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Armstrong finds him at the bar, a cigarette dangling awkwardly from inexperienced fingers, a half-empty glass on the counter before him. It’s enough to give Alex pause, to realize that a week ago, he would have seen the glass and described it as half-full. Funny how things can change.
He wants to say something to him, but nothing comes to mind and he just sits down on the stool beside him, quiet.
“I don’t smoke,” Mustang says, as he takes another drag.
“Of course, sir,” Armstrong answers, and it sounds more condescending than he meant it to.
“What I meant,” the colonel says, louder, stubbing out the cigarette abruptly on the bar. “Is that I don’t make a habit of it.”
“I know.”
“Extenuating circumstances.”
“I know.”
Mustang flicks the butt of it to the floor, a look of disgust on his face, smacking his lips against the unfamiliar taste that lingers on his tongue.
“My second lieutenant says they calm his nerves. He smokes like a chimney, I figured I could take his word for it.” He washes the taste away with the whiskey, indicates the drink. “I’ve picked my poison, anyway.”
They sit in awkward silence. When the bartender comes by, Armstrong absently gestures at Mustang’s drink, then at himself— I’ll have what he’s having, unspoken. Mustang belts back the rest of his whiskey and taps the empty glass significantly. It’s almost surreal how the whole exchange takes place without a word, and then they’re alone again, or as alone as they can be in a place like this. The other patrons seem to sense their mood and give them a wide berth.
“He used to meet me at the train station,” Mustang says, out of the blue. “Every goddamn time I came to visit. Like he had nothing better to do but wait for my sorry ass to show up. And he was always happy to see me, God knows why.”
Armstrong winces. He can only imagine the grief compounded by the sight of him, and not Hughes, waiting on the platform this time. The major had volunteered for the job— not that he had much competition. No one wanted to go to the train station and meet the arriving officers from Central. No one wanted to deal with Colonel Mustang, not after something like this, not when everyone knew about his friendship with the late Brigadier General Hughes. In fact, besides the nature of the murder itself, the one topic receiving the most speculation was Mustang’s reaction. Some say he cried when he got the phone call. Others say he screamed in rage, while still others claim that he was as cold as ice, staying on the phone only long enough to hear the details of the funeral arrangements before hanging up without another word. One thing was certain: no one wanted to find out in person. No one wanted to deal with him coming off the train, with the moment his foot landed on the platform and the situation became all too real and finite.
When the colonel stepped down from the car. Armstrong expected tears, or anger— a flash in his eyes and a curl in his lip, something to indicate the depth of his dismay. Instead, disturbingly, he saw nothing. Mustang was cool and collected, his face almost impossibly blank, and he greeted Armstrong with a salute as crisp and formal as if they were meeting on a parade ground.
“Major,” he said with a civil nod.
“Colonel, I’m—” Armstrong ducked his head. “I’m sorry that we have to meet again like this.”
“So am I,” Mustang answered, too quickly, too calmly.
And he said nothing else, not on the walk to the car, not on the drive to Central Headquarters, not until they reached the officer’s quarters that have been lent to him for his stay. Then, as Hawkeye brought the bags in and Mustang was about to close the front door, he suddenly caught Armstrong’s eye and held him there.
“Thank you, Major,” he said briskly. “For serving him so well.”
That was the last time they spoke to each other until now. In between there was an endless night, then a day unlike any other, as they saw each other again across the grave, weighed down by their dress uniforms and their sorrow. They went their separate ways after the service. Armstrong had planned to speak with him, but his own sadness was too unbearable. Infamous for his very vocal emotions, he didn’t want to cause a scene, and he retreated to his quarters to spend an afternoon biting his pillow, struggling to muffle the sounds of his anguish. He has been mocked in the past for his tears. He would give them no reason to mock him now, although his tears have never been more justified.
Their drinks arrive. Armstrong takes a sip and quickly realizes that Mustang has been drinking the most expensive whiskey that the bar has to offer. Seems appropriate. He lifts his glass, inclines it in Mustang’s direction, and offers a toast.
“To the Brigadier General,” he says, amazed that his voice does not break.
Mustang nods and mimics the gesture, but does not trust himself to speak. They drink, and the silence becomes painful, and Armstrong is bursting with words— about Hughes, of course, about what a great man he was, how loyal and brave and honorable, how Armstrong adored him, would have done anything for him, would have followed him to the end of the world. He had hoped that Mustang would be in a mood for words, but it doesn’t seem to be the case. It makes this night even worse, because here is the one man who surely loved the Brigadier General as much as Armstrong did. Here is a man who treasured him, who knew his worth as a human being, who understands the depth of Armstrong’s grief.
Guilt flushes up the back of Alex’s neck in a hot surge. Such audacity, to compare his suffering to that of the colonel. He knows that Mustang had a friendship with Hughes that was far beyond anything else. They were truly comrades. Armstrong was just a subordinate. His own pain does not matter. What matters now is that he must be strong, especially for the man that Hughes would have wanted him to be strong for. He can just hear him now: “Hey, keep an eye on Roy, will ya? He’s gonna need it.”
“He was a good man,” he says softly, almost to himself. “An example to all of us.”
“He was a fool,” Mustang snarls.
And just as quickly, Armstrong’s sadness turns to anger. He turns sharply on his bar stool, his eyes boiling with rage, his heart thundering with protectiveness towards his commanding officer, outraged that the colonel could speak so carelessly. He wants to give him hell, but Mustang glances up sharply, agony flashing in his gaze, and Armstrong realizes that he’s already there.
“He was trying to call me, did you know that?” he hisses. “I was too late. I picked up the phone just a few goddamn seconds too late. Thought he’d hung up on me. Didn’t give it a second thought.”
Armstrong knows this. He knows that Hughes was making a call, because he was there. He was one of the first officers on the scene, and he saw his poor, poor Lieutenant Colonel on his back, his neck jammed uncomfortably into the corner of the phone booth, his amber eyes still wide and startled. He saw the blood and the shit and the receiver still dangling there, waiting, still swinging as if it had been dropped only a moment before. Hughes’s mouth was hung open like a scream, his tongue going dry, never to smile again.
It was the worst thing Armstrong has ever seen. Worse than all the slaughtered children, all the scorched and bleeding casualties of war. It was worse than fallen cities and ruined temples, because this was a man he loved, a man whose life had been so closely tied to his own. This was a man whose family he knew, whose voice he could recognize in a crowd, whose orders he had trusted and obeyed. To see him in such a horrible state, to know that his final moments were so undeservedly awful, was almost too much for any heart to bear.
Armstrong is glad that Mustang was spared this sight, but he is gladder still that he was a witness. Someone needed to see it. Someone who loved Hughes needed to see how he died, so at least one of them would truly know what they would surely be fighting to avenge.
“He was waiting for me at the train station,” he says slowly. “When I received my transfer to Central. He shook my hand and told me—” Emotion constricts his voice, and he pushes through in something close to a whisper. “That he admired my decision not to fight. They sent me back from Ishbal in shame. The Lieutenant Col— that is, the Brigadier General— he was the only man who didn’t treat me like a coward. Some might call him a fool for that, as well.”
“He was a fool!” Mustang insists savagely. “He went in way over his head and got himself killed!”
“I know, sir,” Armstrong murmurs. “I miss him, too.”
Mustang finishes his whiskey and swallows hard, scrubbing at his eyes and passing off their watering as a side effect of the alcohol’s burn. Armstrong lays a massive hand on his shoulder.
“He was like a brother to me,” he admits.
The colonel almost smacks his hand away, but as they make contact, he suddenly grabs hold of Armstrong’s wrist, clasping it with an almost desperate intensity. When he speaks, his voice creaks as if from misuse, as if the intimacy of his confession has been buried for a hundred years.
“He was... more than a brother... to me.”
And he drops his head into his hands, his shoulders trembling with the effort to contain himself, to maintain his composure and not be made a fool by his grief. This time, Armstrong knows exactly how to respond, and he gives Mustang’s shoulder a significant squeeze.
“I know, sir,” he says intensely. “I miss him, too.”
When Mustang lifts his bleary eyes to his, a message passes between them, wordless and profound. They leave the bar together.
- - -
When they first arrived in Ishbal, the alchemists all bunked with each other. Within weeks they would be deployed all over the region, but in the meantime they were paired up and tucked away, many of them not realizing that it would be the last time they slept without nightmares. Armstrong was paired with Mustang, and he was grateful for that. Many of the others— such as Kimblee and Comanche— were much too intimidating, much too ready for the impending battles. Mustang was quiet and thoughtful, and Armstrong had always liked him, always thought that he was a good man. At the Academy, they hadn’t been friends, but they’d been acquaintances and Armstrong knew enough about him to feel comfortable as they bedded down in their tent for the night.
It was quite, quite late, but Armstrong lay awake, rolled on his side and facing the canvas wall. He had a slight tremor in his hand and found it so upsetting that he could not sleep. Ever since their orientation that afternoon, he’d had an uneasy feeling in his gut, an instinctive urge to get as far away from Ishbal as possible. Olivier would mock him, as she so often had in the past, saying that he was a soft and foolish boy. To be soft was to be weak. Armstrongs are not weak. He lay awake and prayed for the tremor to fade away.
So he was still awake when the flap of the tent slipped open just long enough for someone to get inside. Armstrong’s blue eyes shot wide with panic and he froze, his tremor forgotten, his nerves screeching like violins as he held his breath. Soft footsteps, then a rustling sound, and a harsh whisper of, “Roy. Yo, Roy. Wake up.”
Groggy mumbling eventually turned into an alarmed hiss of, “Maes, what the hell are you doing?”
“I wanted to see you. God, I missed you so much.”
“Maes, we can’t— ah, don’t— Armstrong is right over there—”
Armstrong tried not to shiver as he felt two sets of eyes pinned on his back. He kept his breathing slow and steady. He did not make a sound.
“He’s asleep, Roy, a big guy like him probably sleeps like a log, now c’mere already, you’re killing me, ya know that?”
“Maes—”
“Did ya miss me, Roy-Boy?”
“I did, I missed you, and I’m— I’m—”
Soft, wet sounds. Unmistakeable. Tongues entwining, voices clipped down to the faintest whimpers, breathing getting faster. The cot gave one treacherous creak as it accepted the full weight of another occupant, and they held their breaths, waiting for Armstrong to stir. He did no such thing. After that moment, they paid him no more heed.
“Take off your shirt—”
“Take off your glasses, you idiot—”
“Hang on, let me— there, that’s better— now c’mere—”
The rustle of clothing, the slap of skin against sweaty skin, chest against chest. The rush of uniform trousers being yanked down legs. The hot, aching gasp from Mustang, bell-toll loud in the nighttime tent. Armstrong twitched and trembled and could not ignore his own growing hard-on.
“Oh, God— ah, Maes, that’s— yes—”
The sound of sucking, thick and messy. Feet spasming against a rough standard-issue blanket. Mustang’s voice, high and distant, Hughes’s voice a mouth-full mumble in the same language. Armstrong crept his hand down the length of his belly, fumbled open the fly of his trousers, and began to touch himself.
“I wanna— I wanna fuck you— Roy—”
“Then fuck me already—”
“Haha— I ain’t— I ain’t got no spit.”
“What?”
“I was gonna spit in my hand— I’m as dry as the goddamn desert—”
“I’ll get you wet.”
Bodies rolling, like wrestlers vying for the top position. Armstrong always did have a fondness for Hughes— polite and courteous and handsome, always trying to be social with the other alchemists even though they looked down on him— Armstrong never looked down on him— and then Hughes’s moan sent bolts all the way through him, a heat in his groin so painful that he almost wept. Slick, heavy sucking sounds, a blowjob doubling as a coat of lubrication, and behind Armstrong’s closed eyes he could almost see them.
“That’s enough— ah, Roy, that’s enough— I said I wanna fuck you—”
“Okay, okay— here, just let me—”
Hasty shuffling, then, then:
“Ah— ah— unh, Maes, that’s— that’s so good—”
“Kiss me— shut up and kiss me—”
And from there, coherency was lost to all three of them. Mustang and Hughes, dissolving into whimpers and groans and the sticky, sloppy sounds of fucking, of mouths and cocks and rhythm that kept time with Armstrong’s hand as he stroked himself, hard, his own noise covered up by theirs, his strained breathing masked by their music.
“Oh fuck— fuck— Roy, I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”
“Me too, me— ah— I’m—”
One of them clapped a hand over the other’s mouth. Then one came with a shrill whine hissed out between clenched teeth, the other in a muffled series of grunts, caught under the hand that was expecting them. Armstrong came too, in a surge that surprised him with its intensity, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He lay trembling, praying that they hadn’t noticed when how could they have missed it, a climax that was so huge to him that it must have been obvious to anyone.
But they were in their own world. They kissed each other again and again, their breath shaking out of them in silent laughter, the cot squeaking as they embraced. Armstrong wiped his hand guiltily, stealthily on the scratchy sheet.
“Still fits.”
“Always gonna fit, Roy. Meant to fit.”
Kiss. Kiss. Returning to his senses, Armstrong felt like the worst kind of trespasser, eavesdropping on something that was only meant to be heard by two people. It formed a lump of embarrassment in his throat, which gave him a perfect excuse to cough loudly, as though in his sleep.
“Shit shit shit—”
“Relax, relax, he’s still asleep—”
“You gotta go, Maes. You gotta go now.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
Kiss.
“See you for breakfast.”
“Get out of here, you idiot!”
Kiss.
“Okay, that’s enough, now go!”
A rush of cool breeze from the desert as the tent flap opened and closed. The sound of Mustang fussing around in his cot, rearranging himself gingerly, his eyes undoubtedly glued to Armstrong’s back.
Armstrong was still. He was quiet. He would never tell a soul.
At the mess in the morning, he made a point of shaking Hughes’s hand and saying, “It’s good to see you again.” And Hughes gave him a brilliant smile and said, “It’s great to see you too, Alex!”
When he said it, he meant it, and that was the moment when Armstrong knew he loved him.
- - -
They arrive in Armstrong’s private quarters, and the second the door closes behind them, Mustang seizes the taller man by the collar and pulls him down into a kiss. It’s clumsy— the colonel has already had more than a few drinks, and the major is not exactly experienced when it comes to such matters— but it works, somehow, and they stumble together towards the bedroom.
Mustang kisses like he fights— quick and fierce and burning, his tongue unexpectedly bold, tasting of expensive whiskey and just the faintest hint of smoke. He’s half the size of his partner but takes control almost immediately, guiding Armstrong’s huge arms around him, pulling in on his elbows, encouraging him to crush him. As he folds Mustang into an embrace, Armstrong can feel every muscle of him drawn tight, as if he’s about to explode, as if he’s about to fly into a million pieces if he doesn’t find a way to release this unbearable pressure. Armstrong feels his own pulse quickening, his body brimming up with desire— the desire to help him, the desire to hold him, the desire to have him the way that Hughes once had.
By the time they cross the threshold into the bedroom, they’re fighting to undress each other. Armstrong’s hands are big and awkward, fumbling at the fastenings of the colonel’s uniform. Mustang’s hands are small and nimble, and they skate around the borders of Armstrong’s jacket, deftly undoing every button and clasp in their path. Impatient, he then turns to his own jacket, shoving Armstrong out of the way so he can do it himself.
“Get your clothes off,” he rasps, yanking his own shirt over his head. “Quickly.”
“Yes, sir,” Armstrong mumbles automatically as he hurries to obey.
It isn’t until he’s almost completely undressed that he suddenly panics. He sees himself, and he remembers. Remembers every girl who has looked at him and flinched at his size, at the idea of handling such a monstrous thing. It’s a common boast among men, a competition to see whose manhood is largest— but Alex has never found any consolation in bragging rights. Is it too much to ask, to be able to make love to a woman without her cringing? Eventually he became so self-conscious of it that he’s barely bothered to look for romance at all. He finds comfort and purpose in his duties as a soldier, and when the pressure becomes too great, he finds release by his own hand.
“Sir, I—” he swallows hard, blinks back tears of embarrassment. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?” Mustang snaps, impatient.
Before Armstrong can stop him, he’s spun him around, and the major covers himself defensively, mortified, his eyes squeezed shut tight to avoid the colonel’s critical gaze.
“What’s wrong?” Mustang persists.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Alex confesses, ashamed.
Suddenly, Mustang’s hands are on his wrists, pulling his guard away. The colonel presses his body closer, their erections brushing against each other, and Armstrong’s hips buck convulsively forward against his will.
And the colonel growls, “I want you to hurt me.”
Armstrong is too nervous so Mustang fingers himself, stretching himself wide to accept what is about to be given to him. Stupidly, Armstrong can’t help but think about those fingers, about how Mustang is able to snap and create hurricanes of fire. Mustang’s dark hair is already sticking to his face with sweat, his eyes closed, his gaze turned inward, his right arm reached artlessly behind him. His body is naked and pale and beautiful. His expression is one of almost profound concentration.
Almost ready, he asks in anticipation, “Are you hard?”
“I...” Armstrong has never been so hard in his life, and he doesn’t know how to say that so he just says, “I am, sir.”
As Mustang moves closer to him, Armstrong lays down on his back, hyper-aware of his cock, exposed and ugly, looking threatening even to him. He spits into the palm of his hand and slicks the length of it, just like Hughes once tried to do, and Mustang doesn’t ask him how he knows what to do so he doesn’t tell him. All at once the colonel is above him, straddling him on his knees, and reaching again behind him, he guides the tip of Alex’s prick to his entrance and slowly, slowly starts to lower himself onto it.
“Ah,” he hisses, and closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Armstrong says helplessly.
“No,” Mustang says through gritted teeth. “Don’t apologize. Just— wait for me.”
Gingerly, the colonel pushes himself downwards, his face contorting in surprise and pain as he begins to fill. Armstrong’s hands settle anxiously on his hips, balancing him, while Mustang’s own hands brace against the larger man’s chest. As concerned as he is for his partner, Alex finds his consciousness warping into the silence of sensation, all coherency surrendering to what he feels. Mustang is tight and hot and wonderful, so unlike anything he’s ever felt, and his breath begins to stagger out of him in short, delighted gasps.
“Oh,” he pants. “Oh, yes— yes—”
Without thinking, he tightens his tremendous grasp on Mustang’s hips and shoves himself the rest of the way in.
“Fuck!” Mustang almost shrieks. “Oh, fuck, I can’t— ahhhh, God—”
Stricken with remorse, Armstrong splutters, “Oh, sir, I’m sorry, I couldn’t— I lost myself— it’s just that I—”
“Shut up, Major,” comes the wheezing reply. “I told you I wanted this. Now fuck me.”
“Are you sure that you’re—”
“I said fuck me. That’s an order.”
And it chills Armstrong’s blood to hear him say that. The last man to give him a direct order was Hughes— the ghost that hovers between them now, that stains their coupling with bitterness and regret before it even has a chance to begin. Brokenhearted, Armstrong rolls Mustang onto his back, pins him, and obeys.
At the first thrust, Mustang bites his lip against the undignified, guttural groan that threatens to wrench out of him. He locks his legs around Armstrong’s waist and holds on like his life depends on it. They fuck, and Armstrong knows that he’s crying, but he can’t stop himself. It’s Mustang’s voice, the shrill, wordless cries that every thrust draws out of him, his fingernails digging red rivers into Armstrong’s muscular back.
“Harder,” the colonel begs, clearly already on the threshold of his limit.
But Mustang wants to go beyond his limit tonight. Armstrong knows this, has known it since he sat down next to him at the bar. They both want to break, to shatter, to surrender so that maybe they can forget, if only for a few white-hot seconds, that they’ve each lost the man they loved more than anything else. So Armstrong obeys again, and pushes himself faster and deeper until Mustang is screaming, with pain and anger and frustration and finally, mercifully, an orgasm that rips through his slender form like lightning. The climax draws him impossibly tighter, and then Armstrong comes, hard, pouring himself into Mustang’s beaten, exhausted body.
Armstrong pulls out but keeps his position, keeps watch over the colonel as he flings a shaking arm over his eyes, as though he wishes he were blind.
“I wanted to feel something,” he says, his breathing still heavy. “I thought if I felt— that maybe I could—”
And Armstrong peels his arm away, exposes his eyes to the light. Mustang is shivering all over, paler even than usual, his eyes blown wide like he’s seen a hundred ghosts.
“I can’t feel anything,” he whispers.
He slaps a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob that tries to claw its way out of his throat. Again, Armstrong gently removes his self-restraint.
“There’s no shame in weeping, sir,” he says. “You seem to forget whose company you’re in.”
When Mustang looks up into his eyes, Armstrong knows he can see the tears shining there. And somehow, that must be enough, because all at once the colonel has thrown his hands over his face and begun to sob, huge, gulping sobs that seem as though they might tear him apart. Armstrong swiftly brings him into his arms, against his massive chest, as close as he can bring him to his mighty heart. Mustang cries and cries, and for the first time, Armstrong does not cry. He tells himself to be strong, and he holds him, and he waits.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, you bastard, you fucking bastard,” Mustang snarls at the one who’s not there.
“Hush, hush,” Armstrong rubs his back. “Hush, now.”
Drunk and exhausted, Mustang falls asleep in a sweaty, tear-streaked heap, looking for all the world like a child nodding off after a vicious tantrum. Armstrong draws the blankets up around him and slips into the living room. He’ll sleep on the couch. He knows that Mustang does not want to wake up beside him, does not want to be reminded of his weakness, and Alex not only understands but agrees with him. Nights like this are best left ignored in the grand scheme of things.
As he goes to make sure the front door is locked, a glint of silver on the hall table catches his eye. It’s a cufflink, and he remembers. The Brigadier Gen— no, he’ll always be the Lieutenant Colonel to Alex— lost it here the last time he came over for dinner. He visited not as a commanding officer, but as a friend. They’d spent a long night laughing and drinking, and while tidying up in the morning Armstrong had found the little silver trinket on the floor, under the chair where Hughes had been sitting. He’d placed it here on the hall table so that he would see it the next time he left the house and remember to bring it back to him. How clearly he could picture Hughes’s face, the smile mixed with embarrassment at his own carelessness and gratitude for his subordinate’s thoughtfulness. “You’re a saint, Major, you really are— these were a present from Gracia and she’d be furious if I lost them!”
Armstrong sinks to his knees, the cufflink almost vanishing in his huge fist. Tears boil up and spill out of him. He has already shed so, so many of them, but it seems to be a bottomless well, as bottomless and as bitter as the sea. He thinks of Hughes in the desert, his smile like rain, sweet and refreshing. He thinks of the last time he saw him alive, his eyes fever-bright with knowledge, on the brink of solving the riddle he’d been working on. Armstrong passed him in the hall as he was going to pick up some crucial files for his investigation. “I’m real close to figuring this one out,” he’d grinned, thumping Armstrong conspiratorially on the arm. “I just gotta grab something.”
And as he ducked around the corner, he called out:
“I’ll be right back.”
____________end.