Chapter Text
Pain spiked through every single part of their body, bruised and sore in places that pain had never tried to reach before. Aching was the least of it, their head spun, couldn't sleep, unable to keep anything solid down.
Retreating from the med-bay and york like a coward, they just couldn't face him. Couldn't look at his poor bruised body, his swollen and tired golden eyes…
Eye. Golden. Eye.
Even though it was an order, even though Wyoming had been supplied the ammo. Something twisted Maine's gut in a way it shouldn't, it just felt wrong. With York injured, they had no idea what to do, they needed a cigarette, something to take the edge off.
Rooting around in the pocket of their sweats, Maine finally grasped something that at least felt like it may contain nicotine. Pulling it out, the shiny flask glimmered in the dusky lighting. It was yorks flask, he’d left it in a Maine’s bunk on a late night visit, they just hadn't had time to return it yet. They thought, letting themself get entranced by the scarring on the simple metal surface. They weren’t really a drinker, maybe socially, but to just drink out of his flask, maybe it wasn't such a good plan.
York was a drinker, more than your average joe. Maine had many a time watched York take long swigs before deciding he needed anything from Maine. The cool metal was such a stark difference from its owner, yorks warm bronze skin, somehow tanned despite the lack of real sunlight. While he wasn't as warm as Maine, he could hold his own in the cold, in this vastly empty ship.
No, they can't drink from his flask, it's wrong. Feels like stealing, stealing from the person they injured, stealing from the person they could barely stand to see because of the deep guilt. Still, they fiddled with the small ring attached to the lip of the flask, the quiet dinging filling the silent hallway. Whatever time it was, Maine hadn't bothered to look at a clock, hadn't slept, and had barely eaten since the accident. Seeing York hooked up to those monitors, breathing so shallow you almost couldn't tell if he was even still there. It ate Maine alive, he panicked, blacked out, raged, cried. They hated to admit it, hated to give into his feelings for York.
Moments passed, maybe hours, Maine didn't really know, didn't care to know, staring out a deep space window, watching the stars pass, trying not to think about anything. Suddenly, a buzz in their pocket, knocking them from their trance-like state. A message from Washington, Maine almost doesn't want to open it.
Wash: ‘York says he wants you here. He's upset, but I think he's willing to listen.’
York wants them there, probably just to get a chew out, to scream his head off. But if that's what York wants, Maine's willing to oblige.
Somehow the walk back feels twice as long, every move of their legs a horrible reminder of the fight, of what injured York, of the hell Maine would have to pay. After what felt like eternity, Maine can see the med bay lights from the hall, they stop, feel the weight of the half full flask in their pocket,they thought, standing still just a short distance from the man they put harm's way. They pull out the flask, undoing the screw top carefully, and press the rim to their lips.
The first drink hurts, burns in a way that feels like punishment. Sipping at this flask like a lifeblood, feeling the sting of every drop rolling down their throat, it's thick and sickening, slowly becoming easier as the flask becomes lighter. When they reach the end, their brain feels a bit more hollow, but they can hold their own, twisting the cap back on, and slipping the small thing back into their pocket.
They continue standing still for just a moment, waiting to feel something, but nothing happens. No stars in his vision, no wobbly legs, his gut turns, but no real nausea. He takes a step forward, feels a bit off, but pushes down the weirdness. He wobbled into the medbay, staring in the general direction of York's bed.
It takes a second to build the courage, to stop gritting their teeth, he can see Washington's back, which was likely hunched in the direction of York's body. They continued to the bedside, skin tingling unpleasantly as they reached the bedside.
Eyes lingering down to York, his bed sat up so he could look at the others without straining his neck. Both the chairs around his bed were full, north up at his head, and Wash by his legs, so Maine just stood, facing down towards the bed. They were actually starting to feel the effects of whatever liquor was in that flask, they swayed just a bit, pain in their body numbing to an extent that standing wasn't awful.
Everyone's eyes were on them, judging, hungry, angry. It hurt, but not physically, that twisting pang of guilt un-mistakeable in their gut. They open their mouth to speak, but just as quickly shut it, afraid of what might spill out if they aren't careful.
“Go.” York commands, his voice is strangely firm, it's a little hot. Maine takes a step away, assuming the bark was in his direction. “Not you. Them.” York motions his hands around the small area, the tubes hooked into his wrist flailing as he does so.
North and Washington both glance to each other, to the semi-drunk Maine, then back to York. “You heard me, get out. I want to talk to Maine." York persists, attempting to sit up further, he strains, makes it almost fully upright before North starts moving. Up and out, waiting as wash lingers, the small man staring up at Maine for a brief moment before moving away himself.
The pair retreat quietly, slowly, painfully slowly. Maine watches, can feel their judgement digging through their chest, can hear the spiteful whispers from where his feet are firmly planted. It takes york speaking to bring them back to the moment.
“Come here.” It's not a request, a demand. Makes Maine's stomach flutter just a bit, something about a gravely injured man speaking so harshly has them feeling just a bit more like an awkward teenager. So Maine moves, sitting down in the chair near York's head, wobbles slightly before managing to get the slightest bit comfortable.
There's an uncomfortable silence, lingering, angry, and somehow, soft. It feels right, this is how they are after nights together, comfortable in the uncomfortable silence, It's Maine who finally breaks it.
“I- I'm sorry York.” They manage to blab out, shoving their hands between their knees to stop the obvious shaking. Their eyes are back on the floor, shame washing over every part of their being, undaring to face York, to face the consequences of breaking protocol. “I broke protocol, and you got hurt.”
Maine finally looks up, just in time to catch York's eye, welling with the threat of tears, he's breathing heavily, one fist clenched in the thin blanket of the hospital bed. Maine doesn't know what to do, he reaches forward, hesitantly, but with enough confidence that York knows what's happening.
He cupped York's face, nervously, brushing his thumb across York's cheek, its tender, it aches in Maine's bones. York's skin is soft, a little cold under their fingers, they can feel the slight press of York's face into his hand. They stay like that, just holding York, fingers warming the cool damp skin beneath. “York.” Maine almost whispers, afraid the words may break him further.
There's a small pause, a gentler one, Maine leans forward, invading York's space just a bit more. The seconds pass like hours, Maine's head is swimming, that liquor finally settling in their gut. York leans into Maine's throat, inches away, daring, challenging.
Maine accepts.
The first kiss in gentle, clumsy, Maine can't quite feel their lips. There’s fumbling as York releases his grip on the bed, and instead launches for Maine's hoodie. Fingers land just short of their collar, twisting and pulling.
“York, I-”
Cut off by another much more harsh kiss, their words don't deter the rapidly more aggressive motions from York, his other hand landing against Maine's abdomen. He's staring daggers into Maine's soul, panting into their mouth, hand quickly sliding upwards against the warm hard muscle hiding just beneath their clothes.
“I Love you”