Mustang x Hughes. Angsty and heated and acknowledges some interesting innuendos where ranking is concerned.

Characters are not mine – why else would this be posted on ?


He doesn't leave until it's past dim outside, and even Riza's limits are challenged, more or less due to the potential neglect of Black Hayate her absence might ensue. He stays because he's all too familiar with the price of his seclusion when he is left alone to his reverie. And Roy Mustang will never exploit his loneliness; he will never beckon for after-hour company, even if this often means avoiding Riza's eye come 1900 hours. She sees right through him, and respect for him is too high to invite him to coffee, or just to talk. Her sterile eyes will never betray her insight into Roy's private agenda.

The man he would otherwise hide the secrets in his eyes from is fortunately faithfully out the door at 1600 hours, and Roy always permits it. It's crucial for the Major to watch his daughter grow up, to fill the roles for her he so ardently strives for; her daddy, her hero.

Both companies he would gladly forego his nightly seclusion for, if only his suffering did not require him to be so terribly needy.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," he always parts on a slightly more affectionate note than she is willing to offer in return, resigned and detached as she finds it necessary to appear. It is all out of the highest respect for him.

"Don't stay up too late, Colonel," she suggests. "You can only get so little sleep for so long until it starts to become apparent to your co-workers." She humbly salutes him for her boldness and only turns in pursuit of her living quarters after he has.

"... Apparent, huh?" He asks himself after the door is sealed behind him, the groaning hinges confirming his irrefutable seclusion. In the washroom mirror he notices how hallow his eyes appear, and when he feels he is smirking his reflection eludes to no smile at all. Has he been so grave all day?

He doesn't want to sleep. Numbing his consciousness is difficult enough - how does one escape the realities their subconsciousness so keenly preserves? If he sleeps his dreams will recreate the imagery he's been witnessing more frequently, and he will awaken in a cold sweat.

And it wasn't all just a nightmare at all.

It's easier to stay awake, to let sleep claim him when he's been deluded by the liquor he'll generously pour himself. Dozing lopsidedly at his desk would explain his cramped neck upon awakening as of late. And so he repeats this pattern, abandons his reflection and goes right for the booze. He opts to drink it straight from the bottle this time. His tolerance is rising. Great, blessed irony; his tolerance hasn't improved in any other necessary area. For certain pain in the ass subordinates, specifically.

Knock, knock.

Roy is filled with immediate anticipation, and it is neither excitement nor anxiety that grips him - or maybe it's both convictions all at once. He doesn't want visitors and yet he so desperately needs the company to prevent his self-destruction for one more night. He yearns for an escape and this is it. But it is no compensation for the drink alone he's grown so accustomed to ...

Neutral to his company, Roy tosses the bottle and misses but doesn't right it into the trash, company will be able to smell it on his breath and the bit that's seeped down his shirt. Whatever. If the visitor unwelcome they wouldn't be around long enough to notice, now would they?

"... Major," he greets his unexpected, yet refreshing companion. His expression does not change, he leaves the door as it is rather than open it further in a manner that suggests invitation, and finds himself behaving in a rather disagreeable way. He is flustered. Hughes is all too familiar with this side of him - it doesn't mean he should grow accustomed to it, as though this was essentially the Colonel if you abandon the uniform and the rank and the insufferable pride.

"Mind if I invite myself inside?" Hughes does not wait for his friend's approval before doing so. "With all due respect, you smell like hobo mouth - where's the alcohol, and is there any left for me?"

"If there was, I probably wouldn't smell so much like a hobo, as you so tactfully put it," he replies with halfhearted resentment.

"I see."

The lighthearted man's expression falls, but it is not a critical change. He would not have left Gracia to attend to Elysia and her new tricycle had he not sensed Roy's fatigue, his lackluster performance. He is certainly familiar with these funks, and he will grant Roy his necessary space until it's time to interfere. And now it's time to interfere.

"You look beat. You know you're always welcome to sleep at my place, right? We've got waterbeds!"

"Yeah, thanks," he mutters, his voice rough and raw from the acidic taste of liquor. "But I think you know by now I won't accept the invitation."

"I know. It was just a courtesy sort of thing," Hughes explains, accompanied by a shrug. He approaches Roy, noticing the faint sway as he stands. God, he thinks, he is turning into the stereotypical lush. "Can you still walk, doctor?"

Roy's typically sharp, intense eyes are blurred and unfocused as they meet Hughes' own with a flash of bitterness. Why, why do you insist on coming here just to father me, you dedicate your days to the military, your nights are for your family, where your role as father is necessary? God! I'm not worth this.

"Listen, I'll get some sleep, I'll be fine," he insists stubbornly, stumbling to lightly push his way out behind Hughes in pursuit of his bed. But Hughes catches him, locks his arms around the Colonel's shoulders, and hesitates to release him. It was a temporary and necessary cradle for them both - Maes, who needed for an instant to feel a little less inadequate, and for Roy, because the higher he'd climb the more fatal the fall, and he needed to know he'd be caught.

"Yeah, it'll be lights out if you hit the floor like that," Hughes replies, regaining his composure. Surprisingly, Roy is stationary. The embrace had felt nice - warm, accepting. The alcohol makes a dense creature of him for sure, but his senses are heightened and acute to any sound, sight, smell ... Or touch.

"I just need to lie down," he grumbles, reaching blindly for the corner of his bed. Maes is still holding him upright, clearly amused that Roy has become so comfortable in his arms he neglects to even notice. He is definitely out of it, but he's never senseless enough to give up an opportunity to strike Maes for overstepping his boundaries. He's accepting it, and Hughes going to take some rare advantage of this.

He escorts his mess of a Colonel to bed, and in their entanglement is ultimately thrown right on top.

"Geeze, maybe a waterbed is just what the doctor ordered... This thing creaks!"

"Ever think you might have busted it with your weight?" Roy suggests nastily, but it's all in good fun for Hughes, who chuckles it right off.

"You should watch it, buddy, I may be lower in rank but if I bruise you right now, you aren't gonna remember discharging me in the morning! Such a bad mouth when you're wasted!"

Roy smiled hazily up at the figure supporting himself on top.

"It's not such a bad mouth ... You should try it sometime."

In spite of himself, Hughes feels his muscles tense, his face heat up. Between the two of them, Hughes is more likely to wear his heart on his sleeve, so he doesn't feel put off when Mustang looks perfectly smug. It bewilders him, he doesn't know how far is too far, and taking advantage of a drunkard isn't really his style. He doesn't want it to be considered taking advantage, either, if it could be helped. He's been waiting a while for this to be mutual.

Roy braves the tension by kissing the Major first. He's reached the threshold of abandon, resurfacing from beneath layer upon layer of guilty thought into pure hedonism and carnal desire. He'd be disgusted with himself later, and he hopes to savor this moment for another occasion of drinking. So long as he feels despicable, he feels at place here, scaling up the ranks of this corrupt, indifferent system. Let his guilt swallow him tenfold as Fuehrer, where at least he could reign with uncorrupt policies, and put his guilt to good use.

It is when the Major eagerly responds that Roy ventures further and invades his mouth with his tongue. He finds his reaction to this is intense, he is burning and pulsing already. Both men are lost in the immediate passion of it all, neither can see straight, and while the Colonel can use intoxication as his handicap, Hughes has no excuse.

They don't speak, their longing is mutual, it was ever an unspoken extension of their friendship. They're comfortable with it, which surprises them both. It's not every night two best friends share a impromptu heated kiss just for the hell of it, but why not? Hughes is savoring every inch of his neck before plunging back into his mouth with unrestrained domination, rendering his Colonel almost unbearably turned on.

"Ah -" Roy gasps, his kiss stunted from the rough friction between Roy's aroused flesh and fabric guided by a swift rubbing from Maes' palm. The friction against the material of his pants adds a faint, aching heat, and it sends Roy's back arching, his hips instinctively grinding against Maes' open hand. His cheeks are burning red, it's beyond him how he could be so overwhelmed already. He has no restraint.

Hughes grins. The thrill of coveting the Colonel's weakness in his own hand is almost too much to bear, and he feels his own throbbing erection bending along the crotch of his pants. It's going to end too soon, so he'll tease to prolong it. He undresses the Colonel with some clumsy effort from him, and notices how Roy lightly shudders from the tantalizingly slow drag of fabric against his electric flesh.

He avoids Roy's swelled cock for a time, sucks in a puckered nipple, taking the pink bud between teeth and tongue, gliding the muscle swiftly against the perked flesh. He studies his reactions, and it is the labored pants and grunts that drives Hughes crazy. His dark eyes are misty, rolling behind flickering eyelids, and his mouth is still moist from their kiss and his own welling saliva.

Once both men are scantly clothed, Hughes kisses him fully, and simultaneously rides his hips. Roy wraps his arms wherever they'll fit tightest around him and drags himself in rhythm to his friend's gliding. He's a little less clumsy now, a little more sober and aware, and he assertively guides Maes' fingers against his rear. The Major enters his fingertips, demurely at first, until Roy is taking a handful of the sheets and giving a jolting grind against the penetration. He widens his fingertips, stretching him, hooking him, and Roy twists in pleasure.

Roy has long since abandoned his struggle for dominance. "Alright. I'll let you get to the top, but just this once," is his sly justification, and Hughes offers his appreciation by showing Roy no mercy. He will never insult Roy's pride by treating him delicately.

"No. This is how it should be," Hughes insists, and clamps his upper arms. Hughes stretches back on the bed, and reversing their roles, effortlessly drags Mustang right with him. This takes neither by surprise. It's no question of strength between them; they're both perfectly aware of who's stronger, literally ... Figuratively.

"I'll guide you from below."

Mustang mounts him, taking a handful of the Major and squeezing lightly, watching the panting man coil out of himself. "Heh, if you think that's a squeeze... Going to be able to handle me?"

Hughes looks at him, glossy eyed, and covets him by the hips. He guides him back, and Mustang bends into the appropriate angle of the man's erection. He braces it, squeezing again if only to watch Hughes swallow back another loud moan, and with intense discomfort, forced him inside the tight cavity.

He grows accustomed, even daring, pushing his limits with each new thrust. His own swelled cock is lightly beating against the Major's pelvis upon each impact. His fingers are kneading Hughes' kneecaps, who beneath him is quivering, panting out his open mouth, releasing mangled noises of intense pleasure. Mustang discovers the most pleasing angle and braces back, attempting to overcome his inevitable release. But Hughes stimulates all the right spots each time, interpreting the other's reactions with alarming accuracy. Roy can feel the hot fuel gather in his throbbing organ, his veins burning, his muscles tense all over. With abandon of all control, he comes hard on Hughes' torso, releasing a low cry as he does so. He shakily resumes courtesy pushes, but it isn't long that Hughes discharges explosively after Roy.

Exhausted, both men lay wherever they find themselves on the bed's surface and loosen their knotted tenons on the linen. Hughes holds Roy loosely, with a single arm, tracing his hairline. Beneath his palms Roy's muscles lack all tension, and his lungs give to slow, even breathing. He hardly turns on his side, his preferred sleeping position, before exhaustion makes his efforts futile and he settles there, under Hughes' faint touch. He is nearly asleep, leaving no room for an awkward aftermath - however nonexistent it would be for these two good friends.

Roy's dark eyes search the dim room for his friend's own a final time, and his lips part with an intention lost to the slow strokes through his hair. It's too sedating to speak, to think, although he's faintly amused at how closely he indeed resembles a dog - soothed so easily to sleep by his best friend's caresses. He wants to tell him to go home now, guiltily, that his family has earned his affection far more than he. He is ashamed.

But Hughes doesn't regret it. The Major has always possessed a power to love indefinitely, Gracia means no less to him now, Roy has replaced nothing of her. And neither she nor Elysia will ever conquer any portion of his adoration for the Colonel. His heart is not split into fractions, it only swells with each new worthy presence in his life.

Each sedating brush through that sex-tangled black head of hair generates a deeper breath from the drifting Roy, until they are as low and faintly apparent as the humming of ventilation, such a soothing sound it threatens even the Major's consciousness. He takes his sleeping face in his hand and kisses his forehead, admiring how well he's sleeping now, proudly acknowledging this as his own accomplishment. "Maybe I wont bother setting the alarm for you. Your sleep debt is likely up to two days now." He grins, knowing full well if Roy is even scantly awake his protests will likely physically hurt. He covers him up.

He wont be there when Roy wakes up, because he knows full well his presence would make a more significant impression on his family, who he is eager to kiss goodbye while they sleep in pursuit of his 0600 hour arrival to work, where Roy will indulge in the long distraction that awaits him until another evening. And when distractions are limited, Hughes has plenty of Elysia's Kodak moments to share with his comrade.