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13 April 2006 @ 05:32 am
Fanfiction: Fullmetal Alchemist: Afternoons (HughesxMustang)  
For catiechu.



Afternoons

-----

Afternoons in the room were cigarettes smoked to the filter, soot-stained fingers, dull razors rusting under cracked medicine cabinet mirrors, cotton from pill bottles gathering dust and spiders in neglected corners. Sun bleaching the waterlogged wood floor. Spots of light catching tired eyes. Plodding visits from Sir Passably-Sane, wide-set stance on dirty ground a proud podium from which to berate the mess, the dark, the smell -- god, Roy, the smell -- but mostly the mood.

The room felt flat.

The air was stagnant, smell of vellum and cheap liquor heavy in the air. A shirt, crumpled across the back of a chair, threadbare and sad, was a good start. Maes Hughes plucked it from its unceremonious lump and folded it. Roy Mustang fumbled with his lighter, neverminding the gloves shoved in the pocket of the shirt Hughes had set on the dilapidated coffee table. Spark, spark, a flickering flame, and the sharp suck on the cig -- sour, nauseous nicotine. The smoke stung his hollow eyes.

"Nasty habit," Hughes chided.

Hold it in until death seems just fine, then an exhale from the diaphragm. It takes the whole body.

"You should get some sleep," Hughes straightened the precarious stack of papers.

"I'm not tired." Draaaaag.

"Bullshit." He smiled, licked his thumb and rubbed away a crusting ring of condensation where a coffee mug had rested.

"Bullshit..." Mustang echoed, ash flaking onto his shoes.

Hughes approached him with that great loping stride, nicking the cigarette from slack lips and grinding it into the ashtray.

"Roy."

"Hm?"

"You're a fucking mess."

He might have laughed, or maybe let escape a cracking sob. In any case, the lips twitched, the eyes squinted. The words fell flatly on deadened ears.

Hughes had turned on the fan. The blades creaked overhead, stirring filthy air, casting pulsing, sick shadows that caused the dull light in Mustang's eyes to brighten and fade. If you weren't looking very hard, he almost seemed alive.

"Yes, I...suppose I am, Maes." He moved his fingers as if the cigarette were still there. Hughes shuddered.

"Hey..." he gave the other man a friendly jab in the shoulder; there was no sign of acknowledgment. Hughes set his jaw. "Do you have any plans of leaving this room?"

Mustang closed his eyes.

"Roy."

"Roy."

"Damn it."

-----

He supposed he woke up, or at least opened his eyes to twilight. The darkness was bleak. It would have made him feel uneasy in different times. He blinked. Reached for the cigarettes in his pocket. Not there.

"Nasty habit."

"Give them to me."

"I made soup. Have something to eat."

"Give me the fucking cigarettes."

"No."

Mustang closed his eyes again.

"Don't you go back to sleep. I made you some soup; eat your soup and then you can have your smokes or your rest."

Roy Mustang, realizing he doesn't know where the bowls are. Dishwasher? Cupboards? Under or above the sink? Above, of course. Spoons? Roy Mustang, deciding it was simpler to sit.

Maes Hughes, not about to handle this.

"Roy, get up and eat your soup." He furrowed his brow at the silence.

Maes Hughes, quickly acquiescing to defeat. The bowls were above the sink, spoons in the drawer. Soup for two. He set the humble offering in front of Mustang with a forced neutrality. The other man lamely took the food and raised a spoonful to his lips. They ate in silence.

-----

"Here," Hughes returned Mustang his cigarettes. He fingered the crumpled box and set them back in his pocket.

"Roy."

"Don't go back to sleep just yet."

"It's still light out."

"ROY."

-----

A clenching of teeth and fist, punch thrown at the face. Lip crashing against teeth, bruise blooming and blood flooding the mouth.

"Dammit, do you even feel anymore?!"

"Did you feel that?!"

"Don't go back to sleep, you son of a bitch!"

-----

"Hey, I'm sorry, Roy."

Mustang blinked, trying to focus his eyes. His mouth tasted metallic; a familiar association to a man of war, an association of pain, danger. Alertness.

"I got frustrated. You can't really blame me. Look at you. This isn't you."

Hughes' eyes darted over Mustang's form. The smaller man was still, but his eyes scanned the room nervously. Slowly, he raised a hand to his sore mouth.

Hughes caught Mustang's wrist, hastily closing the distance between them. He pressed the other man's hand to his side, lips ghosting over lips and tasting blood and tobacco. Swollen lips, lips that not just felt the contact but exploded with it, sent a stab of noise into Roy Mustang's throat.

"Aah..."

Kiss a little harder now, really press into him (keep holding onto his wrist), take his bottom lip between your teeth. Can he feel, yet? Does he feel it when you urge his mouth open with your tongue, pushing deeper, deeper? So much blood and it's on your lips, staining the corners of your mouth. Does he feel it when you rise above him, steepling yourself over him and fitting your knee between his legs? Surely, he must.

Roy Mustang acknowledges pain and maybe even Maes Hughes; he can't close his eyes. He's deep into the couch, a shadow from above falling over him, exterior warmth present and a clean, safe scent about him. He cannot act, but he acknowledges. He cannot move, but he can feel.

Hughes shifts, now sideways on the couch, Mustang with his hands above his head, held fast by Hughes' steady grip. With his free hand he undoes the buttons of Mustang's shirt, parting the fabric swiftly but gently; Mustang's breathing is steady, slow, his chest rising and falling evenly. Long, wet kisses down the smaller man's neck. Fearing he's growing bored, Hughes takes skin between teeth and brands the other man, lurching forth another guttural cry from the body beneath him. His tongue flicks over peaking nipple, and Mustang bucks involuntarily.

"Maes..." he gasps, and the other's eyes widen. Yes, that's it. Hughes smiles and lowers himself onto the other nipple.

"Maes...!" Twilight, the fan. Old, sick air. Nicotine nausea and fear. Arms above his head and Maes Hughes upon him. Mustang strains against the other man, who merely places more weight on the captive wrists. Hughes' free hand snakes beneath Mustang's waistband, fastening around the frightened erection.

"Stop it..."

"Stop it!"

-----

Roy Mustang, on his stomach, hands bound, pants around his knees. Straining to see behind him, white spots dancing across his vision. His mouth tastes strongly of blood, and his body is weak. Maes Hughes leans over him, gently caressing the other's hair. A faint smile graces his features, mildly disheveled.

"I don't believe you."

"I...I'll leave."

"Are you sure?" Hughes rocks against him, breathing heavy, heat coming in bursts and then receding, again and again.

"Yes."

"You'll put the uniform back on?"

"Yes."

"You'll accept other missions?"

"...Yes."

A sharp thrust, and Mustang cries out.

"Sorry...but really, you'll take on other missions?"

"With...within reason."

"Thatta boy." His hand is in his hair again, gentle and reassuring.

"I won't let them make me..."

"What's that?"

"I won't let them make me do it again -- aghh!" Mustang's fingers ball into fists against the old shirt. Hughes clenches his teeth and withdraws with a shuddering breath, collapsing against the other's back. A cloud blocks the moon and the room goes black.

-----

"I'll make sure of it, Roy. No one will make you do a thing anymore."

"Maes."

"It's what I'm here for. We all have our rough spots, right? No sense in not benefitting from them."

"Maes."

"Sorry about everything, but I'm not too worried. I'd like to think I know you pretty damn well, Roy Mustang."

"MAES."

"WHAT?"

A clenching of teeth and fist, punch thrown at the face. Lip crashing against teeth, bruise blooming and blood flooding the mouth.

"You bastard."

Maes Hughes wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins through the blood. Roy Mustang returns the smile.
 
 
Current Mood: tiredtired
Current Music: Sufjan Stevens - Chicago
 
 
 
Marajadedsilk on April 14th, 2006 02:53 am (UTC)
It sure as heck better be! Thank you. ^_^