Rusted Dawn, Pt 10
Title: Rusted Dawn
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Oh my god, I'm really sorry this took so long. This was a hellaciously difficult chapter to write; so much had to be tuned just so, and I didn't want to skimp for speed. It's also HUGE- nearly twice the length of my usual chapters- so I hope that that in part makes up for both the length of time between postings, and the awful way in which the last chapter concluded. And as usual, so, so, so many thanks go to evil_whimsey, who not only continues to give me the best commentary I can imagine, but has also been a frickin' godsend when it comes to fast turn-arounds. Above and beyond the call of duty, no lie. And she's a saint for putting up with my whining and fretting over this story.
I almost wasn't able to get this story up today. SERIOUS snowstorm hitting Buffalo right now. I also want to let you all know that the next installment may take a while. Right after the holidays I'll be moving, and while I won't stop writing every chance I get, with the packing and traveling and all it's going to seriously hink up my schedule. So I apologize in advance for that.
And you're probably a lot more interested in reading the chapter than anything else I have to say, so I'm shutting up now. ;)
previous chapters
Days since the search was called off. How many days? The Colonel can't recall, doesn't care, can't seem to move past the horrible realization that he has abandoned Edward, alive or dead. No matter that the decision was the right one, a necessary one, no matter that that collapsed cave is likely Fullmetal's tomb, it nevertheless has the ability to stop him cold in his tracks, because he did this. No matter how he twists the rationalization, that he had no choice, there was no evidence to contradict what reason suggested, he was the one who ended it. And the order burns in his soul; his own private damnation.
But there is still the situation on the mountain to be dealt with. Havoc reports that the cult members, so forthcoming in the moments following the crisis, have become fractious. Refusing his men any contact with the recently revived. The resurrected are in a period of 'readjustment,' they say, and cannot be disturbed.
Mustang grits his teeth. “Those people are the only evidence we have of the activities of the Resurrectionist, Lieutenant.” There is pain behind those words, pain that he has to ignore, because Edward died for the secrets held in the revenants, and he simply can't think about it. “I don't care who is disturbed or what you have to do to get access to the resurrected, but I want Major Armstrong to examine them. If they were truly returned from the dead...”
Don't even think about it, that is not a place you can go...
“Yes sir. And what should we do with the rest of the people?”
I don't care. I don't know. Make them bring Fullmetal back. “Disperse them. Send them back wherever they came from as soon as you have their statements. Any of them that give you trouble, put them in the local jail or under military guard for a week, and see if that doesn't settle them out.” He heaves a sigh, feeling empty and utterly spent. “None of them have done anything wrong, so just send them home.”
Of Alphonse, there continues to be no word. He has disappeared from the mountain as traceless as the wind, and no seven foot suit of antique armor should be able to vanish like that. If his heart weren't already sick and frozen, the further loss of the youngest Elric would have been devastating. As it is, Mustang has no idea how he will be able to relate the news to the Rockbells, the closest thing the young men had to kin. He spends a fruitless afternoon staring down the phone, trying to muster the resolve to place the call, but never finds the words to encompass such a catastrophe. He suspects there are none.
More long nights. Fragmented, dream-wracked sleep. An endless tunnel of guilt and recrimination, and he doesn't deserve to find the way out.
At the office, and Hawkeye is speaking to him, has been for some time he realizes. Mustang blinks, coming back from wherever his thoughts had stranded him, trying to focus on her face and words. The Lieutenant's expression is studiously impassive, but there's a hint of sympathy softening her features as she addresses him. “General Malvern is expecting your report on the skirmishes at the Cretan border in an hour.” A gentle reminder, laying a folder on his blotter.
The Colonel frowns just slightly, gaze flicking over the folder. His head is throbbing; lack of sleep has exacted a nasty toll on him, but he'll be damned before he tells her that. Passing a hand across his eyes- they ache abominably- he tries to rally this thoughts back into some coherent order. “That meeting isn't scheduled until Wednesday.”
Is that pity edging out the compassion in her eyes? “Sir, it is Wednesday.”
He rubs his face again, not even bothering to conceal his discomfort. “Then send him my apologies, and reschedule the meeting, please. I haven't the faintest idea what's been happening on the Cretan border.”
“With all due respect, sir, you cannot reschedule this meeting.” Deferential, polite, and utterly immovable. “General Malvern disapproves of you already. You cannot afford to slight him.” She taps the folder with her forefinger. “I've compiled all the information you'll need to make your report in here. If you start reading now, there should be plenty of time to prepare.”
He has no doubts that Hawkeye researched the border skirmishes on her own time, purely out of loyalty to him, and his goals. Doing her own job as well as his, and how did he ever earn such devotion from his subordinates? He thanks her graciously, flips open the folder to study its contents. She is right; there's work to be done, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to. Others who need him, who believe in his ideals, though he now finds it all hollow and pointless. It's just so hard to care anymore.
It would have been unthinkable, before, to have lost sight of his aims for even a moment. Before Edward intruded on his carefully laid plans there was nothing for the Colonel but his goals, working and scheming to place himself as high up the military chain as he was able; his own mission of reparation for the atrocities of Ishval. It had been the thing that consumed his life, the worthiest goal he could imagine, until a brilliant young man under his command cornered him with his own fears and demanded his aid. Edward had become his atonement, and with him gone only duty to his subordinates keeps Mustang returning to his office each day.
Hawkeye believes in you, he chides himself, turning himself back to the task at hand and straining to make sense of the words on the papers. Don't let her down.
Not like you let Edward down...
He stifles a curse, clenching his eyes shut against a sudden stinging.
What's the use of striving to be Fuhrer, if he's helpless to save even one man's life?
~*~*~
Breda arrives a few days later (Friday? Saturday? He thinks it must be Saturday, because the trains run later, and Hawkeye's demeanor is fractionally less strict.), coming ahead of the rest and Mustang sends Falman to meet him at the station. The mission is nearly over; the cult has been broken up, the Resurrectionist himself is assumed among the dead in the cave.
Armstrong will be bringing the revenants and their families back to Central with Havoc's team, although he concedes in his communications with the Colonel that he is uncomfortable with the revived and from his descriptions, Mustang can hardly blame him. Undeniably living, and yet seemingly unaware; they more closely resemble something from a ghost tale or horror fiction than anything recognizably human, and he dreads seeing them for himself.
When Lieutenant Breda enters the office he's bearing a stack of reports and a burden of guilt, both of which rightfully belong to the Colonel. There is also a large box, which he sets on the Colonel's desk with something approaching reverence, his sharp eyes misted with sorrow.
“I brought this back for you, sir. All of Fullmetal's belongings. I know they didn't have any family, but I thought maybe you'd want to return them to his mechanic friend. If we let the Mortuary Affairs Office handle it, they'd just toss it all in evidence, and it was the boss'...” The heavyset man pauses to clear his throat. “It just wouldn't be right, sir. He was one of us.”
He isn't ready for this. How could he ever be ready for this? There's a terrible pressure building within him as he stares at the box; such a small container for all of a man's worldly possessions, a tiny legacy for a man who was larger than life. “Thank you,” Mustang murmurs faintly, unable to speak too loud for fear his voice will splinter and tear in his throat. “I'll see to them.”
He barely notices the man salute and leave, his attention riveted on the package atop his blotter. Hawkeye materializes at his side, calm voice murmuring something about procedures and formalities, and steers him to her desk where a single form is waiting. He can't read it, his eyes have mutinied and won't focus on the words, but he fills it out, his signature barely recognizable. The Lieutenant lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, an uncharacteristic moment of commiseration, before taking the form from his slack grip and moving briskly to notarize and process it.
Breath shudders out of him, harsh and uneven His mask is slipping. He can feel it crumbling; any minute now it is going to break, and he cannot be here when it does. Pushing himself to his feet, he clears his throat, drawing Hawkeye's eyes to his.
“I'm leaving for the day,” he announces, and somehow his voice stays level as he speaks. “It will be easier to sort this out at my home. You may forward any calls there, if something arises.”
The Lieutenant pauses, assessing, then nods fractionally. “I'll call you a car, sir.”
~*~*~
Curtains drawn to block the outside world, the box sitting like a bomb on his sofa. Glass of brandy in his hand, and Mustang takes his time sipping it. The liquor is mellow and warm, top shelf, though what he truly wishes for is the fiery bite of his scotch. Harsh and unforgiving, medicinal; cauterizing his emotions, sidestepping logic. He hasn't purchased another bottle since the night he heard of the bodies, but knows he cannot face the box's contents without even a gentleman's drink like the brandy to stiffen his courage. So he drinks the liquor slowly, trying to savor it as it deserves, and dragging out the moment when he must face the things Fullmetal left behind.
Finally his glass is empty, and there can be no more delays. The snifter is set aside, and he reaches for the box lid, fingers hesitant and twitching with indecision. An instant of pause, then he lifts the top and looks inside.
Books are the first things he sees, and he almost smiles at that. Of course there would be books; neither Edward nor Alphonse were ever without one. Two of the topmost ones belong to the library, and he lays them aside to return, hoping with grim humor that they aren't overdue. A few others are newer, probably selections from bookstores, and he moves them to another stack. There's a slim, leatherbound journal, and the Colonel has to breathe deeply before pulling that out, turning it over thoughtfully in his hands. Edward's alchemical journal; he knows it without opening the cover. As personal as a diary, and far, far more precious.
He lays that carefully on the coffee table, by itself.
The battered valise that Edward and Alphonse carried with them everywhere is there, and he doesn't bother opening it. Clothing and toiletries; he'll look at it later, but it's not important now. Below it there's a glint of silver.
He draws out a silver watch by its chain, embossed dragon on its cover winking in the muted light. Fullmetal's mark of authority as a State Alchemist, and he wonders briefly why it should be in this box until he realizes that Edward knew what he was doing by leaving it behind. He encloses it in his fist, feeling the tick of the mechanism against his palm, steady as a heartbeat...
...remembers Edward's heartbeat against the flat of his hand, the heat of his body in the bed upstairs...
...that fire-gilt body, strong and needing beneath his own, spread upon the floor mere feet from where he now sits...
His eyes close tight, and he grips the watch for a long moment before laying it on the table next to Edward's journal. Mustang traces its edge with one finger in a solemn gesture, reluctant to relinquish contact with it and when he finally draws his hand back, the moment hangs there like severance.
The room feels colder as he stares at the collection on the table, wrapped in the curtained dimness. Neat little piles. The inadequate sum of Edward Elric's existence, sorted into tidy categories that could never have held him while he lived. A few books, a silver watch- none of this can possibly encompass the richness of the short years of Fullmetal's life. Mustang has to look away.
He slips his hand back into the box, fumbling toward the bottom. Something soft snags on his fingertips, and he closes his hand around it automatically, retrieving it from the depths of the container. Heavier than expected, it drags for a moment, then spills free; bright color dulled by the poor lighting, and every molecule in the room seems to wheel and then stop.
Spread across his knees: Edward's vibrant red coat. Torn and stained, crowned serpent clearly emblazoned across the back, still smelling of its owner, and the inane thought catches in the Colonel's mind, it's so cold out there. Fullmetal needs his coat, he'll be freezing.
But...
A shudder ripples up his back and Mustang buries his face in the folds of the coat, blocking out the chilly room, the meager belongings in their orderly piles. The clock ticks quietly from the other room, a makeshift heartbeat murmuring in the stillness, and all he can do is breathe against the red fabric. Crush it against his chest, rough cloth against his cheeks; machine oil and sweat. Edward...
Forgive me, Edward, I loved you, forgive me...
~*~*~
Night is creeping past the curtains and wrapping the room tighter in darkness when the Colonel repacks everything back into the box except for the library books. He carries it all to his guest room and shuts the door, carefully blocking out the reminders just as he's compartmentalized every other aching memory from his past. Sealed away, but even out of sight he can still feel them there, throbbing beneath the surface.
There is no room in the house where he does not feel those broken remnants of Edward's life pressing into him. He retires to his kitchen, tries to eat, but he cannot escape how they jostle against him, crowding against every mundane memory he has made in his home. They chase him out in the center of the backyard, shivering against the wind, but even there he recalls the brown stain of spilled tea, the coarse rub of red fabric, ripples of firelight on golden skin...
If he thinks about it too long, he's certain he will only regret what follows. The city must be big enough for him to hide from himself, and he pauses only long enough to snatch his keys and his greatcoat before storming out the front door with no clear destination in mind. Away, he thinks, simply away. I cannot think about this any longer.
He passes a few of his regular haunts without stopping, because the thought of speaking to anyone is unbearable. Anonymity is what he craves, to blend in with a faceless crowd and be subsumed by them. But each somber dive he finds himself outside holds little interest to him; he is lost and aching, but it soon comes to him that drink will hold no answers tonight. Perhaps it never has. Grimacing, he turns away.
Up one street, down another; endless motion churning his thoughts to a vacant blur. He settles into a long, steady stride, letting the movement dull the sharp edges of the emptiness that fills him. This is what he desires; not alcohol, not reflection, but oblivion. To not think, to move and keep moving, outrunning his thoughts and hoping that by the time he tires he will have driven them to exhaustion as well. Then perhaps he can sleep under the same roof as Edward's belongings.
After a couple hours of aimless wandering he finds himself at a park, seated on a bench by a frozen lake and staring with dull, grieving eyes at its rimed surface. There used to be swans here, he thinks. Huge and white, graceful, and beautiful as only wild things can be. Great, fierce birds, and what could have stirred them from their home? Where could they have flown?
He passes a shaking hand across his face. What utter foolishness, to be sitting out here at night in winter, mourning things that have moved on. Haven't you anything better to do?
Mustang lets the sigh slip loose, deflated and oh, so tired. No, I haven't. Nothing better at all. He sits a bit longer before rising, stiff from the cold, to begin the slow trudge back home.
~*~*~
His front door is unlocked.
The Colonel stands on the porch for a moment, staring with a furrowed brow at the handle. He was sure he had locked his door, although his thoughts had been elsewhere and he now cannot recall doing so. But he's never failed to secure his home before, and the lapse sends a frisson of unease down his spine.
He hesitates a moment longer before wearily conceding the possibility of misjudgment. Perhaps he did forget. It's not beyond reason; he was hardly thinking rationally when he went out. Still, he takes a moment to slide his gloves on, flexing his fingers in the abrasive material before pushing the door open and entering, because caution is a lesson that never leaves him. Letting the door close quietly at his back, he slides down the hallway with soundless stealth.
Almost instantly he knows that something is wrong. There are no lights on, but he can hear a hiss and crackle that only comes from fire, and careless as it may have been to leave his door unlocked, he would never in his most distracted moments leave a fire burning unattended. Arson, is his furious thought, and he steps into the doorway of his living room with hand poised, fingers tensed, mind already focusing on the concentrations of gases.
In the hearth, fire licks hungrily at the logs, casting a warm, cheerful glow into the darkened room and creating long shadows that reach toward the Colonel where he stands in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears. His desk is untouched, papers still stacked neatly alongside a coffee mug, and likewise the bookshelves with their rare volumes are as he left them, but as his gaze tracks across the room a shadow near the fireplace uncoils, moving, and he raises his hand higher.
Flames leap in the grate, battering against the stones, for an instant bathing the room in light, and Mustang glimpses black, gold, the shine of metal and suddenly there isn't enough air in this room to breathe. The fire all but dies, collapsing in on itself just as the Colonel's lungs are contracting into useless clenched fists in his chest, and for a moment all he can think is- no. Don't taunt me, anything but this, it's not possible...
The ghost, the illusion rises shakily to its feet, and a rasping voice cuts through the silence of the room.
“Sorry for breaking in, but I was cold.”
...impossible, what kind of sick joke...
Yet the specter remains, familiar as a recurrent dream, tantalizingly close and something isn't right but Mustang is almost willing to ignore that if only it means he can believe...
Stars flash in his vision. Breathe. And again.
“I have your coat,” he finally chokes, and stumbles into the room.
Silhouetted before the fireplace; Edward, real and blessedly alive. Edward, who stares at him with large, wary eyes, watching the Colonel fumble for a seat on the sofa before sitting also, at the other end. Fullmetal moves tentatively, almost as though he's afraid to commit to any motion, and unease flickers through Mustang at the uncharacteristic diffidence. As much as he wants to reach out, throw himself on the young man and reassure himself that this is not just a cruel delusion, instinct warns him back. Observe, it whispers, and be cautious.
Gold eyes flicker his way, and the Colonel takes in how metal fingers curl against the sofa's cushioned arm, tracing shapes against the fabric. He sees the way Edward hunches forward in his seat as though he's in pain, or attempting to protect himself against an impending blow and Mustang wishes for nothing more than the ability to erase that defensive posture. You've never been so fearful before. You should should never have to be afraid in my home.
Aware of Fullmetal's cautious gaze upon him, the Colonel tries to remember how to speak, throat filled with gravel. “I- we thought you were dead. What happened? Where were you?”
Edward simply blinks at him, as though he doesn't understand the question.
Now that he's able to look at him objectively, the Colonel realizes that Fullmetal's appearance is appalling. He's battered, though that's almost his status quo; constantly beaten by his work, and he's never been careful with himself. Dirty blond hair is pulled back in a high pony tail, and there's a jagged gash healing on his forehead, the skin around it showing the faint olive yellow tones of a fading bruise. But that contusion and the deep purple crescents beneath his eyes are the only color left in a face pale as sand. Every vestige of softness or youth has been scoured away, leaving behind sharp angles that catch the light in harsh relief and make him appear indescribably old and tired.
“Edward,” he repeats, quietly but with urgency, “where have you been?”
The young man's head dips, bangs falling forward to shutter his face, and for a moment the Colonel thinks Fullmetal is avoiding the question. But to his surprise Edward begins trembling, arms circling himself and clutching at his sides as though to keep himself intact.
“I fucked up.” His voice cracks in deep, shuddering gasps from behind the curtain of hair. “I fucked up, I fucked it up, I didn't mean to, didn't...” Heavy breaths, as though he's been running, and Edward makes a strange choking sound. “It's my fault, all my fault, I fucked up again...”
The Colonel has seen Fullmetal riding the rough edge of a faultline down his soul, dancing unerringly on the lip, unafraid and still strong. He's seen him clutching the shards of his psyche so tight that his palms should have bled, and still he could summon that razorwire grin, sharp enough to pierce right through the Colonel's every defense. Edward has made an art of hanging grimly onto every piece of himself, no matter how often it is blown apart, with a determination so powerful that it's frightening.
This isn't that man.
This man huddles in on himself, shaking until his automail rattles, and with dreadful certainty Mustang knows that this time he's not holding anything together. The young man who never shows weakness, never allows himself the luxury of indulging any emotion but anger... Edward isn't breaking, he's broken, and the pieces will be irretrievably lost if they can't be reassembled quickly.
“I killed them,” A desolate whisper, barely audible. “They're dead, and it's my fault, I didn't mean to. Fucked up, didn't mean to, I swear...” The agonized litany mumbles itself into silence, and Mustang's heart shrinks inside him. Oh god.
“Edward.” One hand reaches out, stroking the bowed neck underneath the fall of hair, and although Fullmetal shivers at the touch, he doesn't move. His skin is almost feverish hot beneath the Colonel's fingers, and Mustang murmurs his name over and over, a soothing mantra.
Something inside the automail gives an unhealthy whine as Edward lifts his hand, pressing his face into the metal palm. “Jus' wanted to keep him safe. That's all. Didn't want anybody else hurt, and I fucked it up. I...” swallows hard, Mustang can feel it through his fingertips, “... I ended up killing them. Both of them.”
Edward's grief spears through Mustang as though it were his own; cries of children, infernos melting sand to glass and the thought drifts hopelessly through him, I wanted to spare you this. I never wanted you to have blood on your hands. “Benny?” the Colonel asks gently, and Fullmetal's head jerks in a nod.
“Dropped the fucking ceiling on him,” he replies with barely any voice at all. “Couldn't think, it all happened so fast, and oh fuck, I fucked up...”
His own breath is coming in shudders now. “But you're still alive, Edward.”
Fullmetal's entire body seems to seize under his hand. “Death got the wrong one again,” he rasps.
“Don't even... don't say such a thing!” I thought you were dead, you don't know what I was willing to give to keep you from being lost, don't you dare think I'll let you go again...
Edward finally lifts his head, yellow gaze full of sharp edges. “I killed that alchemist,” he states, every word coming out clipped and ice-edged. “I killed some poor kid who never did anything wrong but hang around me. I'm a fucking murderer, Mustang. The one thing I didn't ever wanna do, and now...” his face crumbling, those brilliant, beautiful eyes cracking and spilling out his soul for anyone to see, “now I'm the same as the rest of them. Just another killer.”
“You're nothing like them.” Mustang cups Edward's jaw, forcing the younger man to face him as he tries to look away. “What happened down there was an accident. You're no murderer.”
“Then what am I?” Edward asks, voice thin and fractured and so vulnerable.
“Human,” he answers, thumbs brushing Edward's cheeks. “Fallible,” whispered against eyelids fluttering closed. “Forgivable.”
And Mustang kisses him.
His mouth moves gently over warm lips, slack with shock, and even though he knows he's crossed a line, Mustang can't wish to take it back. Weeks of interminable waiting, not knowing Fullmetal's fate, all the fearful hoping and imaginings... Edward can rage, shove or even strike him, but the Colonel will never regret this. Breathing Edward's breaths, tasting him, his body real and alive and so close.
But Edward doesn't push him away. He makes a soft, startled sound against the Mustang's mouth, his body stiffening for a moment. Then mismatched hands are twisted in the Colonel's uniform, tugging him closer, demanding. Edward kisses him back without finesse, all greedy, unschooled desperation and it is the single most perfect moment that Mustang has ever known even as he recognizes the hunger driving his companion.
Self-loathing. Disbelief. A desperate, intangible need that will never be filled; searing by day, the cold mistress he takes to bed every night. Inescapable.
“Roy... “ Pity and compassion in the bespectacled gaze, and he could just break from that look alone...
His fingers are threading through the bright fall of hair, Edward's lips yielding with an almost disturbing degree of submission before the gentle invasion of his tongue. Mustang deepens the kiss, letting one hand trail down the curve of Edward's back until it rests with fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband of those leather pants. In response the young man arches against him, breaking away from the kiss only long enough to pant brokenly please, please, and there's no need to ask what for.
Carefully disentangling himself from grasping hands, the Colonel drops his head to nuzzle at the curve of Edward's neck. “Come with me,” he murmurs, planting a line of kisses along the hard ridge of collarbone before rising. Wide gold eyes stare at him in hazy confusion for a moment and then Edward also stands, taking the outstretched hand offered to him. His steps are uneven, limping, and Mustang almost regrets asking him to tackle the stairs, but Edward deserves better than the floor. He lets the younger man ascend the steps before him, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed to the back of his neck, assisting and caressing all at once.
Hallway, bedroom, and Edward sprawls sideways across the mattress as though it's his own personal territory, and Mustang thinks that if it wasn't before, it is now. He dips his head, takes another kiss from those accommodating lips before focusing on removing the young man's clunky boots, the intricate belt. Straddles his thighs, teeth and tongue ravaging Edward's neck while his hands push back the black jacket, slide under the shirt below. Skin against his palm, heart racing beneath his fingertips, and Mustang has never wanted anyone more.
Shirt off, tight pants peeled away. Edward, naked on the bed, while Mustang curls alongside him fully clothed, touching, stroking, kissing. He takes his time worshiping Edward's battered body; tongue painting graceful arcs across the taut, quivering stomach, hands conducting pilgrimages across the broad chest.
He's fucked Fullmetal before, but never taken the time to explore his body; teasing a nipple to firmness between his lips or tracing the delicate whorl of an ear. Never followed the line of each pale scar with his lips, never sucked gently on Edward's fingertips until he moans with desire. But tonight he does; as carefully and thoroughly as he is able Mustang reaffirms Fullmetal's worth, his humanity, and thanks every deity ever conceived for this second chance to make things right.
No one has ever made love to Edward Elric. But he means to correct that mistake.
Mustang reluctantly separates himself from Fullmetal's body in order to begin shedding his own clothing, making quick work of his jacket and shirt, fumbling with his belt and pants in his eagerness. All the while Edward watches him with distant, soft eyes, uncharacteristically quiet and every barrier down. Splayed and pale against dark blue blankets, and Mustang thinks he can still see every jigsawed fracture set into the young man's soul by this latest mission.
“You can't- you can't touch me. Not after what I did. Women and children- oh god, what have I done?...”
Maes looks at him, eyebrow cocked, and then pulls him into an embrace anyway...
He doesn't keep lube, but there is lotion on the bedside table. Fingers slicked, lips pressed to the concavity of hip, and Edward gasps and arches at the first tentative touch. “F-fuck,” he whispers, ragged-voiced in the silence of the room. “Please, Mustang, please jus'...”
Press and pull, and he only hesitates a moment before lowering his head and taking Edward awkwardly into his mouth, uncertain. The young man stifles a curse, back bowing upward and Mustang has to struggle to keep from gagging at the intrusion. But he's determined, holding out until the reflex fades before relaxing his mouth and sliding down further, sucking his way back up.
It's the first time he's ever done this and Mustang is fairly certain he's doing a poor job of it, but Edward shifts and moans in hedonistic abandon, blankets fisted in his hands. A second finger slips in after the first; Mustang runs his tongue around the flaring head, and Edward howls and thrusts and comes hard enough to make the Colonel's own erection pulse even as he chokes against the flood in his mouth.
He takes a moment to collect himself as Edward pants through the tremors of his orgasm, before moving to his knees and squeezing out more lotion. He can't quite contain a moan as he touches himself, his body keyed to intolerable tension and screaming for Edward. As if in response those fierce gold eyes open to him, glowing catlike in a face relaxed but still filled with need. Whines and clicks, as an automail hand extends toward him. “Fuck me,” Edward murmurs, invitation and demand mingling in the words. “Please.”
They come together slowly, Mustang sinking into him with deliberation while heels drum at his back, urging him on. Lower lip clenched between his teeth, Edward thrums with impatience, muttering, “Fuck me, fuck me, more, c'mon...” but the Colonel will not be rushed. In, in, in, and settle there, holding still and just feeling the clench of muscles around him, the heartbeat rattling against his chest, the heat rising from Edward's body. This is completion, redemption; it is the closest to grace that Mustang has ever come, and he sends up a prayer to whatever may be listening that Edward is finding a similar solace.
Slowly, carefully, he begins to move. A groan rattles up from the depths of Edward's throat, and he hooks his legs tight around the Colonel's waist. “Fuck me!” he growls, arching. Hands claw at the flesh above, frantic. “Shit- please! I need-!”
Mustang silences him with another kiss, relishing the enthusiastic response. But his pace doesn't change; deep strokes, nothing like the violent thrusts that Edward wants.
“I don't deserve...”
Large, warm hands on his cheeks. Maes regards him with sad affection. “Roy. You're more than just the sum of your sins.”
“I won't hurt you,” he finally breathes, lips brushing over cheekbone, temple. “You've been hurt enough, and I won't give you any more pain.” He lifts Edward's hips, presses in deep until his lover spasms and cries out. Bruising fingers dig into his shoulders, and Mustang smiles. “But I'll make it go away.”
He plunges forward, on knees and elbows, hands tangling in gold-blond hair, cock stroking repeatedly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Kissing has become impossible; Edward is gasping open-mouthed whines at the ceiling as Mustang rocks into him, gentle and unhurried. “It's not about punishment,” he murmurs. “It's not meant to hurt. It's meant to be good,” press and gasp and there, “and I want to be good to you, Edward.”
The other man makes an odd sound, a harsh whimper that flutters in his throat. Mustang just presses kisses along his neck, groaning a bit as he feels the tremors rippling through the body beneath him. He can feel his own climax building as Edward begins to move with him, finding the rhythm, matching the pace and meeting every thrust. For a few incalculable moments they are as one, sharing pleasure so intense they can barely breathe, and then Edward bucks against the Colonel, crying out as he spills between them. Mustang only manages a couple more strokes before he too is caught in the throes of orgasm, trembling in the mismatched arms wrapped around him.
They're both sweaty and messy, but Mustang finds he has no desire to pull away. Instead he shifts slightly so that he can plant lazy kisses along Edward's shoulder. He's never felt such contentment before, smiles against the scarred junction of skin and metal, and the young man makes that strange, guttural noise again.
“Edward?” He lifts his head, and is momentarily horrified by the painful grimace on his companion's face. Gold eyes roll and he makes that terrible sound once more, and with a shock Mustang realizes that Edward is weeping, face tearless and dry. The small body beneath him begins to shiver as grief consumes him, and the Colonel pulls the young man tight against his chest, cradling him in the protective circle of his arms.
“It will be alright,” he soothes, as Edward is wracked by his empty sobs, face buried in the Colonel's shoulder. Mustang presses his cheek to the top of that bright head, chest aching as he shares his companion's mourning. “It's going to be alright now.”
next chapter
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Oh my god, I'm really sorry this took so long. This was a hellaciously difficult chapter to write; so much had to be tuned just so, and I didn't want to skimp for speed. It's also HUGE- nearly twice the length of my usual chapters- so I hope that that in part makes up for both the length of time between postings, and the awful way in which the last chapter concluded. And as usual, so, so, so many thanks go to evil_whimsey, who not only continues to give me the best commentary I can imagine, but has also been a frickin' godsend when it comes to fast turn-arounds. Above and beyond the call of duty, no lie. And she's a saint for putting up with my whining and fretting over this story.
I almost wasn't able to get this story up today. SERIOUS snowstorm hitting Buffalo right now. I also want to let you all know that the next installment may take a while. Right after the holidays I'll be moving, and while I won't stop writing every chance I get, with the packing and traveling and all it's going to seriously hink up my schedule. So I apologize in advance for that.
And you're probably a lot more interested in reading the chapter than anything else I have to say, so I'm shutting up now. ;)
previous chapters
Days since the search was called off. How many days? The Colonel can't recall, doesn't care, can't seem to move past the horrible realization that he has abandoned Edward, alive or dead. No matter that the decision was the right one, a necessary one, no matter that that collapsed cave is likely Fullmetal's tomb, it nevertheless has the ability to stop him cold in his tracks, because he did this. No matter how he twists the rationalization, that he had no choice, there was no evidence to contradict what reason suggested, he was the one who ended it. And the order burns in his soul; his own private damnation.
But there is still the situation on the mountain to be dealt with. Havoc reports that the cult members, so forthcoming in the moments following the crisis, have become fractious. Refusing his men any contact with the recently revived. The resurrected are in a period of 'readjustment,' they say, and cannot be disturbed.
Mustang grits his teeth. “Those people are the only evidence we have of the activities of the Resurrectionist, Lieutenant.” There is pain behind those words, pain that he has to ignore, because Edward died for the secrets held in the revenants, and he simply can't think about it. “I don't care who is disturbed or what you have to do to get access to the resurrected, but I want Major Armstrong to examine them. If they were truly returned from the dead...”
Don't even think about it, that is not a place you can go...
“Yes sir. And what should we do with the rest of the people?”
I don't care. I don't know. Make them bring Fullmetal back. “Disperse them. Send them back wherever they came from as soon as you have their statements. Any of them that give you trouble, put them in the local jail or under military guard for a week, and see if that doesn't settle them out.” He heaves a sigh, feeling empty and utterly spent. “None of them have done anything wrong, so just send them home.”
Of Alphonse, there continues to be no word. He has disappeared from the mountain as traceless as the wind, and no seven foot suit of antique armor should be able to vanish like that. If his heart weren't already sick and frozen, the further loss of the youngest Elric would have been devastating. As it is, Mustang has no idea how he will be able to relate the news to the Rockbells, the closest thing the young men had to kin. He spends a fruitless afternoon staring down the phone, trying to muster the resolve to place the call, but never finds the words to encompass such a catastrophe. He suspects there are none.
More long nights. Fragmented, dream-wracked sleep. An endless tunnel of guilt and recrimination, and he doesn't deserve to find the way out.
At the office, and Hawkeye is speaking to him, has been for some time he realizes. Mustang blinks, coming back from wherever his thoughts had stranded him, trying to focus on her face and words. The Lieutenant's expression is studiously impassive, but there's a hint of sympathy softening her features as she addresses him. “General Malvern is expecting your report on the skirmishes at the Cretan border in an hour.” A gentle reminder, laying a folder on his blotter.
The Colonel frowns just slightly, gaze flicking over the folder. His head is throbbing; lack of sleep has exacted a nasty toll on him, but he'll be damned before he tells her that. Passing a hand across his eyes- they ache abominably- he tries to rally this thoughts back into some coherent order. “That meeting isn't scheduled until Wednesday.”
Is that pity edging out the compassion in her eyes? “Sir, it is Wednesday.”
He rubs his face again, not even bothering to conceal his discomfort. “Then send him my apologies, and reschedule the meeting, please. I haven't the faintest idea what's been happening on the Cretan border.”
“With all due respect, sir, you cannot reschedule this meeting.” Deferential, polite, and utterly immovable. “General Malvern disapproves of you already. You cannot afford to slight him.” She taps the folder with her forefinger. “I've compiled all the information you'll need to make your report in here. If you start reading now, there should be plenty of time to prepare.”
He has no doubts that Hawkeye researched the border skirmishes on her own time, purely out of loyalty to him, and his goals. Doing her own job as well as his, and how did he ever earn such devotion from his subordinates? He thanks her graciously, flips open the folder to study its contents. She is right; there's work to be done, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to. Others who need him, who believe in his ideals, though he now finds it all hollow and pointless. It's just so hard to care anymore.
It would have been unthinkable, before, to have lost sight of his aims for even a moment. Before Edward intruded on his carefully laid plans there was nothing for the Colonel but his goals, working and scheming to place himself as high up the military chain as he was able; his own mission of reparation for the atrocities of Ishval. It had been the thing that consumed his life, the worthiest goal he could imagine, until a brilliant young man under his command cornered him with his own fears and demanded his aid. Edward had become his atonement, and with him gone only duty to his subordinates keeps Mustang returning to his office each day.
Hawkeye believes in you, he chides himself, turning himself back to the task at hand and straining to make sense of the words on the papers. Don't let her down.
Not like you let Edward down...
He stifles a curse, clenching his eyes shut against a sudden stinging.
What's the use of striving to be Fuhrer, if he's helpless to save even one man's life?
~*~*~
Breda arrives a few days later (Friday? Saturday? He thinks it must be Saturday, because the trains run later, and Hawkeye's demeanor is fractionally less strict.), coming ahead of the rest and Mustang sends Falman to meet him at the station. The mission is nearly over; the cult has been broken up, the Resurrectionist himself is assumed among the dead in the cave.
Armstrong will be bringing the revenants and their families back to Central with Havoc's team, although he concedes in his communications with the Colonel that he is uncomfortable with the revived and from his descriptions, Mustang can hardly blame him. Undeniably living, and yet seemingly unaware; they more closely resemble something from a ghost tale or horror fiction than anything recognizably human, and he dreads seeing them for himself.
When Lieutenant Breda enters the office he's bearing a stack of reports and a burden of guilt, both of which rightfully belong to the Colonel. There is also a large box, which he sets on the Colonel's desk with something approaching reverence, his sharp eyes misted with sorrow.
“I brought this back for you, sir. All of Fullmetal's belongings. I know they didn't have any family, but I thought maybe you'd want to return them to his mechanic friend. If we let the Mortuary Affairs Office handle it, they'd just toss it all in evidence, and it was the boss'...” The heavyset man pauses to clear his throat. “It just wouldn't be right, sir. He was one of us.”
He isn't ready for this. How could he ever be ready for this? There's a terrible pressure building within him as he stares at the box; such a small container for all of a man's worldly possessions, a tiny legacy for a man who was larger than life. “Thank you,” Mustang murmurs faintly, unable to speak too loud for fear his voice will splinter and tear in his throat. “I'll see to them.”
He barely notices the man salute and leave, his attention riveted on the package atop his blotter. Hawkeye materializes at his side, calm voice murmuring something about procedures and formalities, and steers him to her desk where a single form is waiting. He can't read it, his eyes have mutinied and won't focus on the words, but he fills it out, his signature barely recognizable. The Lieutenant lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, an uncharacteristic moment of commiseration, before taking the form from his slack grip and moving briskly to notarize and process it.
Breath shudders out of him, harsh and uneven His mask is slipping. He can feel it crumbling; any minute now it is going to break, and he cannot be here when it does. Pushing himself to his feet, he clears his throat, drawing Hawkeye's eyes to his.
“I'm leaving for the day,” he announces, and somehow his voice stays level as he speaks. “It will be easier to sort this out at my home. You may forward any calls there, if something arises.”
The Lieutenant pauses, assessing, then nods fractionally. “I'll call you a car, sir.”
~*~*~
Curtains drawn to block the outside world, the box sitting like a bomb on his sofa. Glass of brandy in his hand, and Mustang takes his time sipping it. The liquor is mellow and warm, top shelf, though what he truly wishes for is the fiery bite of his scotch. Harsh and unforgiving, medicinal; cauterizing his emotions, sidestepping logic. He hasn't purchased another bottle since the night he heard of the bodies, but knows he cannot face the box's contents without even a gentleman's drink like the brandy to stiffen his courage. So he drinks the liquor slowly, trying to savor it as it deserves, and dragging out the moment when he must face the things Fullmetal left behind.
Finally his glass is empty, and there can be no more delays. The snifter is set aside, and he reaches for the box lid, fingers hesitant and twitching with indecision. An instant of pause, then he lifts the top and looks inside.
Books are the first things he sees, and he almost smiles at that. Of course there would be books; neither Edward nor Alphonse were ever without one. Two of the topmost ones belong to the library, and he lays them aside to return, hoping with grim humor that they aren't overdue. A few others are newer, probably selections from bookstores, and he moves them to another stack. There's a slim, leatherbound journal, and the Colonel has to breathe deeply before pulling that out, turning it over thoughtfully in his hands. Edward's alchemical journal; he knows it without opening the cover. As personal as a diary, and far, far more precious.
He lays that carefully on the coffee table, by itself.
The battered valise that Edward and Alphonse carried with them everywhere is there, and he doesn't bother opening it. Clothing and toiletries; he'll look at it later, but it's not important now. Below it there's a glint of silver.
He draws out a silver watch by its chain, embossed dragon on its cover winking in the muted light. Fullmetal's mark of authority as a State Alchemist, and he wonders briefly why it should be in this box until he realizes that Edward knew what he was doing by leaving it behind. He encloses it in his fist, feeling the tick of the mechanism against his palm, steady as a heartbeat...
...remembers Edward's heartbeat against the flat of his hand, the heat of his body in the bed upstairs...
...that fire-gilt body, strong and needing beneath his own, spread upon the floor mere feet from where he now sits...
His eyes close tight, and he grips the watch for a long moment before laying it on the table next to Edward's journal. Mustang traces its edge with one finger in a solemn gesture, reluctant to relinquish contact with it and when he finally draws his hand back, the moment hangs there like severance.
The room feels colder as he stares at the collection on the table, wrapped in the curtained dimness. Neat little piles. The inadequate sum of Edward Elric's existence, sorted into tidy categories that could never have held him while he lived. A few books, a silver watch- none of this can possibly encompass the richness of the short years of Fullmetal's life. Mustang has to look away.
He slips his hand back into the box, fumbling toward the bottom. Something soft snags on his fingertips, and he closes his hand around it automatically, retrieving it from the depths of the container. Heavier than expected, it drags for a moment, then spills free; bright color dulled by the poor lighting, and every molecule in the room seems to wheel and then stop.
Spread across his knees: Edward's vibrant red coat. Torn and stained, crowned serpent clearly emblazoned across the back, still smelling of its owner, and the inane thought catches in the Colonel's mind, it's so cold out there. Fullmetal needs his coat, he'll be freezing.
But...
A shudder ripples up his back and Mustang buries his face in the folds of the coat, blocking out the chilly room, the meager belongings in their orderly piles. The clock ticks quietly from the other room, a makeshift heartbeat murmuring in the stillness, and all he can do is breathe against the red fabric. Crush it against his chest, rough cloth against his cheeks; machine oil and sweat. Edward...
Forgive me, Edward, I loved you, forgive me...
~*~*~
Night is creeping past the curtains and wrapping the room tighter in darkness when the Colonel repacks everything back into the box except for the library books. He carries it all to his guest room and shuts the door, carefully blocking out the reminders just as he's compartmentalized every other aching memory from his past. Sealed away, but even out of sight he can still feel them there, throbbing beneath the surface.
There is no room in the house where he does not feel those broken remnants of Edward's life pressing into him. He retires to his kitchen, tries to eat, but he cannot escape how they jostle against him, crowding against every mundane memory he has made in his home. They chase him out in the center of the backyard, shivering against the wind, but even there he recalls the brown stain of spilled tea, the coarse rub of red fabric, ripples of firelight on golden skin...
If he thinks about it too long, he's certain he will only regret what follows. The city must be big enough for him to hide from himself, and he pauses only long enough to snatch his keys and his greatcoat before storming out the front door with no clear destination in mind. Away, he thinks, simply away. I cannot think about this any longer.
He passes a few of his regular haunts without stopping, because the thought of speaking to anyone is unbearable. Anonymity is what he craves, to blend in with a faceless crowd and be subsumed by them. But each somber dive he finds himself outside holds little interest to him; he is lost and aching, but it soon comes to him that drink will hold no answers tonight. Perhaps it never has. Grimacing, he turns away.
Up one street, down another; endless motion churning his thoughts to a vacant blur. He settles into a long, steady stride, letting the movement dull the sharp edges of the emptiness that fills him. This is what he desires; not alcohol, not reflection, but oblivion. To not think, to move and keep moving, outrunning his thoughts and hoping that by the time he tires he will have driven them to exhaustion as well. Then perhaps he can sleep under the same roof as Edward's belongings.
After a couple hours of aimless wandering he finds himself at a park, seated on a bench by a frozen lake and staring with dull, grieving eyes at its rimed surface. There used to be swans here, he thinks. Huge and white, graceful, and beautiful as only wild things can be. Great, fierce birds, and what could have stirred them from their home? Where could they have flown?
He passes a shaking hand across his face. What utter foolishness, to be sitting out here at night in winter, mourning things that have moved on. Haven't you anything better to do?
Mustang lets the sigh slip loose, deflated and oh, so tired. No, I haven't. Nothing better at all. He sits a bit longer before rising, stiff from the cold, to begin the slow trudge back home.
~*~*~
His front door is unlocked.
The Colonel stands on the porch for a moment, staring with a furrowed brow at the handle. He was sure he had locked his door, although his thoughts had been elsewhere and he now cannot recall doing so. But he's never failed to secure his home before, and the lapse sends a frisson of unease down his spine.
He hesitates a moment longer before wearily conceding the possibility of misjudgment. Perhaps he did forget. It's not beyond reason; he was hardly thinking rationally when he went out. Still, he takes a moment to slide his gloves on, flexing his fingers in the abrasive material before pushing the door open and entering, because caution is a lesson that never leaves him. Letting the door close quietly at his back, he slides down the hallway with soundless stealth.
Almost instantly he knows that something is wrong. There are no lights on, but he can hear a hiss and crackle that only comes from fire, and careless as it may have been to leave his door unlocked, he would never in his most distracted moments leave a fire burning unattended. Arson, is his furious thought, and he steps into the doorway of his living room with hand poised, fingers tensed, mind already focusing on the concentrations of gases.
In the hearth, fire licks hungrily at the logs, casting a warm, cheerful glow into the darkened room and creating long shadows that reach toward the Colonel where he stands in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears. His desk is untouched, papers still stacked neatly alongside a coffee mug, and likewise the bookshelves with their rare volumes are as he left them, but as his gaze tracks across the room a shadow near the fireplace uncoils, moving, and he raises his hand higher.
Flames leap in the grate, battering against the stones, for an instant bathing the room in light, and Mustang glimpses black, gold, the shine of metal and suddenly there isn't enough air in this room to breathe. The fire all but dies, collapsing in on itself just as the Colonel's lungs are contracting into useless clenched fists in his chest, and for a moment all he can think is- no. Don't taunt me, anything but this, it's not possible...
The ghost, the illusion rises shakily to its feet, and a rasping voice cuts through the silence of the room.
“Sorry for breaking in, but I was cold.”
...impossible, what kind of sick joke...
Yet the specter remains, familiar as a recurrent dream, tantalizingly close and something isn't right but Mustang is almost willing to ignore that if only it means he can believe...
Stars flash in his vision. Breathe. And again.
“I have your coat,” he finally chokes, and stumbles into the room.
Silhouetted before the fireplace; Edward, real and blessedly alive. Edward, who stares at him with large, wary eyes, watching the Colonel fumble for a seat on the sofa before sitting also, at the other end. Fullmetal moves tentatively, almost as though he's afraid to commit to any motion, and unease flickers through Mustang at the uncharacteristic diffidence. As much as he wants to reach out, throw himself on the young man and reassure himself that this is not just a cruel delusion, instinct warns him back. Observe, it whispers, and be cautious.
Gold eyes flicker his way, and the Colonel takes in how metal fingers curl against the sofa's cushioned arm, tracing shapes against the fabric. He sees the way Edward hunches forward in his seat as though he's in pain, or attempting to protect himself against an impending blow and Mustang wishes for nothing more than the ability to erase that defensive posture. You've never been so fearful before. You should should never have to be afraid in my home.
Aware of Fullmetal's cautious gaze upon him, the Colonel tries to remember how to speak, throat filled with gravel. “I- we thought you were dead. What happened? Where were you?”
Edward simply blinks at him, as though he doesn't understand the question.
Now that he's able to look at him objectively, the Colonel realizes that Fullmetal's appearance is appalling. He's battered, though that's almost his status quo; constantly beaten by his work, and he's never been careful with himself. Dirty blond hair is pulled back in a high pony tail, and there's a jagged gash healing on his forehead, the skin around it showing the faint olive yellow tones of a fading bruise. But that contusion and the deep purple crescents beneath his eyes are the only color left in a face pale as sand. Every vestige of softness or youth has been scoured away, leaving behind sharp angles that catch the light in harsh relief and make him appear indescribably old and tired.
“Edward,” he repeats, quietly but with urgency, “where have you been?”
The young man's head dips, bangs falling forward to shutter his face, and for a moment the Colonel thinks Fullmetal is avoiding the question. But to his surprise Edward begins trembling, arms circling himself and clutching at his sides as though to keep himself intact.
“I fucked up.” His voice cracks in deep, shuddering gasps from behind the curtain of hair. “I fucked up, I fucked it up, I didn't mean to, didn't...” Heavy breaths, as though he's been running, and Edward makes a strange choking sound. “It's my fault, all my fault, I fucked up again...”
The Colonel has seen Fullmetal riding the rough edge of a faultline down his soul, dancing unerringly on the lip, unafraid and still strong. He's seen him clutching the shards of his psyche so tight that his palms should have bled, and still he could summon that razorwire grin, sharp enough to pierce right through the Colonel's every defense. Edward has made an art of hanging grimly onto every piece of himself, no matter how often it is blown apart, with a determination so powerful that it's frightening.
This isn't that man.
This man huddles in on himself, shaking until his automail rattles, and with dreadful certainty Mustang knows that this time he's not holding anything together. The young man who never shows weakness, never allows himself the luxury of indulging any emotion but anger... Edward isn't breaking, he's broken, and the pieces will be irretrievably lost if they can't be reassembled quickly.
“I killed them,” A desolate whisper, barely audible. “They're dead, and it's my fault, I didn't mean to. Fucked up, didn't mean to, I swear...” The agonized litany mumbles itself into silence, and Mustang's heart shrinks inside him. Oh god.
“Edward.” One hand reaches out, stroking the bowed neck underneath the fall of hair, and although Fullmetal shivers at the touch, he doesn't move. His skin is almost feverish hot beneath the Colonel's fingers, and Mustang murmurs his name over and over, a soothing mantra.
Something inside the automail gives an unhealthy whine as Edward lifts his hand, pressing his face into the metal palm. “Jus' wanted to keep him safe. That's all. Didn't want anybody else hurt, and I fucked it up. I...” swallows hard, Mustang can feel it through his fingertips, “... I ended up killing them. Both of them.”
Edward's grief spears through Mustang as though it were his own; cries of children, infernos melting sand to glass and the thought drifts hopelessly through him, I wanted to spare you this. I never wanted you to have blood on your hands. “Benny?” the Colonel asks gently, and Fullmetal's head jerks in a nod.
“Dropped the fucking ceiling on him,” he replies with barely any voice at all. “Couldn't think, it all happened so fast, and oh fuck, I fucked up...”
His own breath is coming in shudders now. “But you're still alive, Edward.”
Fullmetal's entire body seems to seize under his hand. “Death got the wrong one again,” he rasps.
“Don't even... don't say such a thing!” I thought you were dead, you don't know what I was willing to give to keep you from being lost, don't you dare think I'll let you go again...
Edward finally lifts his head, yellow gaze full of sharp edges. “I killed that alchemist,” he states, every word coming out clipped and ice-edged. “I killed some poor kid who never did anything wrong but hang around me. I'm a fucking murderer, Mustang. The one thing I didn't ever wanna do, and now...” his face crumbling, those brilliant, beautiful eyes cracking and spilling out his soul for anyone to see, “now I'm the same as the rest of them. Just another killer.”
“You're nothing like them.” Mustang cups Edward's jaw, forcing the younger man to face him as he tries to look away. “What happened down there was an accident. You're no murderer.”
“Then what am I?” Edward asks, voice thin and fractured and so vulnerable.
“Human,” he answers, thumbs brushing Edward's cheeks. “Fallible,” whispered against eyelids fluttering closed. “Forgivable.”
And Mustang kisses him.
His mouth moves gently over warm lips, slack with shock, and even though he knows he's crossed a line, Mustang can't wish to take it back. Weeks of interminable waiting, not knowing Fullmetal's fate, all the fearful hoping and imaginings... Edward can rage, shove or even strike him, but the Colonel will never regret this. Breathing Edward's breaths, tasting him, his body real and alive and so close.
But Edward doesn't push him away. He makes a soft, startled sound against the Mustang's mouth, his body stiffening for a moment. Then mismatched hands are twisted in the Colonel's uniform, tugging him closer, demanding. Edward kisses him back without finesse, all greedy, unschooled desperation and it is the single most perfect moment that Mustang has ever known even as he recognizes the hunger driving his companion.
Self-loathing. Disbelief. A desperate, intangible need that will never be filled; searing by day, the cold mistress he takes to bed every night. Inescapable.
“Roy... “ Pity and compassion in the bespectacled gaze, and he could just break from that look alone...
His fingers are threading through the bright fall of hair, Edward's lips yielding with an almost disturbing degree of submission before the gentle invasion of his tongue. Mustang deepens the kiss, letting one hand trail down the curve of Edward's back until it rests with fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband of those leather pants. In response the young man arches against him, breaking away from the kiss only long enough to pant brokenly please, please, and there's no need to ask what for.
Carefully disentangling himself from grasping hands, the Colonel drops his head to nuzzle at the curve of Edward's neck. “Come with me,” he murmurs, planting a line of kisses along the hard ridge of collarbone before rising. Wide gold eyes stare at him in hazy confusion for a moment and then Edward also stands, taking the outstretched hand offered to him. His steps are uneven, limping, and Mustang almost regrets asking him to tackle the stairs, but Edward deserves better than the floor. He lets the younger man ascend the steps before him, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed to the back of his neck, assisting and caressing all at once.
Hallway, bedroom, and Edward sprawls sideways across the mattress as though it's his own personal territory, and Mustang thinks that if it wasn't before, it is now. He dips his head, takes another kiss from those accommodating lips before focusing on removing the young man's clunky boots, the intricate belt. Straddles his thighs, teeth and tongue ravaging Edward's neck while his hands push back the black jacket, slide under the shirt below. Skin against his palm, heart racing beneath his fingertips, and Mustang has never wanted anyone more.
Shirt off, tight pants peeled away. Edward, naked on the bed, while Mustang curls alongside him fully clothed, touching, stroking, kissing. He takes his time worshiping Edward's battered body; tongue painting graceful arcs across the taut, quivering stomach, hands conducting pilgrimages across the broad chest.
He's fucked Fullmetal before, but never taken the time to explore his body; teasing a nipple to firmness between his lips or tracing the delicate whorl of an ear. Never followed the line of each pale scar with his lips, never sucked gently on Edward's fingertips until he moans with desire. But tonight he does; as carefully and thoroughly as he is able Mustang reaffirms Fullmetal's worth, his humanity, and thanks every deity ever conceived for this second chance to make things right.
No one has ever made love to Edward Elric. But he means to correct that mistake.
Mustang reluctantly separates himself from Fullmetal's body in order to begin shedding his own clothing, making quick work of his jacket and shirt, fumbling with his belt and pants in his eagerness. All the while Edward watches him with distant, soft eyes, uncharacteristically quiet and every barrier down. Splayed and pale against dark blue blankets, and Mustang thinks he can still see every jigsawed fracture set into the young man's soul by this latest mission.
“You can't- you can't touch me. Not after what I did. Women and children- oh god, what have I done?...”
Maes looks at him, eyebrow cocked, and then pulls him into an embrace anyway...
He doesn't keep lube, but there is lotion on the bedside table. Fingers slicked, lips pressed to the concavity of hip, and Edward gasps and arches at the first tentative touch. “F-fuck,” he whispers, ragged-voiced in the silence of the room. “Please, Mustang, please jus'...”
Press and pull, and he only hesitates a moment before lowering his head and taking Edward awkwardly into his mouth, uncertain. The young man stifles a curse, back bowing upward and Mustang has to struggle to keep from gagging at the intrusion. But he's determined, holding out until the reflex fades before relaxing his mouth and sliding down further, sucking his way back up.
It's the first time he's ever done this and Mustang is fairly certain he's doing a poor job of it, but Edward shifts and moans in hedonistic abandon, blankets fisted in his hands. A second finger slips in after the first; Mustang runs his tongue around the flaring head, and Edward howls and thrusts and comes hard enough to make the Colonel's own erection pulse even as he chokes against the flood in his mouth.
He takes a moment to collect himself as Edward pants through the tremors of his orgasm, before moving to his knees and squeezing out more lotion. He can't quite contain a moan as he touches himself, his body keyed to intolerable tension and screaming for Edward. As if in response those fierce gold eyes open to him, glowing catlike in a face relaxed but still filled with need. Whines and clicks, as an automail hand extends toward him. “Fuck me,” Edward murmurs, invitation and demand mingling in the words. “Please.”
They come together slowly, Mustang sinking into him with deliberation while heels drum at his back, urging him on. Lower lip clenched between his teeth, Edward thrums with impatience, muttering, “Fuck me, fuck me, more, c'mon...” but the Colonel will not be rushed. In, in, in, and settle there, holding still and just feeling the clench of muscles around him, the heartbeat rattling against his chest, the heat rising from Edward's body. This is completion, redemption; it is the closest to grace that Mustang has ever come, and he sends up a prayer to whatever may be listening that Edward is finding a similar solace.
Slowly, carefully, he begins to move. A groan rattles up from the depths of Edward's throat, and he hooks his legs tight around the Colonel's waist. “Fuck me!” he growls, arching. Hands claw at the flesh above, frantic. “Shit- please! I need-!”
Mustang silences him with another kiss, relishing the enthusiastic response. But his pace doesn't change; deep strokes, nothing like the violent thrusts that Edward wants.
“I don't deserve...”
Large, warm hands on his cheeks. Maes regards him with sad affection. “Roy. You're more than just the sum of your sins.”
“I won't hurt you,” he finally breathes, lips brushing over cheekbone, temple. “You've been hurt enough, and I won't give you any more pain.” He lifts Edward's hips, presses in deep until his lover spasms and cries out. Bruising fingers dig into his shoulders, and Mustang smiles. “But I'll make it go away.”
He plunges forward, on knees and elbows, hands tangling in gold-blond hair, cock stroking repeatedly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Kissing has become impossible; Edward is gasping open-mouthed whines at the ceiling as Mustang rocks into him, gentle and unhurried. “It's not about punishment,” he murmurs. “It's not meant to hurt. It's meant to be good,” press and gasp and there, “and I want to be good to you, Edward.”
The other man makes an odd sound, a harsh whimper that flutters in his throat. Mustang just presses kisses along his neck, groaning a bit as he feels the tremors rippling through the body beneath him. He can feel his own climax building as Edward begins to move with him, finding the rhythm, matching the pace and meeting every thrust. For a few incalculable moments they are as one, sharing pleasure so intense they can barely breathe, and then Edward bucks against the Colonel, crying out as he spills between them. Mustang only manages a couple more strokes before he too is caught in the throes of orgasm, trembling in the mismatched arms wrapped around him.
They're both sweaty and messy, but Mustang finds he has no desire to pull away. Instead he shifts slightly so that he can plant lazy kisses along Edward's shoulder. He's never felt such contentment before, smiles against the scarred junction of skin and metal, and the young man makes that strange, guttural noise again.
“Edward?” He lifts his head, and is momentarily horrified by the painful grimace on his companion's face. Gold eyes roll and he makes that terrible sound once more, and with a shock Mustang realizes that Edward is weeping, face tearless and dry. The small body beneath him begins to shiver as grief consumes him, and the Colonel pulls the young man tight against his chest, cradling him in the protective circle of his arms.
“It will be alright,” he soothes, as Edward is wracked by his empty sobs, face buried in the Colonel's shoulder. Mustang presses his cheek to the top of that bright head, chest aching as he shares his companion's mourning. “It's going to be alright now.”
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