He grunts, snuffles, and rolls out of bed more than he rises. He stumbles into the bathroom and squints at the mirror. There’s a mark on his collarbone, where teeth and tongue have staked their claim. Luckily, his collar will hide it.
Roy splashes water on his face. Which doesn’t really help much, to be honest, but it’s a start. He hears Maes chuckle, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as he walks down the hallway, passing by the bathroom.
Ugh. Morning people. Personally, Roy would rather avoid morning and start the day sometime around afternoon.
Roy runs some water over his hair, pokes a finger at the pillow creases in his cheek and then ambles back into the bedroom. He’s all too grateful that all he has to wear is a uniform, because the idea of trying to match clothes is anathema to him this early in the day. He pulls on the dark blue outfit, only stumbling once. From downstairs, the smell of coffee and breakfast floats to his nose, and some of Roy’s brain starts to prickle into life.
Still, he’s not quite awake as he lumbers downstairs, hip smacking into the bannister in the same place it does every morning. He swears he has a permanent bruise there. Roy sourly rubs the sore spot as he thumps down the remaining few steps and hangs a left into the kitchen, bright with streams of sunlight. Inside, Maes is bouncing around like he’s made of energy, face lighting up at sight of Roy.
“Good morning,” he says, pulling out a chair and gesturing that Roy sit in it, one hand carefully holding a pan in which eggs crackle and sizzle.
Roy grunts in greeting, throwing his weight into the creaking wood chair.
Maes chuckles. “Ever the cheery one,” he says and shifts the skillet back over the stove. “Maybe this will wake you up.”
Roy blinks as a cup of coffee is set in front of him, the perfect shade of nutmeg. He takes a careful sip, and almost purrs in contentment. Perfect. Two sugars and a splash of creamer, just the way he likes it. A smile curves his lips.
He sags into his chair, his usual laidback pose. “Thanks,” he says, and takes another long sip, having no trouble with the high temperature of it. They don’t call him the Flame Alchemist for nothing. Roy snags Maes’ arm as his lover passes, prompting Maes to look down at him. “I mean it.”
“I know you do,” Maes says warmly. “And you’re welcome.”