Virus

MONDAY, 8:26 a.m.

Edward Elric reported in as always to work that morning, complaining about the Monday, although his complaints were drowned out in the larger sea of complaints by his surrounding military officers.

A puff of smoke. The click of a gun. The dog whined. The door clicked.

Edward shut the door behind him and locked it as he was always instructed to do, even though he knew none of the subordinates would dare try and enter. He nodded at the raven-haired officer seated behind the desk, looking away when he saw that same characteristic smirk that never seemed to leave, plastered across his face.

A rustle of clothing. The clank of a metal buckle against the floor. Wet. Hot. Slick. Thrust. Take. Jab. Conquer. Finish.

Ed covered his face with his hand, waiting until the man had gone out as he always did, so he could dress in private, even if it was a small gesture to preserve the shred of modesty he desperately held on to like a fool.

Surely it was foolish to continue on, go on to the next meeting, task, mission, as if nothing had ever happened to tear him from innocence.

TUESDAY 12:01 p.m.

Edward sat, hands in his lap, watching as the man stuffed himself greedily with the rest of his lunch. Bits caught in his mustache, which the man licked with a greedy eye, watching Edward all the while. He offered his fingers up for the boy.

Swirl. Envelope. Coat. Wet the digit thoroughly.

He bent over, showing submission, but then deepened the sentiment by willingly spreading his legs so that everything desired was clearly visible. It pleased the man, enough for Ed to notice the hardened flesh press against his sensitive skin just as greedily as the tanned man had engulfed his lunch.

Press. Shove. Crevice. Hit. Merciless. Relentless. Throb.

He bit back his sob, ashamed to be reduced to such a weak reaction to something he knew he could handle, had handled, and knew he would handle for longer than perhaps he wished but would do it all the same. He tasted the copper from his lips, letting that be his satisfaction and not the fluid seeping between his legs that made him feel disgusted with his own body worse than the artificial limbs ever could.

With each drip of the milky substance on the floor, he seemed to lose a little bit of himself.

WEDNESDAY 2:41 p.m.

He lay on the desk, as relaxed as he could, waiting calmly for the man to finish his paperwork, even though Ed wondered how it was possible to work around him, even when he was presented like a present, just waiting to be opened. Except Ed had already been open and the wrapping paper taken off.

The scrape of a chair. The slight sound of a zipper being undone. Instructions. Calm, cold, blatant.

He rolled over on his stomach, doing as he was told, even though his eyes were squeezed tight. The protruding organ in his face did not require much sight; he done it enough to know what was desired.

Suck. Kiss. Tease. Smother. Use the teeth, but only just enough to send a shock of pleasure. Hold it in. Swallow.

He wanted to retch, throw it all up, spit it out, do anything but swallow the bitter and salty liquid that looked like milk but was way worse than cow secretion, even to the milk-hating alchemist. Yet he swallowed, even going out of his way to lick the rest of his fingers, making a show of the act. The man chuckled and returned to his paperwork, shooing Edward out the door as if he was a pleasurable nuisance he was forced to deal with once a week.

THURSDAY 6:02 p.m.

He was grabbed, roughly and shoved into the nearest room, the door hastily locked, before he was pressed against the wall, still standing. The man cupped his ass, whispering deaths threats in his ear, all of which colored his mind with brilliant images of red and orange flames engulfing his body. It would be easy to just end it all like that, struggle, and be no more than a boom that would bring the man as much pleasure as the act he was about to engage in.

Tear. Slide. Sweaty friction. Grope in a way that bordered molestation. Pinch.

Ed had to hook his legs around the man to prevent himself from falling down; he was displeased to know he had to be close to the man at this position, this angle, which would clearly make his body betray his want for contact even if it was of dubious consent and something no person his age should ever be forced to go through.

Fire. Press. Find. Abuse. Assault. Exploit the sounds his body made. Tug.

The man kissed his neck, slick with sweat, and then left him with a curious grin on his face that spoke of “next times” and “tomorrows” that he wished he could escape but knew would be marked on his mental calendar as another day to dread. He pulled his pants back up, straightened his shirt, and repaired the tears in his clothing, finally leaving headquarters.

FRIDAY 9:37 p.m.

Monday and Friday were alike and yet unlike. Monday was cold yet sleepy, just a bitch of a chore that he did and then got on with the day, although it woke him up nonetheless. Friday was surprisingly tender and borderline romantic, although it was smothering and insincere.

Warmth. Candles. Maybe a whispered phrase of endearment. More truthfully words of lust.

He would actually spend the night, being granted for one of the few times, sleep after the act, wrapped in sheets that stank of what other people had also done, faint smells of women and men, other partners perhaps more willing to go home for coffee after an expensive dinner of which they ate less than half.

Kiss. Lust. Hold. Melt. Meld. Become more than just that selfish one inside.

He rolled over, pulling the sheets close around him so he would feel protected and less vulnerable than usual when he was out in the open, daylight, where everything was visible. There was a wet spot in the middle of the bed, but the man made no attempt to clean it, which Ed cursed him for, as he was forced to sleep in it, a cruel paradox to the tenderness he’d been shown.

Love?

Edward was the only one who wished there had been love.

SATURDAY 3:12 a.m.

He found himself wishing for the loveless union of the previous night, no matter how suffocating the attention was, anything was preferable to the relentless attention that at the same time was not enough attention that his overlord, the supreme commander, teased him like with a carrot in front of his face.

Swish. Tighten. Loosen. Hard. Soft. Ever changing the sensation.

Saturday was always the most creative night of his week, where he often assumed different roles, contorted to odd shapes, or just was subject to experimentation in the room, alternate positions and anything imaginable to the man who held him captive for the night.

Pain. Stinging. Relief, yet the harsh relief that still wasn’t true relief.

Dive. Dive. Dive.

Rivulets of blood ran down his legs, tickling ever so slightly so he jerked and whimpered and shamelessly displayed his emotions because any pride he had left had been stole by the prideful bastard who had him under his beck and call. Sheathed, collared, a true dog of the military now, tied straight to the bedpost should he ever think of escape.

Round Two? Round Three? Ed lost count after Round One.

SUNDAY 10:00 a.m.

Sunday was the ritual, prompt, never a second early, never a second late.

Ed always hoped for Monday and Friday, even if he was a bastard of a man. Tuesday was painful, too large all around. Saturday was literally torture, even if it was of the supposed pleasurable kind. Even Thursday would be nice, he was quick, got it over with although Ed knew the guests never liked a short show. It was always drawn out, but an exact one-hour and a half, although each millisecond felt like a millennium in hell. Hell didn’t even hurt as much, and the fires didn’t burn as much as the blush on his face, the one that stayed constantly put as whoever the man was put on the show with Ed as the star.

Sunday was the sickest day of them all. Sunday was Church.

SUNDAY 5:30 p.m.

Brother, is that you? Alphonse Elric asked, turning his metal head around to look at the door.

Edward entered, watching the floor, his arms full of a folder with several papers neatly arranged inside. I’m back… he answered, because saying I’m home had always felt wrong in his throat.

What did the military want? Al always asked that question, as if he would get a different answer, as if he would get any answer at all.

Just some crap, nothing more than military crap like they always have for me, he complained to Al, letting just a little bit of his bitterness seep through. It dulled his pain, healed his heart just a bit, to be able to inject even a fraction of his outcry against the injustice.

But he was shook up, limping from the week, even though each week he was back was the same as this one had been.

Are you sure you’re okay? He was suspicious; Ed tensed, Al had caught on to something.

Yeah, I’m fine. I got a new lead on the Stone! He tried to sound cheerful, project some happiness into his life. Cover the tracks. Cover. Cover. Cover. Lie. Lie. Lie.

What are those papers?

Nothing.

Come on, Brother, let me see. Please? Let me in.

A pang of guilt, covered up yet again. No.

Al tried to reach for them, tried to grab the papers. Ed stepped out of the way, but Al latched on. Ed threw his grip off, sending the papers scattering.

Pamphlets. STD pamphlets. Safe Sex. Rape. How to Cope. The Emotional Sides to Sex. Abused? Get Help. AIDS. Think You Have an STD? Get Tested.

The military had apparently never heard of condoms.

Brother?

Ed turned away, bending with a hiss at the pain from his lower end, to pick up the papers. Can’t cover it now. Can’t lie forever.

It’s just a typical week in an atypical military, Al.

What do you mean?

I’ve got the virus. Test results came back.

When did you get tested?

When half the military fucked me.

Silence then Al spoke.

The virus?

The big one.

Oh.

Yeah.

Sorry.

Me too, Al.

The truth comes out eventually.