thecapitol | (no subject)

Maximus had lost track of time. He and Juba had talked long into the night, regaling each other's stories as Maximus had tried to get as much information out of him as possible. There was grief, there - to learn of Cicero's death had been a hard blow, as well as the other gladiators that had fallen for him during his apparent escape - but there was also a wealth of other feelings that he had not yet had time to compute. It wasn't until he was half way to Wyatt's rooms - returning to them by habit rather than by conscious decision - that he began to really feel the weight of everything he'd learned begin to settle on his shoulders.

He knocked, once, just to let Wyatt know he was coming in before he opened the door, closing it behind him gently.

"Wyatt?"

Edited 2014-05-03 18:44 (UTC)

It had been a busy day all around. Wyatt and Doc hadn't exactly had much catching up do, but there had still be plenty with which to occupy themselves.

Wyatt had shown him around the Tower, introduced him to a few familiar faces that weren't preoccupied with their own guests, then taken him out into the city. They could talk about it all the wanted, look at it from the distance between the glass of the Tower, but there was something about being in it. Really seeing for the first time. Holliday was taking it all better than just about anyone Wyatt had seen, but he wanted to be there, just the same. Just in case.

Besides, the man had asked after entertainment and as far as Wyatt was concerned there was little place better than the Speakeasy.

They drank, they played a few rounds, Doc flirted shamelessly and the hours drew long and wane. Assured by Conscientia that they'd seem him to his hotel (or spot him a room in the back to sleep it off in) - Wyatt told him to stay out of trouble (to which the man had laughed and wondered how he was to have a good night if he wasn't causing trouble) and headed for home.

He's only been back a few minutes, just long to kick off his boots and hook his hat on the bedpost, when the knock came. He looked up his buttons, smiling as Max appeared in the doorway.

"Ya know ya don't have to do that, Max," he chuckled softly as he left himself in. "Ain't like I'm goin' to turn ya away."

To be told, to Wyatt, it was much as Max's room as his, as often as they shared it.

"I wasn't sure if you had company," Maximus admitted, his brows furrowed in concern.

"Juba has taken my room, and though we shared a cell before, I prefer your company." It was meant to be a joke, but there was no heart in it.

Wyatt smile faded, replaced by a concern to match Max's as he saw the weight in the man's eyes. He recognized the name - Juba, and looking at Max now, he remembered the last time the man had faced down a reminder of his past.

"I do," he replied, attention slipping from the line of buttons down his shirt-front to Max. "But he has helpfully elected to spend his nights elsewhere. I don't expect him back until the mornin', if then."

He moved closer. Reached out to rest the side of his hand on the hard lip of leather at Max's waist.

"Everythin' alright?"

He didn't pull away from the touch, but he didn't reciprocate.

"Commodus is dead," He said, flatly, as if telling a story about something far away and unrelated to him. "By my hand. Or so Juba has told me."

Wyatt blinked, and frowned slowly.

"...I don't understand." His brow furrowed into a vee as he looked at Max as if the man had just told him a joke and he was still waiting on the punchline. "I thought ya said you were taken before--"

"I was." Maximus said firmly. "But Juba told me that I never disappeared that day. That he saw my next battle, that he aided in my escape, that he watched me take down Commodus, before succumbing to my wounds myself."

"He thought I was visiting him, from the afterlife."

Wyatt's confusion only deepened, eyes going distant as he tried to push together the pieces Max was presenting him with.

"You were taken," he echoed slowly, fingers curling into Max's tunic as if confirm that he was really there. "But ya also died, there, after..."

His gaze came back, fixed on Max's.

"Max, that don't make any sense. Ya can't be in two places at once unless--"

He broke off, a match striking in his head.

"...Unless there's more than one of ya."

"Unless I am only a shadowed version of myself," Maximus agreed in a low voice.

"Unless, as we here soldier on, our former selves continue to the glory truly meant for us."

His face was most firm, mostly emotionless, but there was a worried knot to his brow that belied the turmoil in his chest.

Wyatt's reaction was immediate and firm.

"Don't, Max." His other hand joined the first, griping at Max's tunic from the other side. Not quite an embrace, but a fast hold. "There's a lot of things that they might be able to say 'bout us, but that ain't one of 'em."

"Wyatt," He started, his brows knitting.

"You do not understand. If Commodus is dead. If I fulfilled my duty... If there indeed was another one of me who found his vengeance and went on to join his family in Elysium--"

"An' what?" Wyatt asked, eyes searching Max's insistantly. "Does that mean it's over for ya? Job's done so ya got nothin' left? Max--"

His hands moved, reaching for Max's. Giving them a firm squeeze - warm and callused, very much real.

"Do ya feel like a ghost? Do I?"

Maximus shook his head roughly. "Wyatt, listen--" He pleaded, the man not understanding him.

"My duty is done. I - or another one of me - returned to my family. They are happy, and content, and at peace." His voice lowered slightly, softly. "I owe them nothing, Wyatt. I did not fail. I am free."

Wyatt looked for a moment more like he might argue, but as Max spoke, he settled, listening silently. Watching the man's face shift with the words.

For a moment, after Max paused, Wyatt remained quiet. Uncertain.

"...An' you?" he asked softly. "Yer free, but are you content?"

Maybe there were more Maxs out there, maybe they were happy, maybe they had found peace, but they weren't nearly as important to him as the Max that stood before him.

It was this man that held his heart.

Maximus tilted his head, raising his hand to slide it through Wyatt's hair.

"... There is no reason left, to feel torn," He whispered quietly. "Even in the afterlife, I can remain at your side."

He'd been holding his breath. He hadn't realized it, hadn't given it any conscious thought, but there it was. A sudden release in his chest; air rushing from his lungs, and warmth taking its place.

Filling him up.

Eyes on Max's, his mouth twitched, a slow smile as he swallowed, Adam's apple rolling in his throat.

"Ya better," he murmured thickly, stepping closer to finally slip an arm around him. His fingers moving to slip between Max's. "No heaven a'mine would be complete with you."

He brushed the hair from Wyatt's forehead with his thumb, before leaning in to take a long, deep, contented kiss.

He was more free than he had been in longer than he could remember, and he felt so much lighter for it, despite not really knowing how he felt about the idea of another version of him, living on without him.

It would be strange to think about, later. It would raise questions Wyatt wasn't sure he'd ever really be able to answer, or even if he'd want to.

But that, for the moment, was a distant concern.

Deep in his gut an old worry, a dark, heavy guilt was loosening. A knot coming free, a lock released by Max's soft words.

He'll never really be yers. Ya ain't got any right... yer jus' keepin' him from them...

Meeting the kiss, he pressed his lips to Max's without reservation, letting the poisonous thoughts go once and for all.

He deepened the kiss willingly, drawing Wyatt as close to him as he was able, wrapping an arm around his back and holding him tight. Complete fullness, and utter contentment. It didn't matter now, that they were slaves. It didn't matter now, that they'd been torn from home.

It was strange, but being a shadow was possibly the best thing that had happened to. A shadow knew his honour was being fulfilled, elsewhere.

A shadow that knew that no matter his chains, his spirit was free.

"I love you, Wyatt," He murmured roughly against the man's lips. "I love you."

Wyatt's hands flexed, a rhythmic unconscious movement, opening and closing against on Max's tunic. Wrapping tighter, holding firmer.

"...Anywhere, Max." It was a struggle, choosing between words and kisses, but it was one he was happy to have. One he wanted to wrestle with for the rest of his days. "I'll go anywhere ya wanna go, so long as yer there."

Back, across, even forward. The only constant Wyatt needed, he had in his arms.

He couldn't reply to that - after all, where would they go, in shackles? He could only reply with his lips, seeking Wyatt's again and again.

"Come to bed," He murmured finally. "Wyatt."

Half-kiss, half-smile, Wyatt's lips moved against Max's.

"There too," he promised, moving back, hands guiding his lover after him.

He followed easily, gently and slowly pushing Wyatt down to the sheets when they met the edge of the bed, following with a knee on the edge as he leaned down to seal the action with a kiss.

He breathed in, deeply, taking in Wyatt's all too familiar scent, before his lips found the man's throat.

"Anywhere," He agreed in a low rumble.

It was a strange weightlessness, even with the mattress against his back, the warm weight of Max above him. The heavy guilt, fears never spoken, now lifted.

The knowledge that here, with Max, was where he truly belonged. That he could stay -- as long as Max would have him.

His arms wrapped around him, steady, warm bands, and his head turned, giving Max more room.

"Always."

He paused, then, drawing his head up, as his heart thumped pleasantly in his chest. He looked down at Wyatt, a fullness and completeness like none he thought he would ever know again spreading through him. Free. Completely free.

It was a silly thought - a fleeting one. He'd known men to bond to each other in much the same way a man and woman would, in Rome, though he'd never seen the ceremony personally. But he would easily commit to it. Easily promise himself.

He didn't speak the thought allowed, but it was full in his mind as he leaned down for a long, purposeful kiss.

"You have my oath, Wyatt, if you want it."

Wyatt's head tipped a fraction, eyes moving over Max's face, wondering at the wheels he could see turning behind the familiar blue gaze. Then his mouth twitched, mustache drawing at the corners as one callused hand slipped up to knead at the back of Max's neck, fingers spearing through the short hair.

It was beyond him, that such a thing would be allowed. It certainly wouldn't have been in his world, but it didn't stop him from promising there, in the quiet of their shared quarters.

"An' you mine, Max. Today an' tomorrow an' the rest I got left if ya want 'em."

"And everything after," He murmured, sealing the promise with a kiss, his firm hands sliding to Wyatt's hips, holding him down as his lips moved, again, peppering Wyatt's jaw with rough, purposeful kisses, trailed down his throat, his whole body sliding against him.

His purpose made all too clear by the heat quickly growing in his chest, in the thump of blood hard downward.

There were no more promises Wyatt would make with words, he knew none sweet enough, important enough for such things, so he didn't try. His hands spoke for him, fingers flexing in Max's hair, slipping through the wide hole in the tunic at his arm to find hard, heated flesh.

His lips chased after Max's, tumbling across what skin he could reach as the man moved. Rumbling low in the back of his throat as Max held firm on his course, heart skipping a beat, muscle tightening in anticipation.

He groaned, lowly, his hips shifting into Wyatt's touch as his own hands came up, making short work of the buttons (and then the shirt) that lay between them.

Words were completely unneccessary. But there was something more to this heat than just a roll in the hay. Something more solemn. A vow made with every kiss, every touch. A solemn oath, and one Maximus meant to keep until his grave.

And beyond it.

Because now he knew his grave was only his.

Not just his. Theirs, now. Their tomorrows. Their heaven. All the more perfect for being shared.

His heart thumped beneath Max's touch, a rhythm just for him, calling him home as he leaned up, offering more of his skin, taking more of Max's. His hands moved under the tunic, skimming along the man's flanks, chasing the rough drag of breath, teasing fluttering muscle.

Pulling back to grip at the leather belt and tugging hard.

The belt immediately came loose, and Maximus didn't care at all, much too focused on pressing heated kisses down Wyatt's chest as it was revealed, his fingers slipping to the man's belt and working it free - deftly and purposely going for his fly.

He had become well accustomed to undressing Wyatt by now, that he could do it with extremely precise ease.

There was a curse, rough and low and all love, as heat arrowed through him, pooling thick and hot in his groin, already hardening beneath the teasing brush of Max's fingers. His hips lifted instinctively, both to help and to seek more. Always more.

The heavy leather belt flopped over the bed, forgotten, and Wyatt's hands found the thickness of the Roman's thighs. Cupping and squeezing with his callused fingers, skimming until he caught fabric and could drag it out of his way.

How many times had they done this, and still his heart raced like a wild horse. The process no less exciting. No less wondrous to him.

Trousers fell to the floor, followed by small clothes, until he had Wyatt fully bare beneath him. He surged downward for another kiss, deep and full. He murmured something low against his lips, a whispered praise, as he ran his hands down low over Wyatt's chest, his hips, his thighs. He wanted to take every inch of him in, memorize every piece.

Because this was all he needed to remember, anymore.

This was everything.

The pleasure was there, as it always was, a fast rush of heat pounding through his veins, but there was something more. An edge to the rough caresses, the lingering kisses. Like a goodbyes they'd shared before arenas past, but sweeter. Richer.

Warmer.

He dragged insistently at the tunic, at the scrap of fabric beneath, until they were skin to skin. Until his lips could find him, tracing the words in his heart across the curve of Max's shoulder, in the hollow of his throat where the scent of him was strong.

Salt and earth and heat.

Home.

(no subject)

For Wyatt

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