Title: Gone By Sunrise.
Pairing(s): Maes Hughes/Roy Mustang.
Beta: None, all mistakes my own.
Rating: PG-13.
Genre: Angst.
Warnings: You know that Hughes episode, 25.
Feedback: Very welcome, please!
Word Count: 743.
Summary: He's got so little now, memories and ghosts and a purpose to drive him forward. But in the hours between dusk and dawn, he's got his little lies to keep him whole, to keep him sane.
Author's Notes: Done for my drabble requests for Christmas, for seaweedotter, who requested post episode 25 Maes/Roy. I think I got it right this time, but I might have given Roy my own mourning ritual as it is.
Gone By Sunrise.
It doesn't stop. It doesn't go away. It's doesn't turn solid.
Everyday, Roy goes to work a little later than usual, and everything looks so normal, except Hawkeye no longer berates him for tardiness. And as he goes through the daily grind, signing this, reading that, in the middle of it there's a brilliant idea, something he really needs to tell. He grabs the phone, begins to dial, and then the cold realization that no one will answer the other side. Or that if they answer, and it has happened before, the voice will be all wrong and he will have to hung up quickly, hating himself for it.
Then Roy goes home, hungry because he skipped lunch again and angry because he snapped at Hawkeye again and tired because he fought Fullmetal again, and everything is just gray. Gray carpet, gray walls, gray couch, gray light, gray city. Everything's gray, until he takes out the scotch and then it's bright and golden again, like Maes eyes were, when they had gone to that stupid summer vacation after Ishbal.
He had said he needed cheering after the war, that he was too pale, to taxed, to damn suicidal.
Roy chokes a laugh on a mouthful of alcohol that feels like it's pealing the skin off his throat, and wonders what he would say now. But he doesn't say anything of course, and Roy keeps on drinking. He drinks as the sun dies in the distance, feeling light as the night falls over the city and he doesn't have to hide from the sun anymore. The sun used to make Maes' skin glow when it hit him the right way, and the stupid glasses, the same ones that had been shattered that terrible night, would glint and obscure his eyes.
The night goes on and on and on and Roy wishes it would end and wishes it wouldn't stop and wishes… wishes… wishes. There's just too much that was left to say, too many things to point out, and now it's all too late to do anything about it. Maes will never know Roy hated the way he cooked but loved that silly pout he had whenever Roy scowled at his food. Maes will never know Roy really didn't want to know about Elysia, but that he asked anyway, because he loved the way Maes' voice would quiver and twist as he retold the latest news about his daughter.
Maes will never know Roy had cried for days after he married, hating himself for never speaking up and forcing himself to smile because he couldn't really hate Gracia.
Roy laughs and cries and misses him a little more with each gulp he takes, knowing he should probably sleep, but not having the strength to force himself to. He's got so little now, memories and ghosts and a purpose to drive him forward. But in the hours between dusk and dawn, he's got his little lies to keep him whole, to keep him sane. Between dusk and dawn he can pretend that he's just away for the week, not gone forever and not coming back ever. Between dusk and dawn he can make up worlds where things were different, where Elysia doesn't exist because Roy managed to speak up before it was too late and her daddy and her mommy never met. Between dusk and dawn Roy forgets to hate himself for wishing what he can't have, will never have.
Maes will never know Roy loved him more than life itself, and that his absence is dragging his best friend back into Ishbal all over again.
But Roy keeps on going. Even as lost and tired and hungry and angry as he feels, this time is different, the guilt tastes bittersweet. He can only regret what he didn't do, and now he knows he has another reason to keep going, to be strong. He has a death to avenge. He can't give up just yet. He knows he shouldn't drink, he knows this is tearing him apart… but he also knows it will all be gone by sunrise, and the next morning he'll be up and around, tired and hungry and angry, but still moving and no one will notice unless they look hard enough.
He wonders if he should feel bad about that too, then decides being sober is too much effort and enjoys the hours of oblivion he can get.