the first line got stuck in my head and flat refused to leave me alone. -fireun
He was a wreck, the slight soldier with the short, bloodied mane of black hair, the bewildered look in his dark eyes. Blood trailed a sticky sort of path down from a vicious looking scalp wound, sticking hair out at odd angles and trailing off somewhere below his left eye, a macabre sort of explanation for dilated pupils and shaky movements. His uniform had suffered at least as poorly as his body, a torn and tattered bloodstained mess, rank almost recognizable if one took the time to clear away enough soot to find where insignia was buried.
He was a wreck, glaze going from oddly clean hands to the devastation that surrounded him. It didn't seem fair, didn't make sense. Why should the world be so dirty, so broken, and the hands responsible remain innocently, deceptively, pristine? It was ugly…wrong. Maybe…maybe if he got rid of the gloves, got rid of his impeccable accessories of such atrocious crimes.
It was then he began to smell it, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh, that chemical scent that came from molten sand. That was a new one…the tang of sand-turned-glass. He didn't dare move, didn't dare glance at his handiwork lest he see the bodies or the ash that marked where humans had been.
The enemy…but they smelled so much like allies when they were cooked so thoroughly. It was hard to tell at that point, when even uniform and insignia burned along with skin color.
The gloves need to go. They were far too ingenious, far too efficient. Suddenly he didn't want to be that good anymore. Didn't want to be that useful. Frantic, the wreck of a soldier tore at his own hands, desperate to remove tight gloves that were stuck on by his own sweat. He clawed, pawed, uncaring or unnoticing as he tore at flesh as well as cloth, at least until the blood from new wounds started to soak into the material.
It was the blood that calmed him down, the spreading crimson stains that ruined the taunting perfection of white cloth. Mesmerized, he stared at his hands.
A touch on his shoulder distracted him, turned his gaze away and up, meeting concerned pale eyes peering out from behind cracked rectangular lenses. Sanity reasserted itself, with all the unfortunate weight of coherent thought, as the be-speckled man settled onto his haunches beside the dark haired soldier.
"You alright, kid?" a gentle voice, an understanding voice. It didn't hate him, didn't fear him.
Familiar and warm- the dark haired soldier's face crumpled in response to that voice. It was ok to fall apart when that man was there. He would be taken care of, he wouldn't be judged…
"You'll be alright, kid." That voice murmured, curling the sobbing wreck of a soldier into a tight embrace.
"Don't go." The wreck of a soldier hissed, voice rough.
"Hey, have I ever?"
The soft smell of a bit of cologne soothed flaring nostrils, such an alien scent in this violent, desolate setting. And it was perfect. "No" he whispered, sagging into those strong arms, just as he had countless times previously. "Thank you."
"Anytime, kid."
and in case i completely mucked it up, it is Roy and Maes. i liked the feel of it with no names, so left it that way. hope it worked!