well, it continues. more angst, more fluff, less alchohol. ah well. they can't drink ALL the time now can they? lyrics that set this one off are from "Burn, Burn" by Lost Prophets. -fireun

"Burn, burn the truth, the lies, the news
Burn, burn the life that you can't choose
Burn, burn the hate that gets you through
Burn, burn for us, for them, for you..."

The smell of charred flesh was not something that the mind forgot easily, if at all. It had a way of lingering at the edge of the mind in the same distressingly oily way it managed to adhere to the flesh of the living in the vicinity. Every time he breathed he could still smell it…couldn't wash his face enough times to get the greasy feel off. He tried, washed until his skin was red and raw, and still as soon as the water dried he could feel it, a slick reminder.

He just couldn't seem to get it out- not out of his skin or his clothes, hell, it was in his hair…

Maes let himself into the apartment, as he always did, stepping over discarded boots and a uniform jacket. It was never a good sign when Roy's apartment was that disorderly from the get go. There was definite truth in the statement that a persons house reflected their state of mind, and from the smell of what were most likely dirty dishes that had been sitting in the kitchen for a few days at least, Roy's state of mind currently left something to be desired.

He could hear water running, which could be a good sign. Perhaps the younger man had gotten his shit together and was cleaning up?

Well, he was definitely cleaning something…Maes sighed as he peered into the bathroom. Roy was at it again, scrubbing at his face with the intensity of the damned. "Roy." He spoke softly, soothingly. Last time he had managed to startle the man, which had ended in Maes having to request a replacement uniform. And some burn salve.

Roy looked up with bloodshot eyes, squinting a bit as if he were the nearsighted one, and frowned. "Can't get it off."

Maes closed his eyes for a moment, settling himself, and then with the resignation that accompanies a well practiced yet still distasteful action, walked into the bathroom to disarm his friend of all soap and scrubbing tools. Thankfully Roy's were wet, as he obviously resented the interruption, snapping ineffectively as Maes approached. With agility few alive witnessed, Maes dodged all manner of dirty blows as Roy realized his primary attack was useless.

"Roy, we have had scuffles far worse than this. And I always win." Duck a punch towards his throat. "C'mon man, give it a rest." Pin his arms back when he refused to calm down. "Please Roy. I really hate doing this."

Roy stood, tense and panting, his ability to move defeated completely by Maes' larger, more solid form, and swore. Maes had learned to mostly ignore the particularly nasty breed of insult Roy usually spewed when cornered and not quite in his right mind. It didn't take away the sting, but it kept it from lingering.

Then Roy decided to step on his foot, slamming a heel rather viciously into his toes while snapping a rather pointed discussion as to the size of Maes' gentiles. Maes yelped, looked his hold for only an instant, and lost his control of the situation. He had two options at that point- give it up as a good fight and let Roy run out of energy on his own or go for a more traditional response. Maes decided on tradition and threw a punch.

Roy slammed to a stop, his world spinning as a result of a perfectly executed hit to his right temple, and didn't even get a chance to dodge the second hit. Maes watched his friend crumple to the floor, stunned but not complete unconscious, and sighed. "When you wake up with a migraine later, pal, remember I tried to reason with you first."

Maes hauled a wobbly Roy to his feet and maneuvered him to the couch, making sure he was going to stay put before wandering back to the kitchen for some ice. "Forgot to stock the fridge again I see." Maes muttered his quest for alcohol and food defeated by Roy's lack of attention towards personal care. At least there was ice.

He wrapped the ice in one of Roy discarded shirts which were lying where ever Roy had discarded them throughout the past week, settled himself with an irreverent thump onto the couch beside Roy, and pressed the makeshift icepack against the semi-conscious mans head.

"It all goes to shit sometimes, old friend. It really does. Life shits on you, then moves on. We have to move along with it. Can't let it eat you alive like this." He never knew if the words made it into Roy's conscious mind, but at least every time he was in this position Maes felt that he was at least giving it his best. "No one will think less of you if you let it pass, Roy. We wont think you some sort of heartless bastard. Remember, if we can haul ass to the top, we can fix all this fucking nonsense. But to get there…"

"I know." Roy whispered brokenly. He leaned into the ice, concentrating on the chill. "I know, but…"

"No 'buts' Roy. There isn't any room for them in this line of work." Well, this was an improvement- proof that his words were getting through.

"You're an asshole." Roy muttered. "Have I told you that?"

"Yup. Numerous times. Mostly when I am right."

"Shut up."

"Honestly Roy. I thought you smarter than that. When have you ever known me to shut up?"