Rusted Dawn, Pt. 4
Sep. 19th, 2008 12:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pandora_culpaTitle: Rusted Dawn
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17, or at least kinda close.
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
previous chapters
A/N: Many apologies for the Scene of Godawful Suck at the end of this segment. I rewrote it something like four times, and still hate it passionately, but this is likely the best I can make it without letting it sit for a month and coming back to it fresh. And even then, I probably wouldn't like it very much, and would just bitch and cry and whine about having to deal with it again.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evil_whimsey deserves so much credit, because without her, it would be absolutely dreadful. Such a mess. I'm so unhappy.
So... here it is. I'm moving on. Please don't hate me; I'm really sorry.
The town is Estmont, about an hour and a half from Central. A small, bustling town that Mustang is somewhat familiar with, though it's been quite a while since he's had any business there. This time, knowing the purpose of his trip, he changes from his uniform to civilian garb before boarding, intentionally taking one of the earlier trains indicated, next to a wobbling line of insults (hate you, I hate you bastard, sending me out here...), and the sky is still warm with the glow of the setting sun when he arrives at the station.
He'd been tempted to travel on one of the later options, but it would only postpone the inevitable. And considering Edward's physical state, he can see no kindness in making him wait pointless hours on a bench, watching trains rumble in and out. Besides, he thinks as he steps from the train and sees Fullmetal's eyebrows shoot up with surprise, he wouldn't want to become too predictable.
The Colonel walks over to meet the young man, still draped across the bench in his dirty red coat. As he approaches, Edward gives him an odd, weary stare. “Miss me so much?” he drawls, gold eyes dull and flat, and even his humor sounds forced.
“How could I pass up something so appealing?” he replies in the same tone, gesturing at the bedraggled young man, and Edward huffs with wry amusement.
“Fucking bastard. ” He straightens with a quickly suppressed groan, left leg stretched out before him. “Shit, I ache everywhere.” He levers himself to his feet, swaying a bit and waving away the hand Mustang extends to him. “No, just gimme a minute. Leg's not working right.”
“Why didn't you go to your mechanic before you came back?” the Colonel asks, and the look Edward gives him is bleak.
“I'm not gonna go there like this.”
Mustang wants to reach out and steady Fullmetal, who seems about to topple over, but knows the gesture wouldn't be accepted. “I'm sure she's seen worse.”
Edward glances away. “That's not what I mean,” he answers, and then shakes his head. “I don't want to talk about it.”
He wavers for another moment, then stumbles forward, leading the way into town, Mustang striding unobtrusively at his shoulder, prepared to catch him if he falls. It bothers him to see how much it takes out of Fullmetal to simply walk down the street, and when he spies an open air cafe, he puts his hand on the young man's shoulder to halt him.
“I could use some dinner,” he says softly. “Have you eaten?”
Edward grunts. “Not hungry.”
Mustang appears to consider this, to mask his concern, for it's utterly unlike Fullmetal to ever be without his appetite. He studies the face of the young man waiting next to him, hollow eyed and pale, and makes his decision. Grasping his elbow, Mustang steers the tired alchemist toward a table. “Humor me,” he insists, ready to override any protest Edward makes, but Fullmetal only mutters beneath his breath and lets the Colonel deposit him in a chair.
However, his glare is as poisonous as ever. “You're a pushy bastard, you know that?” He settles back stiffly in the chair, giving him dirty looks as the Colonel calls over a waiter and orders food for both of them. Once the server has left, Edward kicks the leg of Mustang's chair. “I told you I wasn't hungry.”
Taking a sip from the glass of water the waiter had brought, Mustang gives the younger man a cool stare and disregards the comment. Edward finally glances down first, brows drawn into a sulky line, the line of his mouth angry, but he says nothing. It's simple fare, and though the Colonel hasn't much of an appetite either he still forces himself to eat. The hangover and illness of his previous night with Fullmetal is still strong in his memory, and he doesn't care to repeat it. After a few minutes Edward follows suit, nibbling at a roll and picking choice bites from the pasta dish Mustang ordered for him.
They don't talk as they eat, and Edward's plate is still mostly full when he declares himself finished. Mustang pays, and helps the young man to his feet, enduring the angry grumbling that accompanies. Arm slung casually around his shoulders, helping to support Fullmetal without really appearing to, he asks, “Where are we going?”
“Get the fuck off,” Fullmetal grouses, trying to shrug him away. “I've got a room at the Bluefield Inn, it's about a block away. Move your goddamn arm!”
The Colonel ignores him. “Be sensible,” he says. “You're exhausted, you can barely walk.”
Fullmetal grits his teeth. “I'll be fine,” he growls, and shoves at him again.
With Edward pushing and bitching, and Mustang half-hauling him down the street, they make it back to the inn. Finally succeeding in freeing himself from the older man's arm, Edward throws himself at the stairs going up the side of the building with a grim determination. He's panting by the time they reach the second floor, but he looks at though he might bite the Colonel's hand off if he tries to assist him again, so he lets it go. A quick fumble with keys; the door swings open and Mustang can feel the change that comes over everything.
This is where it becomes real.
He places his bag on the floor, just as he did the last time, waiting for the familiar rush of memory- the sand, the heat, and overwhelming fear. But it's just Fullmetal, a rickety looking bed and dresser set, a stand with a blue-edged basin of water near the bathroom door. Yellowing chintz curtains, and a patchwork rug trying to make the cheap little room homey. He's nearly frozen in disbelief, shocked at the disparity, until Edward breaks the moment.
“What the hell's wrong with you?”
For a split second he almost answers, the guns are silent. But he catches himself, unable to expose that to Fullmetal, and instead replies curtly, “Nothing.” He feels the pressure building in the room, like the change in the air before a storm, and can't think of a thing to say. Stands beside the door, as Edward sits on the bed; they're both staring at one another, and it's hanging right there between them...
Once again, Edward is the first to speak. “Sit down,” he tells him gruffly. And all at once Mustang can see the young man unraveling before him, the shadows deepening beneath his eyes, tension held tightly under control until now spilling loose. “Fuck, just... don't look at me like that.”
He moves over to the bed, settling carefully on the edge and turns toward Fullmetal. “You want to talk about what happened this time?” he inquires carefully. “Try to work it out?”
A harsh crack of laughter splits Edward's lips, but his eyes are angry. “What, are you some kind of fucking counselor now? Shit, Mustang, I thought you had more sense than that.” He rips his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, throwing it on the floor. His vest follows, as well as his black tank, and the automail gleams dully in the fading light. “Therapy's a load of crap. I want this shit driven out of me.”
He leans over the far side of the bed, and when he sits up he's holding a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Here,” he says, shoving it into the Colonel's hands, “you want this? It's what's left from last time.”
Mustang stares down at the bottle, a strange blend of duty and disappointment mingling in his chest. “You're in a big hurry tonight,” he remarks, but he opens the bottle and takes a slug. Heat rushes down his throat, a burn he can feel clear to his fingertips, and he sets the drink aside.
Edward is already working on his ridiculously tight black pants. “You would be too,” he grunts, tugging at the clinging leather, “if you had this shit inside your head.” Kicks them aside, mismatched hands playing at the elastic of his boxers. “Last time,” he says, almost thoughtfully, “the sex made it all stop for a while. I mean, it was still there...”
“It's always there,” Mustang murmurs, but Fullmetal doesn't stop.
“...but I could handle it. And I need that break.” The boxers drop to the floor without a sound, and Edward stretches out naked across the duvet, arms flexed above his head. “It's like I live with it, all the time now,” he continues, his voice softer. “Explosions and fucking sick bastards who think everyone is a potential experiment. Shit I don't even have words for. I hate it. I fucking hate it, and I just want it to go away so I don't have to feel it inside me all the goddamn time.”
He can feel the weight of the responsibility Fullmetal is placing on him, as he had not when he was the one laying it on another's shoulders. It's humbling, unsettling, and still more than a little bewildering that the young man he's always seemed to find himself at odds with would extend this degree of trust his way, and he finds himself wondering if Edward sees this arrangement in those terms. Or does the other alchemist see only the results, and not the man delivering them?
Even if Edward does not, the Colonel takes such trust seriously, though the obligation may be one he'd far rather defer. He hesitates, then picks up the bottle of scotch again, takes another drink straight from the mouth, imbibing liquid courage to assist him in taking the next step and helping the young man as he'd promised he would. Fullmetal watches him, gold eyes gleaming in the dimming light, and the scrutiny brings a strange feeling of self-consciousness he hasn't encountered in years. The smirk pulls his lips up, his familiar shield against doubts. “Undressing me with your eyes?” he quips, setting the bottle aside once again.
“Undressing you with my fucking blade, if you don't hurry up,” Edward snaps in reply. “Get your clothes off, Mustang.”
He remembers the last time, and how he could almost feel the desert heat on his skin as he stripped in that hotel room. This time he feels nothing, simply the slip of fabric as he removes shirt and slacks, undershirt and boxers, and when he is bare Mustang wants nothing more than to pull the covers over his naked body. Stretched before him, Fullmetal gives him a sharp look, but he can't bring himself to touch the younger man. No matter his intentions, there are miles of emptiness between himself and the golden haired youth glaring at him from the pillows, and without Ishval's sharp wind at his back, the distance is insurmountable.
“Well?” Bright eyes snap with impatience, something frantic clawing behind them. “What are you waiting for?”
Heat and flame. Explosions, and the taste of death. I'm waiting for the guns to rattle to life.
“For fuck's sake!” Edward snarls, frustrated, desperate. “Drink your goddamn scotch! What the hell do I have to do, put on a fucking skirt?”
He's frozen again, unable to reach out, and unable to reach back, to the desolation he created and the terrible pain that allowed him to put Edward's need before his own fears. He's caught in the middle; this is not Ishval, and at this moment the safety of peace is almost too much to bear. Edward thrusts the bottle into his hands, but he doesn't trust himself not to spill the liquor. “I'm sorry,” he hears himself say. “I don't know...”
“Don't know?” The words crack across the room with whiplash sharpness. Edward pushes himself up to sit, expression dangerous, and points a accusatory finger at him. “Are you backing out?”
“No,” he replies, “But this is hard, Edward.”
“Wasn't too hard for you last time.” He leans forward, his face close to the Colonel's. “What did you come out here for, if not for this?”
“This is what I came for,” he protests. “But these are hardly normal circumstances.”
“Nothing's fucking normal, Mustang!” Bright eyes glitter angrily, and he abruptly flops back on the bed, rolling to turn his back on the Colonel. “Fuck you. If you can't do it, just get the hell out.”
“Edward...”
Sullen silence. Mustang stares at the broad back, confused and ashamed. Without the memories of Ishval coursing through him like the blood in his veins, forcing him to relive those darkest of days, he couldn't imagine laying a hand on Edward. But now, seeing him pulling in on himself, holding in all the pieces that are broken on the inside, he wonders. Is it Edward he's running from, or is it himself? Reminders from a war that nearly broke him, and turned everything he believed in on end...
In the silence, Fullmetal sighs, though he doesn't turn back. “Look, I know this is weird. It's all fucked up, and so am I, and there's no reason you should be involved. I just... I thought you'd understand. Hughes said...you... shit. It doesn't matter. Nevermind.”
It's just sex.
His hand lifts, trembling slightly. Fingertips graze the bare expanse of skin at the back of Fullmetal's neck, eliciting a shiver.
It doesn't have to mean a damn thing.
Scooting closer, hand traveling down the curve of his back, slipping across the narrow waist. Palming the hard bone at his hip, thumb stroking the sensitive flesh that dips toward his groin. Edward groans deep in his throat, sounding almost pained, as Mustang settles behind him and rests his forehead against the cool plate of the port at Edward's shoulder.
...just sex...
It's awkward, halting. There's a pause, and fumbling for the tube of lubricant, and a moment where the Colonel has to stop and just breathe. Fullmetal rolls to face him, golden eyes half-lidded, hands surprisingly gentle as they reach between his legs to stroke him, and if he closes his eyes he can almost believe that he wants to be here. That this heat between himself and Edward is more than solace or duty, and not at all connected to the unnameable horrors which brought them to this point.
His fingers coated with lube, and Fullmetal's heavy automail leg slung over his hip. Blunt fingers dig into his bicep as his own press and probe, and Edward is moaning, eyes closed, lips curled back over his teeth in an ecstatic snarl. He feels the tight ring of muscle loosening, stretching as he moves his hand in a teasing slide that makes the younger man pant out a flurry of curses, head rolling on the pillow.
What had seemed impossible earlier is now the sole purpose his mind can hold. To push himself deep inside of this body writhing at his touch, to pump and thrust until he's spent and exhausted, and he echoes Edward's sigh when he finally removes his hand.
“Now,” the young man whispers. “Please...”
“Yes,” Mustang answers.
~*~*~
He awakens in the early hours of morning, before the sun has risen, hair in his mouth, and an aching back that comes from laying too long in one position. His mind still fogged and drowsy, he runs his hand across his face, brushing aside the bothersome hairs and yawns widely. Caught between his body's desire for more rest, and the disquiet in his mind from another bad dream, he struggles to pull himself from the depths of slumber just enough to settle his unease. His eyelids are heavy, crusted with sleep, and he pries them open with some reluctance only to discover Edward's face mere inches from his own, mouth agape as he breathes out in quiet snores.
The sight startles Mustang to full awareness, though he dares not move for fear of waking his unusual bedmate. Despite how intimately he now knows the lithe, muscular body curled beside him, it seems beyond belief to be here with Edward. The young man had griped and complained when he refused to sleep on the floor again, finally relenting and scooting to the side just enough for him to lie down. They had lain back to back, distant as strangers, and the bed had grown cold between them. There was no talk; they did not touch. They may as well have been in separate rooms, and Mustang slipped into sleep almost forgetting about the naked man curled in the sheets behind him.
But he's unprepared to wake this way, with the distance between them closed, and Edward's head on his pillow. The warmth of another body next to his awakens its own brand of terror, and flight from this shared bed is the first option that occurs to him. The situation is too familiar; the purpose that calls him to this room doesn't encompass affection, only sex and relief. And to question that unspoken agreement would mean allowing his thoughts to go places he's far too uncomfortable to study up close.
He's grateful that the young alchemist still sleeps; he doesn't want to see those wide golden eyes studying him as though they can see through all his secrets. Too much control has already been lost in this situation, through Edward's easy handling of him and Ishval's shadows. A distinct line has always been marked out in his life, between the atrocities that exist in his past and all the years that remain to him, and Fullmetal belongs to the present, where Roy Mustang is in command of himself and nearly everything around him. Not slipping the border, back to the despairing, endless days of his existence in the desert.
I should stop this, he thinks. The desire to escape back to the life he'd made his own peace with, to do away with this arrangement that is threatening to irrevocably alter his own equilibrium, is almost unbearable. He closes his eyes again, his chest achingly tight. He hasn't thought of Ishval so much in years; the cancer the war left in his soul has been dormant for so long he'd thought it gone. But it is blooming again, spreading through him like poison, leeching into his dreams and even his waking hours. Time has not dulled the anguish of guilt over his crimes, and his avoidance of the memories has only served to make them all the more painful. And Fullmetal, with his own scars and fears, has become a living reminder of the things he's sought to lock away.
His heart is racing, I can't stay, I cannot stay here, in this bed, the need for flight building to an almost cloying panic. The bag is still beside the door; it would be easy to slip from the sheets, collect his clothes and be gone before the young man awakens. He could spare himself the image of his own desperation, cast in Edward's face, the undeniable proof of the damage he has wrought in his fellow. If he doesn't have to face those eyes, he can still pretend that Fullmetal is strong and impervious, and nothing like himself...
Next to him, Edward sighs in his sleep. A warm ankle hooks over his calf, and Mustang's eyes flare open again at the unexpected contact. Edward's face is pressed into the pillow, smooth and peaceful as it never is when he's awake, and observing him Mustang feels almost like an intruder in the scene, stealing something he has no right to claim. Remorse prickles in his stomach, and he finds he is deeply shamed by his earlier impulses.
How simple- how cowardly- it would be to sneak away, and pretend that his obligation to Edward has been fulfilled. He has lived the hopelessness and horror that his companion now endures, and with bleak realization he knows he cannot go. He chose his sins, followed the orders he received even as he knew they were wrong, twisted. And while he's always made sure that the orders he gave were just, they have still led this young man to the same depths of despair. And Edward never, never deserved that.
“We take care of our own,” Maes said, eyes serious behind the smudged lenses. “No one else out here is going to save us.”
He has many failings. But one basic thing that's been drilled into him since he entered the Academy, since before he ever wore the first stripe or star, was to never desert a comrade in need. And even if Fullmetal draws the darkness from its hiding places in his heart, Mustang cannot abandon him. They both share these wounds of the spirit, and though it may be too late for the Colonel to be redeemed, there's still a chance for him to keep Edward from being a part of the sins he witnesses.
I'll protect him, Maes, he vows silently. Just as you looked after me, I'll take care of Fullmetal. I won't let him be broken, or tainted. I won't let him be like me.
Greatly daring, he carefully touches the sleeping man's unlined face, fingertips trailing along the curve of the stubborn jaw. “I won't take any more of your innocence,” he murmurs in quiet promise, resting his forehead against the crown of gold hair. A curious contentment settles over him, as though he is somehow more complete at this moment than he's been in years, and in a matter of minutes he's asleep as well, his breath whispering in tandem with the young man curled at his side.
~*~*~
When he wakes again, Edward is gone.
next chapter
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17, or at least kinda close.
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
previous chapters
A/N: Many apologies for the Scene of Godawful Suck at the end of this segment. I rewrote it something like four times, and still hate it passionately, but this is likely the best I can make it without letting it sit for a month and coming back to it fresh. And even then, I probably wouldn't like it very much, and would just bitch and cry and whine about having to deal with it again.
evil_whimsey deserves so much credit, because without her, it would be absolutely dreadful. Such a mess. I'm so unhappy.So... here it is. I'm moving on. Please don't hate me; I'm really sorry.
The town is Estmont, about an hour and a half from Central. A small, bustling town that Mustang is somewhat familiar with, though it's been quite a while since he's had any business there. This time, knowing the purpose of his trip, he changes from his uniform to civilian garb before boarding, intentionally taking one of the earlier trains indicated, next to a wobbling line of insults (hate you, I hate you bastard, sending me out here...), and the sky is still warm with the glow of the setting sun when he arrives at the station.
He'd been tempted to travel on one of the later options, but it would only postpone the inevitable. And considering Edward's physical state, he can see no kindness in making him wait pointless hours on a bench, watching trains rumble in and out. Besides, he thinks as he steps from the train and sees Fullmetal's eyebrows shoot up with surprise, he wouldn't want to become too predictable.
The Colonel walks over to meet the young man, still draped across the bench in his dirty red coat. As he approaches, Edward gives him an odd, weary stare. “Miss me so much?” he drawls, gold eyes dull and flat, and even his humor sounds forced.
“How could I pass up something so appealing?” he replies in the same tone, gesturing at the bedraggled young man, and Edward huffs with wry amusement.
“Fucking bastard. ” He straightens with a quickly suppressed groan, left leg stretched out before him. “Shit, I ache everywhere.” He levers himself to his feet, swaying a bit and waving away the hand Mustang extends to him. “No, just gimme a minute. Leg's not working right.”
“Why didn't you go to your mechanic before you came back?” the Colonel asks, and the look Edward gives him is bleak.
“I'm not gonna go there like this.”
Mustang wants to reach out and steady Fullmetal, who seems about to topple over, but knows the gesture wouldn't be accepted. “I'm sure she's seen worse.”
Edward glances away. “That's not what I mean,” he answers, and then shakes his head. “I don't want to talk about it.”
He wavers for another moment, then stumbles forward, leading the way into town, Mustang striding unobtrusively at his shoulder, prepared to catch him if he falls. It bothers him to see how much it takes out of Fullmetal to simply walk down the street, and when he spies an open air cafe, he puts his hand on the young man's shoulder to halt him.
“I could use some dinner,” he says softly. “Have you eaten?”
Edward grunts. “Not hungry.”
Mustang appears to consider this, to mask his concern, for it's utterly unlike Fullmetal to ever be without his appetite. He studies the face of the young man waiting next to him, hollow eyed and pale, and makes his decision. Grasping his elbow, Mustang steers the tired alchemist toward a table. “Humor me,” he insists, ready to override any protest Edward makes, but Fullmetal only mutters beneath his breath and lets the Colonel deposit him in a chair.
However, his glare is as poisonous as ever. “You're a pushy bastard, you know that?” He settles back stiffly in the chair, giving him dirty looks as the Colonel calls over a waiter and orders food for both of them. Once the server has left, Edward kicks the leg of Mustang's chair. “I told you I wasn't hungry.”
Taking a sip from the glass of water the waiter had brought, Mustang gives the younger man a cool stare and disregards the comment. Edward finally glances down first, brows drawn into a sulky line, the line of his mouth angry, but he says nothing. It's simple fare, and though the Colonel hasn't much of an appetite either he still forces himself to eat. The hangover and illness of his previous night with Fullmetal is still strong in his memory, and he doesn't care to repeat it. After a few minutes Edward follows suit, nibbling at a roll and picking choice bites from the pasta dish Mustang ordered for him.
They don't talk as they eat, and Edward's plate is still mostly full when he declares himself finished. Mustang pays, and helps the young man to his feet, enduring the angry grumbling that accompanies. Arm slung casually around his shoulders, helping to support Fullmetal without really appearing to, he asks, “Where are we going?”
“Get the fuck off,” Fullmetal grouses, trying to shrug him away. “I've got a room at the Bluefield Inn, it's about a block away. Move your goddamn arm!”
The Colonel ignores him. “Be sensible,” he says. “You're exhausted, you can barely walk.”
Fullmetal grits his teeth. “I'll be fine,” he growls, and shoves at him again.
With Edward pushing and bitching, and Mustang half-hauling him down the street, they make it back to the inn. Finally succeeding in freeing himself from the older man's arm, Edward throws himself at the stairs going up the side of the building with a grim determination. He's panting by the time they reach the second floor, but he looks at though he might bite the Colonel's hand off if he tries to assist him again, so he lets it go. A quick fumble with keys; the door swings open and Mustang can feel the change that comes over everything.
This is where it becomes real.
He places his bag on the floor, just as he did the last time, waiting for the familiar rush of memory- the sand, the heat, and overwhelming fear. But it's just Fullmetal, a rickety looking bed and dresser set, a stand with a blue-edged basin of water near the bathroom door. Yellowing chintz curtains, and a patchwork rug trying to make the cheap little room homey. He's nearly frozen in disbelief, shocked at the disparity, until Edward breaks the moment.
“What the hell's wrong with you?”
For a split second he almost answers, the guns are silent. But he catches himself, unable to expose that to Fullmetal, and instead replies curtly, “Nothing.” He feels the pressure building in the room, like the change in the air before a storm, and can't think of a thing to say. Stands beside the door, as Edward sits on the bed; they're both staring at one another, and it's hanging right there between them...
Once again, Edward is the first to speak. “Sit down,” he tells him gruffly. And all at once Mustang can see the young man unraveling before him, the shadows deepening beneath his eyes, tension held tightly under control until now spilling loose. “Fuck, just... don't look at me like that.”
He moves over to the bed, settling carefully on the edge and turns toward Fullmetal. “You want to talk about what happened this time?” he inquires carefully. “Try to work it out?”
A harsh crack of laughter splits Edward's lips, but his eyes are angry. “What, are you some kind of fucking counselor now? Shit, Mustang, I thought you had more sense than that.” He rips his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, throwing it on the floor. His vest follows, as well as his black tank, and the automail gleams dully in the fading light. “Therapy's a load of crap. I want this shit driven out of me.”
He leans over the far side of the bed, and when he sits up he's holding a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Here,” he says, shoving it into the Colonel's hands, “you want this? It's what's left from last time.”
Mustang stares down at the bottle, a strange blend of duty and disappointment mingling in his chest. “You're in a big hurry tonight,” he remarks, but he opens the bottle and takes a slug. Heat rushes down his throat, a burn he can feel clear to his fingertips, and he sets the drink aside.
Edward is already working on his ridiculously tight black pants. “You would be too,” he grunts, tugging at the clinging leather, “if you had this shit inside your head.” Kicks them aside, mismatched hands playing at the elastic of his boxers. “Last time,” he says, almost thoughtfully, “the sex made it all stop for a while. I mean, it was still there...”
“It's always there,” Mustang murmurs, but Fullmetal doesn't stop.
“...but I could handle it. And I need that break.” The boxers drop to the floor without a sound, and Edward stretches out naked across the duvet, arms flexed above his head. “It's like I live with it, all the time now,” he continues, his voice softer. “Explosions and fucking sick bastards who think everyone is a potential experiment. Shit I don't even have words for. I hate it. I fucking hate it, and I just want it to go away so I don't have to feel it inside me all the goddamn time.”
He can feel the weight of the responsibility Fullmetal is placing on him, as he had not when he was the one laying it on another's shoulders. It's humbling, unsettling, and still more than a little bewildering that the young man he's always seemed to find himself at odds with would extend this degree of trust his way, and he finds himself wondering if Edward sees this arrangement in those terms. Or does the other alchemist see only the results, and not the man delivering them?
Even if Edward does not, the Colonel takes such trust seriously, though the obligation may be one he'd far rather defer. He hesitates, then picks up the bottle of scotch again, takes another drink straight from the mouth, imbibing liquid courage to assist him in taking the next step and helping the young man as he'd promised he would. Fullmetal watches him, gold eyes gleaming in the dimming light, and the scrutiny brings a strange feeling of self-consciousness he hasn't encountered in years. The smirk pulls his lips up, his familiar shield against doubts. “Undressing me with your eyes?” he quips, setting the bottle aside once again.
“Undressing you with my fucking blade, if you don't hurry up,” Edward snaps in reply. “Get your clothes off, Mustang.”
He remembers the last time, and how he could almost feel the desert heat on his skin as he stripped in that hotel room. This time he feels nothing, simply the slip of fabric as he removes shirt and slacks, undershirt and boxers, and when he is bare Mustang wants nothing more than to pull the covers over his naked body. Stretched before him, Fullmetal gives him a sharp look, but he can't bring himself to touch the younger man. No matter his intentions, there are miles of emptiness between himself and the golden haired youth glaring at him from the pillows, and without Ishval's sharp wind at his back, the distance is insurmountable.
“Well?” Bright eyes snap with impatience, something frantic clawing behind them. “What are you waiting for?”
Heat and flame. Explosions, and the taste of death. I'm waiting for the guns to rattle to life.
“For fuck's sake!” Edward snarls, frustrated, desperate. “Drink your goddamn scotch! What the hell do I have to do, put on a fucking skirt?”
He's frozen again, unable to reach out, and unable to reach back, to the desolation he created and the terrible pain that allowed him to put Edward's need before his own fears. He's caught in the middle; this is not Ishval, and at this moment the safety of peace is almost too much to bear. Edward thrusts the bottle into his hands, but he doesn't trust himself not to spill the liquor. “I'm sorry,” he hears himself say. “I don't know...”
“Don't know?” The words crack across the room with whiplash sharpness. Edward pushes himself up to sit, expression dangerous, and points a accusatory finger at him. “Are you backing out?”
“No,” he replies, “But this is hard, Edward.”
“Wasn't too hard for you last time.” He leans forward, his face close to the Colonel's. “What did you come out here for, if not for this?”
“This is what I came for,” he protests. “But these are hardly normal circumstances.”
“Nothing's fucking normal, Mustang!” Bright eyes glitter angrily, and he abruptly flops back on the bed, rolling to turn his back on the Colonel. “Fuck you. If you can't do it, just get the hell out.”
“Edward...”
Sullen silence. Mustang stares at the broad back, confused and ashamed. Without the memories of Ishval coursing through him like the blood in his veins, forcing him to relive those darkest of days, he couldn't imagine laying a hand on Edward. But now, seeing him pulling in on himself, holding in all the pieces that are broken on the inside, he wonders. Is it Edward he's running from, or is it himself? Reminders from a war that nearly broke him, and turned everything he believed in on end...
In the silence, Fullmetal sighs, though he doesn't turn back. “Look, I know this is weird. It's all fucked up, and so am I, and there's no reason you should be involved. I just... I thought you'd understand. Hughes said...you... shit. It doesn't matter. Nevermind.”
It's just sex.
His hand lifts, trembling slightly. Fingertips graze the bare expanse of skin at the back of Fullmetal's neck, eliciting a shiver.
It doesn't have to mean a damn thing.
Scooting closer, hand traveling down the curve of his back, slipping across the narrow waist. Palming the hard bone at his hip, thumb stroking the sensitive flesh that dips toward his groin. Edward groans deep in his throat, sounding almost pained, as Mustang settles behind him and rests his forehead against the cool plate of the port at Edward's shoulder.
...just sex...
It's awkward, halting. There's a pause, and fumbling for the tube of lubricant, and a moment where the Colonel has to stop and just breathe. Fullmetal rolls to face him, golden eyes half-lidded, hands surprisingly gentle as they reach between his legs to stroke him, and if he closes his eyes he can almost believe that he wants to be here. That this heat between himself and Edward is more than solace or duty, and not at all connected to the unnameable horrors which brought them to this point.
His fingers coated with lube, and Fullmetal's heavy automail leg slung over his hip. Blunt fingers dig into his bicep as his own press and probe, and Edward is moaning, eyes closed, lips curled back over his teeth in an ecstatic snarl. He feels the tight ring of muscle loosening, stretching as he moves his hand in a teasing slide that makes the younger man pant out a flurry of curses, head rolling on the pillow.
What had seemed impossible earlier is now the sole purpose his mind can hold. To push himself deep inside of this body writhing at his touch, to pump and thrust until he's spent and exhausted, and he echoes Edward's sigh when he finally removes his hand.
“Now,” the young man whispers. “Please...”
“Yes,” Mustang answers.
He awakens in the early hours of morning, before the sun has risen, hair in his mouth, and an aching back that comes from laying too long in one position. His mind still fogged and drowsy, he runs his hand across his face, brushing aside the bothersome hairs and yawns widely. Caught between his body's desire for more rest, and the disquiet in his mind from another bad dream, he struggles to pull himself from the depths of slumber just enough to settle his unease. His eyelids are heavy, crusted with sleep, and he pries them open with some reluctance only to discover Edward's face mere inches from his own, mouth agape as he breathes out in quiet snores.
The sight startles Mustang to full awareness, though he dares not move for fear of waking his unusual bedmate. Despite how intimately he now knows the lithe, muscular body curled beside him, it seems beyond belief to be here with Edward. The young man had griped and complained when he refused to sleep on the floor again, finally relenting and scooting to the side just enough for him to lie down. They had lain back to back, distant as strangers, and the bed had grown cold between them. There was no talk; they did not touch. They may as well have been in separate rooms, and Mustang slipped into sleep almost forgetting about the naked man curled in the sheets behind him.
But he's unprepared to wake this way, with the distance between them closed, and Edward's head on his pillow. The warmth of another body next to his awakens its own brand of terror, and flight from this shared bed is the first option that occurs to him. The situation is too familiar; the purpose that calls him to this room doesn't encompass affection, only sex and relief. And to question that unspoken agreement would mean allowing his thoughts to go places he's far too uncomfortable to study up close.
He's grateful that the young alchemist still sleeps; he doesn't want to see those wide golden eyes studying him as though they can see through all his secrets. Too much control has already been lost in this situation, through Edward's easy handling of him and Ishval's shadows. A distinct line has always been marked out in his life, between the atrocities that exist in his past and all the years that remain to him, and Fullmetal belongs to the present, where Roy Mustang is in command of himself and nearly everything around him. Not slipping the border, back to the despairing, endless days of his existence in the desert.
I should stop this, he thinks. The desire to escape back to the life he'd made his own peace with, to do away with this arrangement that is threatening to irrevocably alter his own equilibrium, is almost unbearable. He closes his eyes again, his chest achingly tight. He hasn't thought of Ishval so much in years; the cancer the war left in his soul has been dormant for so long he'd thought it gone. But it is blooming again, spreading through him like poison, leeching into his dreams and even his waking hours. Time has not dulled the anguish of guilt over his crimes, and his avoidance of the memories has only served to make them all the more painful. And Fullmetal, with his own scars and fears, has become a living reminder of the things he's sought to lock away.
His heart is racing, I can't stay, I cannot stay here, in this bed, the need for flight building to an almost cloying panic. The bag is still beside the door; it would be easy to slip from the sheets, collect his clothes and be gone before the young man awakens. He could spare himself the image of his own desperation, cast in Edward's face, the undeniable proof of the damage he has wrought in his fellow. If he doesn't have to face those eyes, he can still pretend that Fullmetal is strong and impervious, and nothing like himself...
Next to him, Edward sighs in his sleep. A warm ankle hooks over his calf, and Mustang's eyes flare open again at the unexpected contact. Edward's face is pressed into the pillow, smooth and peaceful as it never is when he's awake, and observing him Mustang feels almost like an intruder in the scene, stealing something he has no right to claim. Remorse prickles in his stomach, and he finds he is deeply shamed by his earlier impulses.
How simple- how cowardly- it would be to sneak away, and pretend that his obligation to Edward has been fulfilled. He has lived the hopelessness and horror that his companion now endures, and with bleak realization he knows he cannot go. He chose his sins, followed the orders he received even as he knew they were wrong, twisted. And while he's always made sure that the orders he gave were just, they have still led this young man to the same depths of despair. And Edward never, never deserved that.
“We take care of our own,” Maes said, eyes serious behind the smudged lenses. “No one else out here is going to save us.”
He has many failings. But one basic thing that's been drilled into him since he entered the Academy, since before he ever wore the first stripe or star, was to never desert a comrade in need. And even if Fullmetal draws the darkness from its hiding places in his heart, Mustang cannot abandon him. They both share these wounds of the spirit, and though it may be too late for the Colonel to be redeemed, there's still a chance for him to keep Edward from being a part of the sins he witnesses.
I'll protect him, Maes, he vows silently. Just as you looked after me, I'll take care of Fullmetal. I won't let him be broken, or tainted. I won't let him be like me.
Greatly daring, he carefully touches the sleeping man's unlined face, fingertips trailing along the curve of the stubborn jaw. “I won't take any more of your innocence,” he murmurs in quiet promise, resting his forehead against the crown of gold hair. A curious contentment settles over him, as though he is somehow more complete at this moment than he's been in years, and in a matter of minutes he's asleep as well, his breath whispering in tandem with the young man curled at his side.
When he wakes again, Edward is gone.
next chapter
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Date: 2009-05-21 11:26 pm (UTC)I love the dynamic between these two. Two alpha males, both proud and stubborn and too smart for their own good, neither of them willing to give ground. And both of them too damn stupid in a lot of ways, choosing the wrong paths for the wrong reasons... they're just delectably fucked up. Schadenfreude, yes, but isn't it lovely? *evil grin*
I really hope you'll be satisfied with the end we're moving toward. Getting there as fast as I can!!
Thanks for reading, hon! Means a lot to me!