Laziness prevented me from writing very much. I apologize with this chapter.
Live4him4eva: Well, I enjoy light heart things in general. I hate how...depressing these drabbles can become. So, I needed a mood lifter.
Neopyrocitrine: Yay, next chapter, Roy is a womanizing alcoholic. I kid, I don't believe I can actually write it. At least not a well written one.
Winglessfairy: I like writing about their experiences of Ishbul, even though I don't know much.
Chapter Fourteen:
Flowers/Rain
He felt miserable every time he came to his grave. Given how he tortures himself coming here, he wonders if he a secret masochist. He should be the one being buried, not his friend. Not Maes, who had a wife and a daughter. A man who had everything to live for.
"I thought you said you were going to stay under me and help me to the top."
The words seem to be spoken in a venomous angle. Quite honestly, he doesn't know who to be angry at. His friend, the 'government', himself? He died trying to call him. He died finding information for him.
He looked back as a certain blonde place her hand on his shoulder for comfort. He was glad there wasn't anyone around. Or he hoped no one was, he couldn't bear having someone pay for his mistake. Although, this scene, he would hardly call it a mistake.
"Sir?" She asked, cautious.
"We're off-duty. You shouldn't have to refer as me as such."
Her head tilted slightly, studying him for a moment. Were his words in a double meaning?
"Is it raining...Roy?" She asked, hesitating on the last part.
"No, I hate the rain."
"A little rain helps the flowers grow, Roy."
He smirked lightly as he looked at her for a few seconds. "I believe the flowers are beautiful enough."