All the Wrong Reasons

Envy/Roy. R. ~550 words.
So right, and so wrong.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click. Maes sits on the desk, one boot on the sturdy wooden chair, and smiles at him. It’s just like he remembers, the slow curve of soft lips that brings a warm light to golden brown eyes.

Intoxicating like the alcohol in his blood. So right, and so wrong.

“Maes,” he says.

He’s always the first to speak. Nothing happens until he does. He used to wait, hope that he’d realise the folly of being here, in this room with nothing more than a dream. Impossible for him to leave, he’d wait and wait, and always, he’d give in.

“Roy.” Maes’s smile grows. “Come here,” he says.

Roy goes, the scent of cologne Gracia has to remind herself not to buy haunting the air he breathes. Maes touches him, slides familiar long-fingered hands through his dark hair, presses gentle, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. He tastes exactly like Roy remembers, even if the taint of bourbon on his tongue is from his own drinking, and not Maes’s.

“Do you still want me?” Maes asks, mouth on his neck and hands sliding under his thin uniform shirt.

The iron bedframe bumps the back of Roy’s legs. He closes dazed eyes and drags in a ragged breath.

The touches slow, stop, and won’t begin again until he answers. One chance, his last chance, to end it. They both know he isn’t strong enough. On his own, he never is, and Maes won’t help him now.

The twisted anticipation coiling low in his belly tightens, apprehension and self-loathing weak in the face of what he wants, what he needs.

“Yes,” he groans, and suddenly he’s falling, Maes’s tongue hot in his mouth, Maes’s hands stripping him bare, Maes’s body naked against his own.

Face-to-face, fingers laced, the first sharp edge of pleasure followed by sweet ache. Maes knows just where to touch him, how to touch him, when to kiss away the protest that it’s too much too soon, make him take it and enjoy it.

“Roy,” Maes breathes into his ear. “Do you want to know?”

Skin damp, muscles trembling, body straining so close to white-hot pleasure, Roy swallows a breath and doesn’t answer. He’s never asked a question like that before.

“Do you want to know?” Maes asks again, brown eyes losing their warmth, glinting with another light.

Something cold starts to creep through Roy’s veins, something like fear, but it’s fear for all the wrong reasons. He’s losing his grip on Maes, losing his tenuous grip on the reality that exists nowhere but here.

“Do I… do I want to know?”

A gentle kiss, a hand to his throat, and the words, “I can show you,” breathed into his mouth.

The thing he lets touch him, fuck him, draws away, dark purple bleeding over the fake golden brown of its irises. Roy’s heart thuds against his ribs. Stark, painful truth stares him right in the face like cold-water shock.

It purrs, kissing him again, kissing him like it always does and Maes never did. Maes never tasted like it does, never touched him the way it does.

“The last thing he saw,” it says, lips twisting into a malicious parody of the welcoming smile it always wears. “Right before he died.”


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