Maes slouched in the uncomfortable wooden chair, under stress and pressure that he was afraid he would take out on anything. Tears had rung from his eyes like bells, creating small spots on his shirt that ran together to form larger masses. He crinkled his red eyes up in rage and knocked the chair down with the back of his hand.
A woman in a red dress gave him a fearful look, but when he glared back at her the eyes darted away. He wasn't in the mood to be Hughes, the annoying yet lovable guy who cared so much. "I don't care." Maes said to the woman in a growling tone.
Thereon out he was left alone, although his eyes never ceased to nervously glance at everyone in the room. I'm seeing for Roy, Maes thought to himself. When he stood up he thought, I'm walking for Roy.
He rubbed a gross sleeve on his face and started to grind his teeth, then he stood up with his chest puffed out. He shot a seductive and calm face at the woman and said, "Look, I'm Roy Mustang!" Then he walked up to her and kissed her hand tenderly, watching himself with horror.
"Excuse me?" she said nervously, too confused to retrieve her hand. She looked at his face and became lost in it... he looked almost attractive even if he had been crying...
Soon he found himself ridiculous and caved in to a hardy laugh that made the red woman squeal. "I'm laughing for Roy!" he cried between giggles, banging his fist into the wall.
"Uh huh..." she muttered, stroking her brown hair down with her hand and taking a pen from her purse. "Look... I think you might need some help. I'm a psychiatrist," she said, grabbing Maes's hand and scribbling on the back.
"Mister Hughes, you can come see him now if you would like," a nurse said, turning the clipboard she held in her hands. "It's room 47, I'll take you there."
The room was so fake looking; white walls, white curtains, enough pale and sickness to make someone keel over and die. It smelled cold in here although it was always warm, which Roy had liked at least. He liked the warmth, even if it couldn't compare to what he felt right now.
"Roy, why?" That question was the one he had been trying to complete in his head, but it's hard to think when you've faced death.
"Maes," Roy whispered, his face lighting up and looking happy for the first time in a long time. He couldn't move his hands, settling for the slight head motion that they had always used. Sure enough his friend walked slowly, looking down at him with awe.
"Why? Why would you... give it all up... when you know I care so much about you?" his hands ran up to his face, him fingers clutching onto it to dam out the sorrow and anger that mingled together in tears. "Just tell me."
"Maes," Roy said with concern, staring at the other man's hair and wanting to stop the shaking in his shoulders. "Yad- you don't know whaslike..." his words stumbled along like weary travelers, conversing with each other to form strange mutterings. His mind was frustrated and straining, only able to make words that he used every day.
"That promise I made to you went bother ways, you hear? I said I would help you reach the top, not anyone else!" he screamed, making Roy cower into his pillow.
"I'm sa- sar-sorry," Roy cried with regret, "I'm sorry..." He looked up to the blank ceiling and wondered why he actually thought he could pull this off, and why he almost did. He had so much, had Maes... why?
"Excuse me please, but you'll have to leave now mister Hughes."
When he kissed Roy goodbye, and turned the door handle he saw the number on his hand. He remembered the woman with the dress, the one who hand scrawled on his hand her name and number.
"Gracia Walsh, huh?"