Back Together Again: Roy/Maes fic, Chapter 4

Mar 10, 2010 17:19


TITLE: “Back Together Again”
GENRE: Yaoi/Drama
RATING: Overall Hard-R to light NC-17 (or just M, if you prefer) for violence, language, sexuality and adult concepts
WARNINGS: Violence. Grief/PTSD. Sexuality (including some borderline non-con). Angst/Darkfic. Hughesmunculus. And finally: THIS FIC MAY CONTAIN HETEROSEXUAL SEX. <-- consider yourself warned!
PAIRING(S): HUGHES/ROY!!!!! (with a dab of Hughes/Gracia and a pinch of Roy/Gracia - sorta)
SUMMARY: A still-grieving Roy Mustang is visited by a ghost made flesh - a ghost in the form of Maes Hughes! Did Roy actually succeed in bringing back his dead best friend using alchemy … or is he being haunted by a homunculus?
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Ms. Arakawa, I just take them out to play.

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ART by the lovely greenfire_mantl ! She also designed the icon. Her deviantart site is http://solusauroraborealis.deviantart.com/



Chapter Four: Pieces

And sometimes we would spend the night

Just rolling about on the floor

And I remember even though it felt soft at the time

I always used to wake up sore

-          “Catch”, Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me (the Cure)




It took a surprisingly short amount of time before Edward Elric was back to normal … as normal as possible, anyway. He still seemed a bit weak, and his movements were far from graceful (wherever he had been apparently didn’t have automail, so he had made do with some other kind of strange prosthetic). But he was still Edward, and he refused to be coddled. When he spoke he had traces of a strange accent and would occasionally mutter in a language that sounded vaguely similar to Drachman, yet was not.

Al talked to him and with him as much as he would allow, and left his side only when Ed ordered him to. Not surprisingly, they left Liore that same day. Ed was coerced into stayed in Liore’s one small hospital (converted from the Leto temple) for a grand total of four hours before he simply got up and walked out, his brother at his heels, Armstrong and Mustang following behind bearing the two suitcases like some kind of weird escort.

“I suppose that’s it, then,” Armstrong commented, shaking his head. “It was never any good telling Edward what to do.”

“I’m just glad I’m not his commanding officer anymore,” Mustang responded wryly. He wondered how the military would react when they found out (as they eventually would; even though Mustang was the soul of discretion, Edward couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five minutes) that one of their most prized possessions was back after being missing so long. He thought again of Maes and swallowed hard.

“General, it is good that he is free of the military for now,” Armstrong replied solemnly. “The gods only know where he has been all this time, but one thing is certain … it wasn’t here, or Alphonse would have found him before now.”

Alex offered to accompany them to the nearby train station, but all three travelers insisted that wasn’t necessary. “Thank you for your kindness,” Mustang said, bowing formally before they departed. Alex merely smiled and extended his hand. The two men gripped forearms for a long minute, and it seemed Mustang was going to get off easy this time. Then, inevitably, Armstrong gave in to his overtly affectionate nature and swept the smaller man up (uniform and all) into one of his signature bone-crunching bear hugs. Roy would have told Alex to put him down immediately if he could have drawn breath to do so.

Roy accompanied the Elrics west as far as New Optain. He offered to let the young men come to Central with him, but wasn’t surprised when they refused. Edward was focused on being fitted with new automail, and the quickest way to do that was through Pinako and Winry. He did not come out and say how eager he was to be home and see what amounted to his family again, but Roy read it in his voice and eyes. In his own way, Ed was as transparent as Alphonse.

After one last handshake with Edward and a hug from Alphonse (with assurance that the alchemical lock-job on Mustang’s house would be undone the moment he inserted his key - how had the boy known they wouldn’t be returning there together?), the Elrics were on their way home, waving enthusiastically from the open train window.

Hawkeye herself showed up to drive him home, which both honored and humbled him. He’d figured she would still be disgruntled over having to explain his absence. She asked what had happened. He explained as briefly as possible and had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in shock. “He’s back, sir?” she nearly stuttered. “Back for good this time, I’m sure,” Roy replied. “And on his way to Risembool for repairs.” He paused significantly. “Colonel Hawkeye, I think we should refrain from telling anyone for now. The world will know soon enough.” Riza nodded, not missing his invocation of her rank, and not mistaking his mild words for a suggestion.

For all that he was used to coming home to an empty house, and for all that he had no doubts about Al’s alchemical lockup and shielding abilities, Roy was as nervous as a saddle-horse that has just scented a wolf. Not all the assurance in the world that he was safe could make him feel that way. Not until he’d seen for himself.

Rather than heading straight for the study, which drew him like a magnet, he started at the far end of the house this time, in his own bedroom. Then the guest bedroom, the washroom, the closets, under the beds, everywhere. He was very careful, using his ears as well as his hands and eye.

He also conducted a very thorough search through everything in his bedroom, drawers to floor, for anywhere he might have placed or dropped the Ouroboros ring that he had seen pierced through his best friend’s penis.

His conclusions were the very same. Nothing looked disturbed or out of place. His sixth sense, also, honed by his years of alchemy training and further years of military training, told him that no one was in the house … although in these circumstances, he wouldn’t rely on his sixth sense by itself.

Don’t worry so much, Maes had always said, and laughed at him. You’ll be an old man before you’re thirty.

You would know, wouldn’t you, old man? Mustang would fire back.

Mustang closed his eye. How could he be gone? The most comfortable, the most natural, the most rock-solid dependable thing in his whole life? Love-obsessed, picture-happy, goofy, silly Maes … shot to death outside a phone booth? How the fuck could it have happened? No matter how many years passed, Roy knew, he would never understand. Kami-sama, he thought with the utmost bitterness. I wish you’d just tell me why. But no one can … not even you. How Roy missed him, still; how Roy thought of him, was reminded of him, every single day. They say time heals all wounds, he thought. That is so wrong. Some wounds never close, and the best you can do is cover them with bandages and try to ignore the pain.

He knew that this wasn’t the right mindset to approach the study and the evidence therein. He knew that he shouldn’t go looking through Maes’ old letters when he was feeling like this. He knew what would happen.

He knew. He just didn’t care.

The letter from … Maes … was right where he had left it, shoved hastily in with the pages of Roy’s letter. He drew it out and laid it on the writing desk. He avoided looking at it.

Then, from the upper shelves of the study’s closet, he retrieved two crates and set them aside. He toted a third, smaller crate to the writing desk, sat down, and opened it.

The top several layers in the crate were composed of old alchemy books - books that were common enough to be considered standards and whose rudiments he had mastered long ago. These books were not for pleasure reading or for learning from; they were keepsakes, pure mementos of his time as a young alchemist going through training.

The letters beneath were the same. Reminders of his younger, wilder, and more emotional existence - of two young men learning to be soldiers together. Pieces of himself, reflected back at himself by Maes Hughes.

He wanted to read all of them. But no. Even after all this time, it would be too much. Not now, Maes had whispered when Roy was about to slide in for the first time, Maes’ mouth so close and so hot, Roy so ready he thought he would come when the other boy’s lips brushed against him. Not here. He had risen to his feet and gently, fumbling a little, reassembled Roy’s clothing. Roy, still breathing hard, his body straining toward Maes with a will of its own, had whispered back: Why not? No one’s around. No one will find us.

I want us to enjoy it, Maes murmured in his ear, kissing him on the cheek. You can only do this for the first time once.

As Roy held the old letters in his hands, letters that spanned years but where in no particular order, some of them yellowed with age, some with their ink faded over time, he thought obliquely that he felt the same way now. He wanted to ravish Maes’ letters, to devour every word, to let them fill the howling void in his soul the way he had wanted Maes to devour his body. This last, last piece of his friend, this only thing he had that was touched by him, the scribbled notes and carefully crafted missives … he wanted to take it all in at once, like a starving man dreams of food.

But he didn’t have that luxury. He couldn’t wallow in the emotion. He had work to do. He had to look at the word choice, the handwriting, the placement of the words, everything. He couldn’t enjoy; he had to analyze.

Then it occurred to him that this might be a blessing.

So he did not read all the way through them, any of them. He held the most recent letter in his left hand, and shuffled through the stack with his right, weighing and measuring, comparing.

Dear Roy,

I miss you like hell and it’s hotter than the inside of your damned gloves out here. Except at night. At night, we could use a little extra fire, if you know what I mean.

When are they going to send you? Don’t misunderstand, you are truly going to hate this shithole, but I know you’re coming sooner or later. I heard the B.G. say something about sending for the alchemists if they couldn’t get a response by next week. Next week, that’s a laugh. Maybe next year …

Dear Roy,

FOR THE LAST TIME, I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS HOW MUCH THEY COST. JUST GET THE DAMNED THINGS ALREADY. Do you really think your Sensei gave you the training to figure out how to design something as brilliant as ignition cloth, not to mention the array that goes with it, only to have you rely on matches because you were too cheap to have more gloves made? Or too cheap AND lazy to make them yourself? Give me a break. All clothes get holes, you mend them or get more. It’s just what you do. Even if your family didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, the military takes care of THAT much for you so you can get the supplies you need to fight.

We can’t afford to be picky, Roy-boy. Look at it this way: the most expensive items most of us have out here is our weapons. And there’s a reason. SURVIVAL. Your gloves aren’t just clothes, they’re your guns. If given the choice, you shouldn’t go into the field with worn-out weapons when you COULD have the best. Do you know how many soldiers would give their eye-teeth for an ability like yours? I oughta just…

Dear Roy,

I heard somewhere that Ishballa was a peaceful and merciful god. Do you think someone should go tell his followers that?

Dear Roy,

Every time I think I’ve really found the limit of how much, how deeply one person can make me care, someone comes along who surprises me.

You might think I couldn’t be surprised by someone I’ve known this long. Not so. I’m learning that even if I spent every day talking to someone for the rest of my life, there is still uncharted territory. New subjects to be explored, new things to do.

Congratulations, Colonel Roy Mustang. Here’s to you and your undiscovered country within.

Hey Ol’ Sparky

Holy SHIT this is the most BORING class I have ever had to sit through. I think the instructor sprays the desks down with poppy juice after every class. At least he doesn’t have his goddamned ruler with him today. Last time he woke me up using that thing I couldn’t sleep for a week…

Salutations, Your Highness,

Meet me tomorrow night at Bucky’s. I want you to come over and help me christen my new flat, but I want to get good and drunk first. Sound like a plan?

Oh, and do NOT forget your gloves this time. They have this new whiskey I’ve been DYING to try our “fire-breathing dragon” trick with. Think we can get them to give us a couple on the house if we put on a good enough show?

Don’t wear anything too dear to you, o handsome prince. Although why I bother to tell you that, I’ll never know. You never hear ME bitching about a couple burn-holes in MY clothes. I’d think you would be used to it by now, anyway. How many sets did you go through in training? …

Dear Roy,

Let me get one thing out on the table. I understand you may be a little insecure right now, but think logically for a second, alchemist. If you’re not in my life, who the hell will be? Come the fuck on. Yes, I HAVE kin and yes they are still alive, but that doesn’t make them my only family. Who do you think my hairy ass is gonna call to come sit with me if I get put in the hospital? My brother? My mother? My grandfather was the only one with a lick of sense and he’s dead.

So you don’t want kids and I do. SO? Do you think I’m going anywhere just because of that? If I do have kids, they’re going to need a godfather, hell, an uncle even if you want them to call you that. I don’t care. The point is, I’m here for you to help you meet your goal, and you better be here for me to help me meet mine or I’m gonna throw a knife at you when you least expect it and see whether you’re fast enough to deflect it with a flame explosion. And then run like hell if it turns out you can…

Dear Roy,

Every time I see you, it gets better. Please, don’t stop next time. I assure you I can take it. Not only can I, but I want to.

Let’s do this. I can’t think of any greater honor or pleasure. It’s all I can think of whenever you’re around me, whenever you stand by my side. Sometimes those debriefings can get uncomfortable. Happens to you, too. I don’t think anyone else noticed last time, but I did…

Dear Roy,

My grandfather told me once: “If someone you really love is in trouble, you don’t stand behind them, you don’t stand by their side. You stand in front of them.”

I can tell you all day long that I support you, that I will keep close to you and push you to the top. You know that already. What you may not know is, if it ever came down to it, me or you, I’d choose you. And I’d want you to choose yourself. Without you, I really wouldn’t want to live.

So don’t take it so personally that you got passed over this time. Any one of us would do anything for you if you really needed it. In the end, that’s what you have to count on, because if you lost everything, you’d still have us. And we know if we lost everything, we’d still have you.

Plus, think about it this way: you’re still a L.C., so you haven’t lost anything. Kainan just happened to be the one picked this time around. Your time will come.

I stand beside you as a comrade, behind you as someone who is watching your back, under you as a loyal supporter. But remember: the most important part is, should you ever need it, I would stand in front of you.

I love you. Don’t be discouraged. I’ll help you take your mind off all this later this week…

Hey Flame-boy,

Next time, do you think you could light the damned fire FOR ME, maybe?

Otherwise, what good is having a fireplace … and a rug in front of it? It really spoils the mood when I almost burn my fucking fingers off and then have to put ice on them for the next half an hour. I can think of SO many other, better ways I could have used my fingers in all that time …

On and on the letters went, silly and goofy and deadly serious just like their author. The stack seemed almost endless, yet Roy knew that these would never be enough to regain what it was like to talk to Hughes face to face for even a few minutes. And he never wanted them to end, because once they did, there wouldn’t be any more … any more words to re-live, any more sweet surprises … any more pieces of paper to touch and hold … poor substitute …

His eye kept blurring with tears, but he kept on until he just couldn’t anymore. Shaking, he laid the old letters and the new letter carefully down on the desk and put his face in his hands.

Even through the newly uncovered pain, though, he was comforted by the realization that he’d gotten what he came for. The letter he’d found on his desk the night he brought Al over was not penned by him in a fit of insanity. The top layer of items in the crate he’d stored the letters in was properly dusty, with no marks of disturbance. He was not a good enough artist, or forger, to imitate Hughes’ handwriting without looking at an original … and even with an original to copy from, he still wouldn’t have done as good a job. And the words Maes had chosen, the unfakeable rhythm of his speech reflected in his writing …

It was as Roy had known all along. This letter was written by Hughes.

He’s alive, he thought. Either that, or I made love with a ghost.

Roy didn’t believe in ghosts. Which meant his friend had to be back from the dead. He tried not to consider just how insane that sounded.

The loud, clanging ring of the telephone startled him out of his reverie. He didn’t have to look at his watch to know that the hour was late, too late for most people to call. It’s gotta be Hawkeye checking in on me, he thought. She’ll want to make sure I’m coming in tomorrow. For a brief moment he was irritated, and he almost didn’t get up. Then he realized he was being silly. He’d been missed, and he was cared for; he had friends that were dear to him. He could not take those things for granted, no matter if it was in the context of work. He smiled and wiped at his tears as he got to his feet and hurried into the sitting room.

From years of habit, he answered the phone as he would at HQ. “Mustang.”

“Roy Mustang,” a feminine voice quavered on the other end. “How dare you.”

Roy blinked. This wasn’t Riza; it was - was -

“Gracia?” he said incredulously. “What can I do for you? Isn’t it a bit late …?”

“As if you had to ask,” the voice hissed. “How dare you, how dare you do something like this. I trusted you. I …” The voice broke. Mustang thought he heard the sounds of sobbing, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Gracia,” he tried again. “I don’t understand. I’ve been away these past few days. What happened?”

“You know good and well what happened,” she snapped. “I had a spare key made, and I gave it to you. It couldn’t very well have been anyone else, now could it?”

“What couldn’t have been anyone else?” Part of him wanted to scream in frustration, but he was patient. He would get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

“Oh … you … you, you little bastard. You were his best friend, how dare you do anything to … to just … drag his memory through the mud like that? He was my husband, the father of my child. How dare you.” Her voice, if possible, grew even colder. “Don’t you ever call yourself my friend again. You’re not a friend. I wonder, now, if you were ever really his.” The line went dead.

Onward to Chapter Five

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