[ Although Maine can feel Wash's reaction — the horror, confusion, and then what seems like a desire to reassure — he can't imagine the cause. He doesn't know that he shared any memories; he thinks that Wash is reacting to emotions alone. It makes sense, Maine guesses: his emotional state is a fucking disaster. Still, he didn't think it was so bad that Wash would be horrified by it.
He meets Wash's eyes. Holds his friend's gaze for a moment as he wonders if Wash really gets it, or if it's just part of that attempt to reassure. After a moment, Maine nods, accepting it — but his guilt and shame surge a little higher.
This shouldn't be an issue. Maine should be able to separate this shit. Control himself. Lock down the memories that Wash doesn't share and move the fuck on. And he hates that he can't seem to fucking do it.
He looks away again. Doesn't pull his wrist from Wash's grasp. Another memory flashes through his mind:
Wash is standing with Maine in an incredibly fancy living room. Maine is frozen in place, physically unable to move, but filled with a furious, reckless sort of determination.
Wash steps closer. Presses his hands to Maine's cheeks, fearless. "God damn it, Maine," he says. "I already lost you once, don't make it happen again."
It bleeds into another, almost seamlessly:
Wash is standing toe-to-toe with Maine, his expression cold and angry. They're in an underground tunnel — the simulation. Maine has his arms spread slightly, silently asking what the fuck Wash wants from him.
Wash's shoulders slump as he appears to wilt. He takes a breath and lets it out before saying, "I want my best friend back. But it's like we've both got our guard up."
Maine swallows past the guilt and frustration that feel like they're trying to choke him. Forces himself to speak again. ]
no subject
He meets Wash's eyes. Holds his friend's gaze for a moment as he wonders if Wash really gets it, or if it's just part of that attempt to reassure. After a moment, Maine nods, accepting it — but his guilt and shame surge a little higher.
This shouldn't be an issue. Maine should be able to separate this shit. Control himself. Lock down the memories that Wash doesn't share and move the fuck on. And he hates that he can't seem to fucking do it.
He looks away again. Doesn't pull his wrist from Wash's grasp. Another memory flashes through his mind:It bleeds into another, almost seamlessly:Maine swallows past the guilt and frustration that feel like they're trying to choke him. Forces himself to speak again. ]
Sorry.
[ He should be better than this. ]