Authorly preamble or something: I don't really feel like I've read/watched quite enough FMA to write for it, but this is set quite early and I'm generally well meaning so I hope I'm not stepping on any toes. While I initially intended it to be Roy/Hughes-ish, on reflection it only comes off as such if you squint and really want to see it. Written back in 2007; I've learned a lot since then, but this is still somehow better than I recall it being. Memory's quite the critic, it seems.
Tell Him He's Missed
Roy remembers the first time he came to this bar. Well, he kind of remembers, in that vague sort of memory composed mostly of light and smell and feeling. He remembers feeling slightly out of place, and having someone place his order for him, and the strong smell of industrial solvent. He remembers realizing it was so late it was actually early, and thinking he might've fallen in love, and being violently ill, most likely in that order, though it's hard to say.
Roy Mustang sits at the bar alone, feeling as out of place as the first time he walked through that door, for the first time since he'd first walked through that door, and he knows in a way that almost hurts that it's because he's alone. The sights and sounds of his last visit here begin to surface, and he suppresses them quickly. All things in their time.
The bartender's eyes light on him, and recognition sparks with a smile. "Ah, Colonel," the man greets. "It's been a while, eh? Where you been hidin' yourself?"
Roy shrugs the question off easily. "Been busy," he explains vaguely. "Things have been hectic. As always."
"As always," the bartender echoes with a chuckle, as if sharing some joke he doesn't quite follow. "Say, where's the other? He hasn't been in in a while either." He pauses. "Not since the last time you were in, come to think."
"Busy," Roy repeats, and knows the man will not realize the layers to the word. I'm busy, he means, not he's busy. I'm busy because of him. "Things have been... hectic."
The bartender nods, chuckling again. "It's too quiet wi' him not around. Tell him he's missed, a'right?"
Roy's breath catches in his throat, and it takes a moment to steady his breathing. "I'll tell him," he lies, and slaps some coins he's managed to locate within some obscure inside pocket down onto the varnished bartop. "Something strong, all right? I want to feel this in the morning."