A/N: Ah, this weighed heavily on me until I finally took a moment and got it down. I spent most of last night on it, but oooohhh man I cannot stop writing this story. Okay. Imma stop talking now.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't even ask.
Warning: RATED T. Keep it in mind.

Toxic

The bed groaned and creaked. Once again, Wally was beneath Roy as the archer kept the upper hand while their lips met and their bodies pressed close, chemistry like electricity, jolts of emotion jumping between the two conductors.

"Roy..." He was moaning out his lover's name as a protest. He knew that if they got much farther, clothes would be coming off. Wally swallowed hard as Roy backed off, hurt and anger blazing in his eyes. He still felt the burning taste in his mouth and the bleary edges on the world from his second cup. The speedster knew where he wanted the line to be drawn. He was only fifteen; he would drink, but he wasn't ready for anything more than these hot and heavy sessions in the apartment. "You need to-" He gasped in a quick breath while watching Roy pant above him. "-you need to slow down, okay? Please."

The tendons in Roy's neck tensed, pulling taut. Hot breath flared out of his nostrils. Tinges of rage and impatience lingered in his blue-green orbs. His chest continued to heave, panting to keep oxygen in his lungs. "I thought you always liked things fast, Flashboy."

Hurt seared through Wally's mind. He wasn't sure if he physically cringed or not, but he knew he had mentally. Roy never called him that, not even friendly teasing. It was an Artemis thing to do, the bitch. His eyes snapped shut, and he waited a second. "Please, Roy. Just slow down." He opened his eyes again, pleading and quiet." Now his voice was a faint whisper as fear rippled down his spine. "Please."

Roy shivered. His brow furrowed; another huff of hot air escaped his lips. His decision was made. He leaned in again, determined to get their lips to fit together just right. Maybe if he showed Wally, maybe if he trailed his neck with kisses, maybe-

"Roy, come on!" It took almost all of Wally's strength to even get the archer to budge a few inches. He had to focus hard and get his legs between Roy's body and his own to get more leverage, to get more muscle between them. "I'm serious!" He pushed upward the best he could (while trying not to hurt the elder redhead) and Roy was sprawled out on the lower half of the bed in a heartbeat.

There was a long moment where Roy was sitting up, staring at the top of the bed where Wally sat, pinned up against a wall like a corner animal. He'd been forced to strike. Now he had curled himself up against that same wall, eyes wide with shock and terror at the same time. He trusted Roy. He loved Roy. He wanted Roy.

He stared back, fury blazing in those eyes that had grown darker with a possessive need of wanting something more. He swallowed hard, fighting back his anger, blaming all of this need on the booze and his lack of a cigarette in the last two hours. "I need a smoke."

That was the last thing Wally expected to come out of the archer's mouth. He only watched in a stoned silence as the man got off the bed and moved towards the bedroom door, heading directly for the kitchen a few feet away; Wally could see Roy reach for his pack and pull out a cigarette and slip it between his lips before ripping open a drawer to search for a lighter.

He took a moment and touched his hair, touched his face, felt for any wounds, an automatic response to trauma. Wally knew this feeling all too well, he just thought he knew where he was safe and where he wasn't. He didn't feel any fresh bruises on his face and figured Roy hadn't hurt him. It was because Roy hadn't hurt him. It was all still fuzzy to a certain extent, but that was wearing off with the shock and as his metabolism devoured the alcohol like it was sugar. He'd remember it all crystal clear soon enough, he figured.

There was the soft click! of the lighter in the other room, and Wally watched as a tiny flame flickered out of the end of a black lighter he'd pulled out of a cabinet where he kept a basket of the damn things. Wally watched as Roy focused intently on the lighting of the cigarette. As soon as it was lit and the end was smoldering the same color as the archer's hair, Roy moved out of view and into the living area where they'd left the tv running when Roy had decided the couch wouldn't work because it wasn't big enough for the two of them. The soft sounds of a local news channel filtered in. Stocks and celebrity rumors were the background music of his fears. A simple television to listen to in a moment of so much pain, or at least what little he could hear over the roaring of blood in his ears.

Yet there were amends to be made and he couldn't stop himself from getting up. He needed to cement this again. The tequila was a starting point, the whiskey to continue on. Now Roy wanted more, something his partner wasn't quite ready to give.

Before he was completely aware of his actions, he was moving into the kitchen on silent feet and snatching his own cigarette out of the half-gone pack. Wally groped clumsily for the lighter while his shaking fingers barely managed to stick the paper between his lips.

Roy watched the window, unaware, barely alive and in the real world.

The lighter clicked on, and a shiver raced through him. He watched the conical flame focus the heat from mere sparks, and then he moved it to the end of the cigarette. He waited 'til it was alight and then put the lighter back down where Roy's left it. Then he padded quietly to where Roy was.

The buzzing noise of the television's droning words were drowned out by the sheer thought of Roy not taking him back in this one moment. Wally stood beside his lover and sent up a silent prayer to whoever was listening to him. He breathed in the tobacco, the disgusting smoke that nearly choked him the first time, the way the heat seemed to burn his mouth and the tang of nicotine tainted his tongue. He coughed hard for a few moments while fighting to recompose himself.

Roy gave the kid a quick slap on the back, eyes still dark but less angry, more tired and bored. He waited until Wally was breathing regularly again before taking a long drag of his own cigarette and sucking in the warm smoke. He looked to Wally and blew it all out in the boy's freckled face with a half-smile on and hope scrawled on his features.

Wally felt the forgiveness even though the words were never said. He drank in the smell, tasted it in the air, and ensured it like he had for weeks now. The tobacco on Roy's lips had made the speedster adapt to something new, as had the liquor and the sudden moments of unadulterated lust. He'd grown used to it, just as he had his father's beatings.

He took another drag, tasting it for real this time. A cigarette in his mouth was more then just cement to pile onto everything else: this was a promise.

A/N: There we go. Ohhh, yes. I miss doing make-out scenes. This is just a good excuse to write some, and I love it. So review? Thanks for reading.

~Sky