Disclaimer- i dont own fma or any of its amazing characters. the angst i endlessly inflict upon said characters IS entirely my fault.
ok. so this is rather angsty. even for me...for some reason i am fascinated with picking through Roy's head, post ep 25. must be the little psych student hiding in the back of my mind. it started out innocently enough with my coming home from work and listening to music, then "Perfection Through Silence" by Finch came on and the lyrics sparked and image which sparked this. i apologize if the angst if tedious. i love Hughes. i love Roy. and i love the interaction and friendship between the two. and i really do see Hughes as the spine of their little unit. hence....this. -fireun
"What am I supposed to do?
Should I sit, wait for you?
Listen to me screaming more"
Pictures. The damn things were all over, eyes looking at him, almost as if waiting for some order, some direction, poised on the edge of action as they ever had been, full of energy and deferring just that instant to his decision. A hurricane held securely in his hands. He had tossed that storm every which way; let it tear through everything in its path. In their path.
He should never have taken the damn things out from where he had stored them, where he didn't have to look into those eyes and feel the sting in his own. He felt the pause, the contained, but never critical, regard of those intelligent, pale eyes…Why the hell had he removed them from careful storage? Why the hell was he sitting on the floor of his apartment, knowing very well he must look like a scene from one of Mae's old files? He could almost see the spidery handwriting of his friend describing the case- 'Colonel determined to be not completely in control of his mental and emotional facilities, found amidst photos and letters on the floor of his disturbingly messy home, appears to have been drinking much more than usual.'
He snorted a desperate sort of laugh at that thought, sending brandy burning through his nasal passages. That caustic reminder of his own physicality dragged him from whirling thoughts to the present, in which he sat in a pile of old paperwork, letters, and photos, surrounded by empty brandy bottles arranged almost in alchemical patterns. He needed to get out of here. There was something unsettling about the disarray. Colonel Mustang was perfectly calm, perfectly settled, perfectly…. perfect. He needed the image; needed to draw attention away from how lost he was without the man who had carried him through it all on shoulders that had never once bent beneath that weight.
The energy, the insane drive, was missing. All he had now was the intent need to move forward and ahead, to keep on the path he had started with an obsessive dedication. He could not stand to fail now, not when he had lost what had made it all worth it, what had helped him see the task was not impossible. He was missing that storm wind hurling obstacles out of his way, that overwhelming force of nature that had been Maes Hughes.
Colonel Roy Mustang was at a loss as to what to do about it. It was most definitely an obstacle to overcome, the absence of his friend's drive, but that was not what hurt the most. It was the absence of those arms to huddle in when it all got a little too hard, when the road got a little too rocky. He had no shoulders to climb onto, and suddenly those rocks seemed as mountains; obstacles he had no chance in hell of ever overcoming.
Inertia was a terrifying force, the thick morass that was the polar opposite of Maes' singular brand of chaos. He should haul himself off the floor, get to the office for the first time in two days, and continue doing what it was he had set himself to do- to head towards the top, ever towards the top…
But somehow it didn't seem as possible without his partner and friend, the steadfast faith the other man had in him and his goals…
And those thrice-damned photos were not helping. Maes grinning, Maes lounging, Maes poised on the edge of a desk, waiting impatiently for some order or another…all bits and pieces of a loud, enthusiastic life caught now in a careful silence. Waiting, always waiting…waiting for another command from a man who was used to being on top of every situation who found himself caught in the edge of an event that had spun out of that careful control. Dealing with the aberrations, in the things that didn't go exactly as planned, had always been Maes' forte.
Roy didn't know what to do.
So he sat on the floor, unmoving, oblivious to the insistent demands of aching muscles and an underfed stomach. He stared at images of Maes and whispered in a dry voice "now what?"
The repetition was finally broken by the mundane intrusion of a knock on the door. Roy twitched to his feet, attempted to pull his uniform into some semblance of order, snagged one hand through hair that was desperately in need of association with a comb, and snapped posture into shoulders screaming from being slumped and unsupported for hours. Calm, almost bored, expression slipping into its familiar place he pulled the door open.
And couldn't help but start.
Gracia Hughes stood on the step, a pie in her arms, and a quiet smile on her face. That smile faded into a subtle concern as she met his eyes. "I was baking and thought you might like a pie. I heard from a very reliable source once that you thoroughly enjoy apple."
It was apple. He could smell it, the warm hint of cinnamon and sweet sugar that always made his mouth water in anticipation…though this time the extra salivation was a bit strained as brandy really does not help with keeping one hydrated. He hesitated, not wanting to be churlish and send her away after taking the pie, but the state of his apartment was not exactly conductive towards entertaining guests…
Ever a perceptive woman, Gracia offered another option. "You could come over and have pie and tea, Roy. I don't see you near enough anymore. You haven't stopped over since…well, it has been awhile. And I am sure Elysia would love to see you."
He couldn't…not that house, not where Maes had lived…the family bereft of the man who had been impossibly devoted to them…He couldn't, not and hold onto his façade. A gentle hand touched his delicately, but without hesitation. Gracia met his eyes intently, her face somewhere between distress and understanding.
"Come to the house. Have some tea."
He was at the foot of the mountain, but here was a hand reaching down towards him, much like another had all those years ago. Here was another person who knew, who understood, and who was willing to accept…
It was going to be a long climb, and it was not going to be an inch of easy, but he placed his hand over Gracia's and nodded. "Tea sounds like a good idea…"
"…Fold the corners, break the silence
Fold the corners, just for tonight…"
a/n still taking suggestions on ways to work on this one. thank you all who have offered ideas so far!