We Invented the Remix...Redux V

Title: Behind Every Good Man (Soldiers Delight)
Author: Tad (tad_coast)
Summary: What shouldn't be so simple is, while what he wishes can't.
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Pairing: Maes Hughes/Roy Mustang
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied yaoi. Original story nsfw.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: None
Title, Author and URL of original story: Behind Every Good Man by Karotsamused


Red filters through the window behind him, and he wonders if there are fishermen somewhere praising the promise of tomorrow's prosperity. Red sky at night, sailors delight. That's how it goes, isn't it?

Not that it matters. He isn't looking at the sunset, his focus instead on folding a single sheet of paper into neat fourths. He's more careful with it than he is with most things, aligning the edges, pressing sharp creases into the page. It's a very important document, after all, because in tiny black letters, it spells out the rest of his life.

…due to escalating conflict, Furher King Bradley has declared Amestris to be in a state of war. Major Roy Mustang, you are hereby assigned to the Fourth Unit of State Alchemists in service to both Furher and Country. Report to Central Command by noon on…

Amazing how easily it reads, just like any other order.

He sets the document on a metal plate when he's satisfied with its shape, and slips on one of his own inventions. Gloves made of fire-starting cloth, inked with a transmutation circle; such a simple idea that it's a wonder no one has thought of it before him.

Or maybe someone has, and they're just afraid of a paper like this. Just as afraid as he is.

The door opens just as he snaps his fingers, compresses and shifts the air to set the page on fire. Hardly a second passes before it's engulfed, hungry flame eating away at the same fibers that make up any piece of paper, and that aren't so different from the ones that make up humans.

"Starting a bonfire, Major Mustang?" Hughes shuts the door behind him and with a grin walks over to where Roy is standing. "I'd have brought marshmallows if I'd known."

"I'd settle for a good bottle of scotch instead." Roy's smirk is just as smug, just as confident as Hughes' is casual and relaxed. Neither of them fools the other with the façade, but they'll play at it anyway, at least until they can no longer find comfort in the illusion.

"Fresh out, I'm afraid. But I can add something to your little bonfire there." And as Roy watches, Hughes crumples one of the hundreds of papers just like Roy's own before tossing it into the fire.

So damn amazing.

They stand there in silence, watching their orders burn, wondering if somehow the act might change what is to come. But only ashes are left when the flame goes out, reality untouched by heat or childish hopes.

Hughes is the first to speak, the first to reach out once their ritual is done with a gentle "come here." Roy forgets sometimes how strong Hughes is, at least until moments like this, when he's pressed back against the man's tight chest, wrapped up in a hold so tight that he feels incapable of escaping it, should that be what he wants.

It isn't.

"We'll make it, Roy." And he sounds so sure of it, so confident that Roy can almost believe it. But he's already traded away his innocence for flame and a pocket watch, for the pile of ashes that spells out the rest of their lives. Even if they survive, there's no predicting what horrors they'll see played out before them, or the ones designed by their own hands, by the quick snap of his fingers.

He wants it to be so simple, something that Hughes can promise with a few words. But they, the men they are now, standing together...they won't make it.

But Hughes knows well Roy enough to read the doubt in the silence, and in the creases of his frown. He laughs as he kisses those premature wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, teasing Roy with his tone. "You worry too much. We will make it Roy, you and me both. No matter what happens, we're both stronger than that. And don't try to say you aren't."

Roy turns his head just enough for Hughes to see the scowl in his eyes. He doesn't like being predictable. "You've gotten pretty cocky for a lower ranked officer, you know."

"Yeah, well, what can I say?" He laughs again, the sound blissfully carefree, as if the war will still be as far away tomorrow as it has been all along. "I know your strength better than anyone. Plus you've got a bit of an advantage working for you."

Roy doesn't need to ask what, because he knows what Hughes means. "And just what is that?"

"Me." Arms tighten around him, reminding him with more than just a word. "I'm going to be with there with you, Roy. Standing behind you just like I am now, without letting go."

His chest tightens at that, his breath purposely stopped so he doesn't accidentally sob. Such confidence, such faith, and all with an ease that might make anyone else think Hughes believes it too. Part of Roy admires Hughes' spirit for that. Part of him is jealous of it. Part of him wants to scream at Hughes for it, and fear makes that the easiest thing to do right now.

"Damn it Maes!" Roy doesn't turn, doesn't have to for Hughes to know the desperation guised as anger in his eyes. It's obvious anyway, from the way Roy's nails are digging into the man's arms, fingers white-knuckled and holding tightly enough to bruise. "Stop trying to make it sound so simple. We aren't going on a picnic."

"No, we're not." Hughes is serious now in the way that Roy needs: that sudden unexpected change from uncaring to controlled, sharper than a slap across the cheek. "It's not a picnic or a walk in the park. It's war, something that can kill a man inside and out.."

"And I'm afraid of it, Roy. Just as terrified as you are. But we're still going there, and nothing's going to change that."

War. The word is all he can hear when Hughes pauses, echoes off every wall and in Roy's mind. Hughes is right; nothing is going to change it. He can't make it go away with the warmth of Hughes's body, or the beat of the heart so close to his own. Not with a hold so tight it makes his hands ache, and taints his nails red with blood.

"So tonight I've decided not to be afraid." Roy can feel Hughes's smile when he speaks, as he kisses the corner of his mouth. "There's nothing left that's guaranteed but here and now, and I'm going to take advantage of that."

He's slipping now, body trembling under too many emotions to name. The most terrible thing about war, he decides, is how it twists something so precious and so perfect into the kind of weakness the enemy loves.

And soon, so soon...

But soon isn't now, Hughes tells him in gentle touches of lips to the line of his jaw. Now is this night, this chance to make their promises to each other, and to themselves. And when Hughes claims his mouth at last, Roy returns the kiss with furious honesty, letting his tongue and his teeth and his lips scream how much he desires, and how much he needs.

"Don't stop." He groans against Hughes's mouth, both in plea and demand. "Don't you dare stop."

*

Silver should shine bright through the window, but can't, because the sky is too overcast for the full moon to fight. He catches a glimpse of it at the edge of a storm cloud, and smiles to himself. "So much for happy sailors."

"Happy sailors?" Hughes grins down at Roy, relaxed against him in bed. "And just how much did you have to drink before I got here?"

"Not enough." None at all, actually, and he's just fine with that. Alcohol burns to the point of numbness, but there's time enough for that in the days to come. This calm is much more welcome, and so much more effective. "Maes."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me why." He doesn't say anything more than that, because he doesn't have to.

"You know damn well why, Roy." Hughes laughs when he replies, carefree, innocent. Unafraid.

"Tell me anyway."

So Hughes does, explains it all with quiet words until sleep overtakes him. And Roy counts each slow breath, his watch unfaltering as the sun rises, and the sky again burns crimson.