It started as Hughes was murdered. Found in a telephone booth with nothing but a blood stained picture of his family. His eyes were wide with shock when Roy found him, and that dull, dazed look of surprise would haunt him for days, months, years.. to come. Wordlessly, his best friend, and Colonel, moved his fingers to close those familiar gold eyes. He frowned deeply and looked up at the sky, still holding the fallen comrade until he was told to let the medical team have him. They would suit him up for the burial.
The burial. As soon as Roy had heard it, he could hardly believe it was happening. His best friend for as long as he could think of. Dead. For some reason, he wasn't sure why, but for some reason..He felt a burden on his heart being placed there. Like it was newly embedded. It was guilt. Why? He would wonder to himself. Why did he feel this unbelievable guilt for what had happened? It wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known. He couldn't have. It wasn't his fault...
But yet...But yet there was a dark, luring suspicion inside his own person- and maybe, perhaps, the higher-ups as well? He was not too sure. But he didn't really care at this point..- that this was all for him. That Hughes had died because of him, or because he had done something which had helped him..Either way, he was dead. And he felt it his fault. People assured him otherwise. They told him repeatedly that there was no way he could know what had happened. How it happened. When it happened. There was no way. But..If there was no way he could know, why did they question him? Why did they investigate him? Why would they?
At home, it would haunt him. Everything within his soul would be haunted at the mere mention of Maes. He threw out everything. Pictures, gifts..But he kept two things. One, which had been given to him, was a picture of Maes and his family at Christmas, Roy in the background with his hair slicked down smoothly, looking professional, and like a wet blanket. Though, later that night, Maes would find him in a closet with a glass of eggnog singing Christmas carols with no real tune or words. The other, which was stolen, was his dog tags. Which Hughes never wore, but kept in his pocket. He hung them with his. Which he hung under his shirt. Many woman asked who he was. Roy would just smile coyly at them and say, 'It's much too difficult a story to tell you.' then continue.
Though, for the rest of the night, he wouldn't move as fast. He wouldn't respond as quick..For, although he had not told the girl- who really couldn't give a damn- what had happened..He was still going through the story in his mind.
So why did he brood on this man, one might wonder.
They were best friends. Hughes pushed him when nobody would push him. He would console him and drink with him whenever he wanted. Which was, sometimes, a lot. And, when he got too drunk to drive, or make it home..Hughes would be there for him. To drive, to share a sofa with..And, when things were bad from Ishbal..There, too, was he. He was always there for Roy. And never once did he admit the torment that Hughes' passing had caused inside him. And maybe that was where the problem was. He never told anybody.
But what he didn't tell became his most powerful weapon.
Every step he took, he did it for Hughes. Every advance in position, he did for Hughes. He made it out to be for him, but his own goals didn't even matter anymore. Yes, they were still his goals, but now..They were a priority. He never told anyone his true motives for continuing to go forward, but he knew them, and that's all that mattered. God may have known, but for a man like Roy Mustang, there was no time for God. Only time to strive forward. To complete his mission. To complete his promise. To Maes Hughes.
And when he was alone, in his small house with his small room on his somewhat large bed, he would take out the dog tags he had stolen, and it would begin to rain.
For grown men don't cry.
And men in the military know that the war goes on.