In Search of Fire
by Genesis R
Riza's brown eyes clearly showed her concern when Mustang told her he'd be spending the evening in his apartment. Every Friday night for the past six years — had it really been that long? It seemed both longer and far too short — he and Hughes had gone to the same bar and spent hours nursing drinks and talking about...everything. It didn't matter how burdened he'd been by the cares of the week, he would tell all to Hughes and in the small hours of the morning he'd come back to his quarters with a lighter step and a more benevolent view of the world.
But tonight, this night and forever, Hughes was dead.
"Damn you," Mustang said between gritted teeth. Something was in his eyes, biting at the corners.
"Sorry, sir?" Hawkeye's voice brought him back to the moment and he became aware of her hand on his forearm. Noticing his glance, the lieutenant quickly removed her hand, first putting it stiffly by her side, then snapping to an uneasy salute. The whole time, her eyes were on his face: trying to read him, trying to judge his emotions and how safe it was to get close to him. He didn't like being read.
"Is something wrong, lieutenant?" he asked, preempting a question she hadn't voiced.
"...No, sir. Goodnight, colonel."
"Goodnight." The response was automatic. Mustang turned away, taking down his greatcoat from the hook behind the door, and left his office, leaving the door ajar in the face of a troubled lieutenant.
Riza took two steps after him, then stopped and watched him out of sight around a corner.
— — — — —
Opening the curtains revealed the silver-white moon newly risen just outside his quarters' window. Roy poured himself a drink and sat at his desk as rigidly as if he was on review. Slowly, he let himself give in and slump lower and lower until both arms were resting crossed on the desk and his chin was resting on his arms. At last, unwilling to give in but unable to resist, he pulled forward an old framed photograph of himself and Hughes, arms around each others' shoulders after Mustang's first promotion.
Hughes had his usual ridiculous smile plastered on his face, the smile that Mustang had come to realize was both Hughes' natural expression and his defense against an unsmiling world.
I wonder if I was the only one to ever know what was beneath the mask? How dead serious he could be, even when his face was smiling. I wonder if he saw this coming? But I guess we can all see it coming. We're all going to die.
His hands curled into fists.
What's the point? He wanted to see me to the top. But without him — how meaningful can it be? What is there left to live for?
Abruptly the photograph was on the floor amidst a tinkling of broken glass. Mustang's face was buried in the crook of his right arm and he didn't care that his gloves were suddenly getting quite wet. There must be a leak in the ceiling.
oooOoOooo
Ishbal really was hell, Lt. Col. Roy Mustang was coming to realize. Blazing sun during the day and near-freezing at night. And nothing but sand to fuel a fire. He snapped his fingers restlessly, the movement warming his hand but not much else. Shrugging deeper into his greatcoat, he shoved both hands into his pockets and stared at the little square of blank gray sand that served as the tent's floor.
So much bloodshed. Such disregard for life. Even if the Ishbalans were the red-eyed demons the military propaganda was making them out to be, even demons didn't deserve what was being done to these people.
He glared with hate at the red-stoned ring sitting beside him on the cot. Today the orders had been to storm the insurgents' supposed headquarters, but instead of savage warriors defending their home, the only inhabitants had been school-children huddled against their teacher, a girl barely older than her charges.
Now the building was a smoldering pile of rubble.
Today, the school. Tomorrow, they were set to raid a hospital. A hospital!
What fiends were running this war? Was he really on the right side?
Not for the first time in the recent bloody months, Roy half-wished that some Ishbalan sniper would get his act together and simply end this. Rotten war, rotten morals, dogs of war for superior officers... What was there to live for?
"Hey there, Roy!" Major Hughes slipped in and flopped bonelessly onto his own cot. "You've got your depressed thinking face on. What's up?"
When his friend didn't answer immediately, the major sat up and looked at him, eyes tired and sympathetic.
"Look, I know war is hard to take sometimes —"
"I can handle war." Mustang's voice was clipped, angry. "I can handle blood and violence and pain. What I can't take any more is doing all that to families and children! The higher-ups tell us to capture a building no matter the cost, and we'll do it, but I wish they could understand exactly what they're asking of us, who they're telling us to kill. We need a leader who's been in the trenches, who knows what war's like, and who's willing to listen to his troops and take human life into account!" His fingers were braced, pressing harder and harder together until he thought bone would break. Beside him, the red stone glowed faintly in response.
"I know where you're going, Roy." Hughes' voice broke the tense silence. "But do you think you can handle it?"
"Handle what?"
"You know what war is. You've been in the trenches; you'll listen to reason and morals and your conscience. I'd be willing to follow you, if you ever —"
"That's not happening, Hughes. I don't want that responsibility."
"Even if it meant ending the war? Saving lives?"
"No."
"Then what are you fighting for?"
"Stop it, Hughes."
"Why are you here?"
"...I don't know."
— — — — —
The next day, he killed two doctors. Ishbalans weren't blond.
He tried to forget. He tried to forgive himself. Hell, he even tried to kill himself. But when he was awarded a medal for going above and beyond the call of duty that day, when the Führer praised him for his selfless acts in loyalty to the State on that day — that was when that he realized that Hughes was right.
There was still a reason to live. There were lives to be saved, lives that he could do something about.
Mustang would go to the top. He would be the one to end this madness. That night, when he told the major of his decision, Hughes smiled understandingly and promised his unwavering support.
oooOoOooo
And now he was dead.
"This isn't going to work, Hughes," the colonel said into the moonlit darkness of his room. "I need someone behind me. I need someone to give me motivation, remind me why I'm fighting..." he paused, smiling brokenly, "...light a fire under me. I don't — I don't know if I can do this alone."
He bent over to pick up the photograph again and he dragged his sleeve across his eyes as he looked at it. Hughes had given him a reason to live once before; now it was time for Mustang himself to provide his own impetus.
"Well, now I'm done acting like a sentimental old fool." He sighed. "If I want to make a difference, if I don't want to follow someone else's orders, I have two choices: leave the military, or claw my way to the very top. You took the easy path out; I'm not ready for that yet. So...I guess it's the same as it always has been, for me. No choice. I've got to become Führer. You were always right, old friend: there's always a reason that I am where I am. I'll make it yet, Hughes, I promise."
He drained his glass in one long, burning swallow, set the shattered photograph carefully back in its place, and touched his brow in an easy, familiar salute before going to bed.
The next week, on Friday night, Riza once again met Mustang at the door of his office. It was a week to the day that Hughes had been buried, and Hawkeye was plainly still worried about the colonel.
"Sir?"
"Mm?" He looked up from buttoning on his coat — blasted rain tonight. But at least it was raining for everyone now and not just himself.
"Will you...be all right? By yourself?"
"Don't worry about me, lieutenant. I've only got one path to follow now."
She looked shocked. "What do you mean?"
"There's a promise that I made, both to Hughes and to myself. I'm not going to follow orders any longer than I have to. Once, I thought death was the only way out. Hughes convince me otherwise long ago. Now he's gone and — The only other way out is up. So that's where I'm headed. Always was, always will be. Have a good night, Riza."
Again, she watched him out of sight. "I'm glad you still have your fire, Flame Alchemist."
A/N: Woo-hoo! New fandom!
Yeah, if you've been wondering where I've been for the last...well, whole summer — this is it. I've found this great thing called "anime" and I've become totally enamored by it. Now if I can just drag myself away from the TV screen long enough to write...