Almost

Author's Note: Wrote this for LJ, then wondered why it wasn't on here. Just a little sweet somethin' (with a little more Ho Yay than intended). Enjoy!

Roy Mustang, he decided, was effectively dead.

Armstrong had watched him lean against the train car windowpane for almost two hours straight now; his uniform crumpled against the plush first class seats of the car as he counted the moonlit blades of grass passing by, silent. Armstrong had pretended to be involved with his small alchemy text in attempts to keep from staring, but no words in ink could hold him from the pity that weighed his frown and heart.

The major put down his book (for around the seventh time) and stood. "I am going out for a snack, sir. Could I possibly bring you back something?"

Mustang did not move.

"Perhaps a sandwich, sir?"

Not a budge.

"A bag of peanuts?"

Nothing.

Armstong paused. "How about a hooker?"

Mustang slowly turned his head towards him. His face turned a pale yellow under the artificial light. "…They don't serve hookers on commercial trains."

Armstrong sighed. "Please, sir. Have a drink with me."

The major watched as his superior's mouth moved. It was robotic. "Why?"

"I insist."

"Why," the man asked again.

"Because… honestly, sir, I'm concerned for your health."

Mustang chuckled. "So you're going to harden my liver… for the sake of my health?"

"Yes, sir."

Mustang turned back to the window, the smile he almost had swept by the moonlight. "There's only one person I want to drink with right now."

Armstrong looked down. "Sir…" He faced him. "I—"

"Stop," the man said, closing his eyes. "I don't need to hear it."

Armstrong sighed again, then sat back down. "Understood." He bit his tongue. "…It's just—"

"It's nothing, Major," Mustang said, weak. "People come and go, and soldiers even faster than that." He turned to his fellow alchemist. "Surely, you've come understand this already."

Armstrong's stomach sank to his shoes. He found his lips sealed shut.

"Right?"

Armstrong frowned, his hands balled tight.

"No, sir," he said. "No one should—"

But before he knew it, the Major had a hand to his collar, forcing his head back as his uniform was hoisted upwards. "Get serious, will you?!" Mustang yelled. "Of course a pussy like you couldn't understand it! You're just too goddamn afraid of death to even look it in the eye! Well, guess what?! It fucking happens! It happens all the time! At least I'm dealing with it! You were just crying…!" The grip slipped. "Like a baby…"

Mustang slumped back into his seat and hung his head, pretending he hadn't prompted as much attention to their seat as he had. Further silence persisted, and after the anger in the colonel's face rested, Armstrong tried his hand at some small talk again.

"…Congratulations on your transfer, sir," he said.

Mustang bit his lip. His eyes stung. "…Thanks for helping me move out, Major."

"It's, uh, almost a promotion, sir," the major said.

"Almost," Mustang said. "I'm just filling shoes."

"You're worthy of the position."

At this, Mustang felt water cross his cheek.

"Thanks… he thought so, too."

Review, because I love getting my ego stroked. (But if you're not here to stroke it, that's okay, too.)