Oh, look at that shitty title. That so unique, ORIGINAL title. Ha. Like my titles are ever good. Whatever. I love present tense. I love when my muse lets me write in it. I always love the results. She should give me ideas for it more often! Now, angsty!Roy and demanding!Hughes, ahoy!
Warnings- alcoholism, depression
First, Maes pours all his alcohol down the sink.
When Roy gives him a sullen glare but does not complain, he decides his friend is worse off than he thought, and he takes his gun, too.
Once again, his only protest is a silent one.
"I'm staying over tonight," he declares, leaving no room for argument. "Tomorrow, you're going to work. Even if I have to drag you there, you're going."
Again, Roy only glares.
But he doesn't stop him from gathering together all the scattered papers of notes for human transmutation and shredding them, and he only stands and stares as Maes then gets to work on the arrays scrawled haphazardly on the floor and walls. Sometimes they're etched by a blade, sometimes drawn in ink; sometimes they're sprawled in rotting red, and the latter only makes him scrub harder.
Roy never says anything.
That night, Maes doesn't sleep well.
He's jerked awake on the small, lumpy couch at half past midnight by the sound of violent retching and dry sobs. And Maes is a naturally sympathetic, tactile person; his heart begs him to run back there and hold his friend, do anything he can to soothe his troubled mind and sorrow- but his head reminds him that Roy is inherently distant and closed off. Another's presence wasn't likely to comfort him. At best, it'd make him self-conscious. At worst, it'd make him even more upset.
So he quiets the impulse, wipes his own stinging eyes, and returns to cleaning the arrays.
That night, he curses Zolf Kimbley, Basque Gran, and most of all, Fuhrer Bradley, (but not Ishval, never Ishval) for invading his friend's head and tormenting him until he breaks. He curses them, he mourns for Roy, and he cleans, until the sobs fade.
It takes four hours, and by then, he's so sick with sadness that he can't go back to sleep at all.
He doesn't need to be forced to get out of bed, or get dressed in his uniform.
He does need to be forced to eat, and the look on his face as he slowly chews the toast is as if it tastes like cardboard.
"Take it easy today," he says, and tugs fondly on the rumpled, blue collar, resisting the urge to fiddle with the brass buttons. "I'll come get you around five; take you home."
Roy still glares at him, dark eyes hollowed behind overgrown, unwashed bangs, the irritation at being treated like a child burning in the black stare.
He still says nothing, because, on some level, Maes imagines Roy knows he needs it.
He barely lets Roy out of his sight for three days.
When he finally leaves to go back to his own home, it's a subtle warning, not a reminder, when he says he'll check up on him, and he takes Roy's gun with him.
Two days later, he does just that, and walks in unannounced. After all, if he'd knocked, it was a good chance he wouldn't be let in.
He finds Roy on the floor, grinning sickly, and clutching a brand new bottle of whiskey.
This bottle, too, is poured down the sink.
Before he throws it out, he backhands Roy.
After he throws it out, he shouts at him.
After he leaves, he tries not to cry.
He fails.
He thinks Roy gets the message, but that night, long after he'd left, and only a few minutes after he'd finally calmed down, he calls the bastard's mother.
He only tells her that if Roy shows his sorry face in her bar, refuse to serve him, and then call him to come pick him up. He doesn't tell her why.
But Madame Christmas is not a naive woman, and he thinks she gets the message, too, when rather than question him, she simply heaves a long, sad sigh, and agrees.
Just when he thinks Roy's getting better- the ban on alcohol has helped him, no matter how surly and stubborn Roy was about admitting it- he learns from Hawkeye that he's not eating again. That he does so casually, with a waved hand and an "Oh, I'm skipping lunch today; lots to do," but then the next day, he'll say the same thing, and she suspects he's not eating dinner, either.
Once again, Maes barges into his apartment without asking.
Roy has given up questioning or fighting him on this.
The bastard's sitting on the floor again, but there is no whiskey, and there are no arrays, so he tries to hide his relief even as he hauls him up by the collar and tosses him towards the kitchen table. He slams down the food between them, and this time, he's the one glaring.
"Gracia made it. Eat."
Roy looks sullenly at the food and says nothing.
Snarling, Maes opens the plastic container and yanks out the plate of pasta, slapping it before Roy and stabbing a fork into it next. "You're going to eat it all," he informs him in cold, uncompromising anger. "And tomorrow, I'm going to bring more. And you will eat it."
He looks almost like he wants to complain. His mouth twitches in unsaid irritation, and he almost says something- but then he stops, and his mouth falls shut again into his seemingly permanent frown.
Again there's silence, and again, Maes breaks it, because he can't stand the dead quiet.
"When Hawkeye brings you lunch at work, Roy, you will eat that, too. Are we clear?"
Roy scowls darkly, but one look at the hard stare and he slumps over in his chair, still silently seething, but now unresisting.
It's several weeks before Maes feels comfortable enough to not need to watch Roy with every meal he's supposed to eat.
In those weeks, he's pretty sure Roy still managed to somehow lose at least ten pounds, but he's eating now, and he supposes that's all he can ask for.
It's a dark and stormy night when Roy actually breaks precedent, and calls him.
He can hear the hesitance in his voice over the line, and while the man very quickly backs out of it and says that he's forgotten why he called, Maes is heartened by the sign of progress.
He goes over anyway, without Roy asking him to.
Half the night, Roy spends curled up on his couch in sheer terror. He covers his ears with every boom of thunder that shakes the city and jumps with every brilliant flash of lightning. The other half, he spends laughing in near hysterics, assuring Maes that everything's okay, because right now they can't send him out to fight and that's all he's ever wanted since he got shipped out here to Ishval.
Maes is quietly horrified, and spends the night making sure Roy's gloves stay far away from his hands.
They are both promoted with high honors and given medals for their roles in ending the eastern rebellion. Roy to lieutenant colonel, and him to major. Both, given silver stars for bravery.
This time, Roy isn't the only one sullen and moody, and Maes is fighting the glare he knows is mirrored in his friend's eyes when the major general pins the medal to his chest, and he almost wants to shove the paperpushing, cowardly, smirking bastard right off the stage.
Afterwards, he just wants to toss the damn thing in the river, and his bloody knives and gun after it, then spend the entire evening with Gracia. He doesn't, though it's an effort made with gritted teeth.
He's needed elsewhere, after all.
Maes enters just as Roy hurls the silver star at the wall of his apartment.
He wishes, then, that just pouring a drink and crawling into a bottle for the night was an option.
But it's not, and so instead, he waits for Roy to stop looking like he wants to shout or hit something to guide him down to the couch. He's still shaking in anger for a while, shaking so hard so hard that when the first sob finally comes, muffled into a broken sort of cough, he misses it. He doesn't miss the second, or the third, or any of the dozens after it.
He spends the night again, and the next morning when he leaves, whimpers and choked screams still ringing in his ears, the shoulder of his uniform is still damp, and his medal has joined Roy's on the floor.
He also feels something like catharsis, and he can tell his friend does, too.
Roy, as always, is silent.
But the black fire of ambition in his eyes that he hasn't seen since the promise to become Fuhrer is back.
After that, Maes doesn't worry quite so much.
He's still Maes, so he does worry. But when Madame Christmas calls him uncertainly and says Roy's popped in to say hello and have a drink- just one- he doesn't quite feel the need to rush out after him.
But he's still Maes, and so he still worries.
One day, they run into each other on the way out of headquarters and decide to head home together. Roy's past the point of needing constant supervision, but the weather's nice, and after one too many mind-numbingly long meetings that day, he's eager for some company that's not a stuffy old colonel or general.
Roy remarks that he's but one rank away from colonel now, and also that he'd sooner be caught dead then called stuffy. Maes just laughs and tells him of course not; whether he's a colonel or general or fuhrer, he'll always be there to stop him from going down that route. Roy just rolls his eyes in quiet amusement.
A car backfires.
Maes hits the ground and Roy, a split second later, both ducking for cover and reaching for their weapons. Roy catches his breath very quickly and stands first, waveringly, and Maes snarls at him to keep his head on and get down; the enemy could be anywhere-
Roy's hand is steady and cool on his shoulder then. The man says nothing else, just stands there and holds him.
It's Roy's hand that pulls him back, and reminds him, very slowly, that the hot sands burning his face are actually just a gentle breeze.
"...Oh," he mumbles, and he blinks, staring in anxious disbelief around the street. Roy's still standing in front of him, arm on his shoulder, casually blocking his view of the startled people passing him by.
He still feels like he's back in Ishval, but at least his head's screwed on tight enough now for him to at least realize that he's not.
"Oh," he says again, and starts to stagger to his feet. He's jumpy and nervous, heart pounding against his ribcage, and even Roy's hand helping him up does nothing to ease it. "...Th- thanks..."
The gratitude sounds awkward and numb, his mind still racing too fast for him to put true thought into the word but he means it all the same. Roy simply shrugs at it, dark eyes deceptively calm. "Don't mention it," he says, and waits several moments for his breaths to steady before starting to walk down the sidewalk again.
Maes is too shaken to follow immediately, and just when he's finally gotten his wits about him, Roy has stopped again. The soldier stands still several paces ahead of him, hands buried in his pockets, head tilted back a little for the weak winter sun to cast over his young, pale face.
"Maes," he says at length, unbearably casual.
"...Thank you."
Then he's walking again.
When the true meaning of his words finally sinks in, he's still too shaken to smile. But he imagines he might have, if he could've.
"Don't mention it, buddy," he murmurs, too soft to be heard, and follows.