not only unknown but that he had been deadly certain he would never travel again.

His lips parted, more words on the edges of them, teasing at the tip of his tongue without being released, because none of them were correct. None of them were right.

So he gave up on them, completely. And instead made his reply by reaching out, gripping the back of Wyatt's neck and pulling him into a hard and clumsy kiss.

Wyatt couldn't say exactly where the change had begun, where that line between them had started to blur. Maybe that first night in the desert, as he'd lain alone, feeling as empty as the sky above him; maybe it had been there in that tunnel beneath the city when he'd gotten his first real glimpse of a future without Max; or maybe... maybe it had started right there, on the ice, with the first words they'd ever shared....

All he could say for certain, all he knew, was that of the number of things that he likely should have done, there in that moment when Max's lips first touched his, there was only one that made sense.

Only one that felt right. Only one that he wanted with all the sudden clarity of a bolt of lightning.

(The sunrise, breaking over the horizon.)

He reached out, hands finding the starched lapel of Max's button-down and yanked him closer, meeting the hard press of Max's lips with his own, just as firm, just as sure.

Yes.

Edited 2013-12-09 12:23 (UTC)

There were several things he could have expected, and being punched in the face was high on that list. He wasn't oblivious to the stigma against what he was doing. He'd known it to happen, back in the army, but that didn't mean it was really accepted. Tolerated, perhaps, but he knew the whispers that came with it. Knew of barbaric places in the world where the very things he was feeling would see him put to death.

None of it mattered. Not at that moment. Not when Wyatt returned his silent confession with one of his own - not when everything that he had been feeling, churning and roiling within his chest, was answered.

He deepened the kiss with a raw hunger that had lain in wait longer than he had known it was there.

He only came up for air when his burning lungs demanded it - still gripping Wyatt tightly, pressing their foreheads together as he gulped down a breath. He took a moment, just to recover, just to let his world readjust itself. He knew he should say something but there were no words, just a gentle pant as he allowed himself oxygen again.

There had been whispers as well in Wyatt's time. Crude jokes about a man's worth, hateful curses condemning him for having the audacity to love outside the norm. Wyatt, himself, had never given it an awful lot of thought, had always believed that what took place privately between two grown men to be none of his business - so long as no one was getting hurt.

And standing there now, Max's breath rushing across his lips - the taste of whiskey fresh on his tongue - he couldn't help but wonder how Max was supposed to bring him down. The man who brightened his day just by being in it. The man without whom the world seemed impossibly dark, and not worth facing. The man who gave him a reason to keep getting up, to keep fighting. To hope.

How was he supposed to be ashamed of his own heart?

It drummed in his chest, the truth he'd been too blind to see hammering against the undersides of his ribs; spreading out through his limbs, tightening his fingers, pressing his forehead firmly against Max's.

A heat. A need.

A love, deeper and stronger, than he ever would have expected.

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