In Ishbal, Roy tries not to think too much, but when pressed, he confronts Kimbley with *his* own insecurities.
Or so he tried to believe.
-- These are the things he thinks about, on those nights. It's better to blame himself than to start thinking in a way that would make him want to challenge this madman, but still better yet is to not think at all, to let his mind drift back to the days and their blood, and feel that the night is somehow penance for the battles he'd won.
He thinks this way, as long as Kimbley lets him. But the man can tell when Roy stops paying attention, because his eyes glaze over and he forgets to protest, and though Kimbley himself is usually too far gone to notice, he's not the kind to let his prey forget him, if he can help it, and then he mutters
"Mustang," and punctuates it by sinking his jackal's teeth into the soft skin between Roy's shoulderblades.
Roy opened his eyes to the barrack wall before him. He thought he knew that tone of voice, and tried to shrug away, but a hand on his back kept him from even turning around.
"You wanted this, you whore," Kimbley muttered, tapping his fingers against Roy's skin. "You came, didn't you? Came back, you knew I was here, you came from the showers and you were wet all over and if you didn't want me you wouldn't try to seduce me, now would you?"
It is beside the point to reason with Kimbley, to tell him that they do after all share a room, and even if he doesn't bathe regularly, Roy tries to. Instead, Roy feels behind him, blindly, for that other deadly hand, and brings it to his mouth.
Kimbley hisses when Roy slides long fingers into his mouth, taking two and then three and then four, flicking his soft tongue around them and gagging when they splay open, choking him and forcing his mouth too wide, and Kimbley's palm comes to rest on his lower lip.
"I could kill you like this," Kimbley says thoughtfully, "I could start the reaction in your mouth and leave the rest of you whole. Or I could blow you up with my hand inside and my fingers would still be trapped between the teeth of your skull.
"Or," he adds, jerking his hand out suddenly and running it down Roy's chest, leaving a sticky trail that ends at the front of Roy's trousers, blue fabric that turns wet and dark when Kimbley wipes his hand on it and and jerks open the clasp. "Or we could do something else."
Roy swallows. "Something else would be preferable," he says, as curtly as he can manage, and when Kimbley laughs unpleasantly he knows that speaking was a bad idea.
"We'll be in agreement then," says Kimbley. He pulls down at Roy's belt and the flimsy field uniform slids down, unresisting; he shoves Roy toward the bunks and they both land on the floor, a mere yard from the softness of mattresses, and Roy curses the distance.
He lifts his head to the side and gasps in air as Kimbley's weight suddenly departs. The air this close to the ground tastes like sand, dirt and the impression of blood, tastes like the skin he washed half an hour ago and Kimbley's fingers and Kimbley's cock. They all taste the same, in this desert.
Kimbley is back and when he moves clumsily above Roy, a few drops of clear liquid land in his hair. Out of the corner of his eye Roy sees a cannister that is labeled "kerosene".
Somehow he knows that this time will be worse than the other times, but he is grateful for the oil.
"You like this?" Kimbley asks, harshly, and he laughs. "Doesn't it turn you on to know that if you try to snap those fingers at me, we'll both go up in flames?"
Roy noticed for the first time that his gloves were still on; absurd, since his upper body was otherwise unclothed. He glared at Kimbley and peeled them off, throwing them into a corner of the room. "I'm not prone to suicide," he said stiffly.
Kimbley laughed and ran a hand over him, and Roy gritted his teeth as an erection was worked to life, unbidden. "You're not, are you?" Kimbley asked, and something liquid ran down Roy's back as Kimbley casually tipped the cannister upside down. His laugh turned nasty. "On your knees."
As Roy pushed himself up with arms that trembled from the day's exhaustion, he felt Kimbley's hard fingers pressing into his ass, smearing the kerosene down and in, and when two fingers slid in he choked down a moan as his head fell on to his arms.
"Fucking virgin," Kimbley breathed. Roy didn't have to look to know the grin that would be on that face. "It's been a while since I've fucked anyone this tight."
Roy pressed his eyes shut once, for strength, before he staggered up to a sitting position, knocking Kimbley off him. "Back off," he managed, shooting looks around for his gloves. "I won't let you get this far."
"Let me?" Kimbley asked with a leer. "You like it, you slut! You like to punish yourself like this."
He tackled Roy as he tried to stand and they fell onto the bottom bunk, Roy half-on and half-off the mattress, his legs dangling and feet scrambling for purchase against the floor. Kimbley tangled their legs together and kissed him roughly, frantically, his tongue darting furiously in and out of Roy's mouth. Roy felt a bony hand close clumsily around his cock and he thrashed, involuntarily, into the mattress. Above him Kimbley made an indistict noise of pleasure.
And then there was something pressing against him, blunt and nudging, and Kimbley thrust his hips forward in one cruel motion.
Roy's eyes watered and he bit down on his lip and tasted blood. Kimbley's cock was slick with kerosene and other fluids, but it burned and forced him apart in ways that nothing should have. It hurt, and Roy entertained the thought of ending it, just like Kimbley had suggestion, drawing an array with his blood and turning the two of them into one great conflagration.
It wasn't fair, he thought viciously. He could destroy a city a hundred times more efficiently than Kimbley could, but when they were this close there was nothing he could to do rid himself of the other without killing himself.
"Is it good?" Kimbley hissed as he pulled out and thrust again. "Is this why you wanted me?"
Roy was silent because he didn't trust himself to speak, and he bit into the sheets to stifle the sounds he couldn't control.
"You started this," said Kimbley, his breath growing ragged as the seconds and minutes dragged by. "You... sought me out. You talked to me. You recognized... me for what I am, because you're the fucking same." He bit down hard at the back of Roy's neck. "Mustang... make yourself into a fucking drain for all the blame around here. Even... /me/."
Kimbley grunted as his thrusts became quicker, wilder. "You take everything in and... then you can't deal with it. You're in... love... with your fucking pyschosis."
Suddenly he couldn't take it anymore.
"Hate you," Roy muttered, and then louder, "You don't understand a thing."
"Eh?" Kimbley sounded close. "What was that?"
"/I hate you/," Roy repeated, voice rough. "/I/ didn't seduce /you/, but you're too damn self-involved to see that. You even think you like me, but you're incapable of liking anything." He twisted his head to look at Kimbley and saw his carefully-guarded expression, unguarded.
Ever-so slightly, something shifted.
Kimbley thrust savagely once more and abruptly pulled out as hot fluid hit the backs of Roy's thighs, leaving him aching and empty. Roy closed his eyes as the soreness quelled his flagging erection, but opened them again when he was dragged up to Kimbley's torso.
Wordlessly, the golden-eyed alchemist closed a hand over his arm and used it to gather the cooling semen. Roy's laundered shirt hung over the edge of the bunk, and Kimbley grabbed it and wiped himself down. He flung the sweat- and dirt-soaked shirt towards Roy as he buttoned his undone pants, found an overcoat and shrugged it on.
The tent flapped open and closed again as he left.
Kimbley returned to Roy after that, more frequently and more furiously than before. They fucked and played with torture around the edges of both the men's sanity, but they had no words for each other after that first night.