Alive [Fullmetal Alchemist: Roy/Maes - PG-13]
The open flap of his tent waved in the slight breeze before him like a beacon, welcoming him to this makeshift home. It offered relief, sanctuary from screaming bullets and exploding mortar. Roy hiked his weapon, an eighty-eight Lebel caliber assault rifle, high against his tired shoulders and as much as he wished them to droop he knew he had to retain his posture until he could collapse on the hard pad of his cot. To his left, he was certain Maes Hughes wanted the same thing.
He acted as a well-trained soldier, the military’s programmable robot even inside the tent. Before sitting he checked the barrel of his rifle and removed a cocked-and-ready round, reloaded and hit the safety switch, he set it beneath his cot and allowed himself then to sit as well. His breathing was heavy and awkward; the sound of Maes’ breathing was disconcerting and somehow comforting. It reminded Roy that they were both still alive, but it was labored and he knew when he looked up the smear of blood would still be painted across his friend’s forehead.
Roy bent down to untie his boots, his fingers slipped clumsily from the laces and only then did he realize he was shaking. His hands trembled uncontrollably, running up his arms until his whole body jerked with it. Something like sweat, maybe they were tears, rolled down his face. He tried to brush it away but more droplets stubbornly followed.
“I can’t believe we didn’t just die.” Maes’ tone was so candid, so perfectly honest and deadpan.
They looked at each other, sweaty and covered in grime that ranged from black powder smudges to the blood of fallen comrades, and Roy felt a smile start to creep it’s god begotten way onto his lips. Before long he was grinning; then fighting back a full bubble of hysteria that broke through in laughter, pathetic, panting, relieved laughter.
Nothing was funny about the situation, not even vaguely. An uncountable number of men had been injured, disabled, killed or worse, captured. But as much of a weight on his mind as that was more importantly he was alive, they were alive.
Eventually the laughter subsided, leaving two men wiping their eyes with the backs of their hands and falling back into the discomfort of the soldier at war. Roy began to catch his breath as he stared at the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, blinking rapidly to keep a fresh stream of tears from falling. “I can’t believe we didn’t just die,” he repeated, it came out less humorously, more like a prayer to some unknown god and before he knew it, a pair of sock-clad feet was just before his and he drew his eyes up.
Maes wasn’t smiling. Roy’s breath was catching in his throat; he knew what his friend wanted, what they both needed. To feel human after the beastly acts of combat. He held out his hand, Maes took it and let himself be dragged sloppily onto Roy’s lap. He wasn’t nervous, neither of them were. In the background mortality ticked, reminded them that it could be their last night and excess adrenaline coursed through Roy’s veins like a sweet drug.
“Alive,” Maes whispered and his lips crashed into the younger man’s. Roy moaned, his fingers automatically carding through the short hair at the base of Maes’ neck, dragging him closer. He smelled of war, it wasn’t pleasant but Roy revealed in it, and more the taste of his tongue sliding against his own. He reveled in all of it, and Maes’ one, simple word seemed to sum it all up so neatly.
Alive.