A/N- This is the last chapter. Lots more friendship between Mustang and Hughes. Definitely still big trigger warning for vomit.
When Mustang awoke the next morning, sunlight was streaming gently in through the window. Mustang didn't like it. The light was sending stabbing pains radiating through his body, and his head felt thick and fuzzy. His mouth was dry and tasted like death, and his limbs felt so heavy that he wasn't sure he would ever be able to move again.
There was an empty chair by the bedside, but Hughes was nowhere to be seen. Mustang thought he could hear him bustling around in the kitchen. He considered this a rather impressive feat in and of itself. He couldn't imagine moving enough to make it to another room at this point. He considered calling out to his friend, but decided against it. It seemed like too much work, and he didn't particularly want Hughes to see him like this anyway.
Mustang just lay there for a few minutes, as still as he possibly could. Any movement at all sent spikes of pain through his body, and nausea rolled over him if he so much as tried to lift his head. He closed his eyes softly, wishing that his whole body would stop pounding for a second. He wondered if maybe he would be able to go back to sleep.
But after a few minutes, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to get any more sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he felt like the room was shifting slightly. It was incredibly disconcerting. The swooping sensation continued, and he felt the nausea in his stomach worsen. Maybe I better get to the bathroom.
He opened his eyes and pushed himself to a sitting position. It was a few seconds before his brain caught up to the message his body was sending, but by then, he'd already thrown up all over himself and the bed.
His stomach roiled, and he covered his mouth with his hand, as if that would make any difference. He stared at the sheets in dismay, and only then realized that he was in a bed, not on the couch.
Hughes gave me his bed, he thought, feeling a little guilty that his friend had slept on the couch in his own house. But that was quickly swallowed by the guilt that came with the realization that he'd just thrown up all over Hughes' brand new sheets.
Without really stopping to think, he staggered upright and started pulling at the bedding. He still wasn't really fully awake, and the only thing he could think to do was to try to fix his mistake. But as he got to his feet, his stomach dipped alarmingly, and he gagged. He stumbled slightly and caught himself on Hughes' nightstand. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing evenly for a few seconds, which was harder than he'd expected. Still, it seemed to help with the nausea, at least a little.
He returned to the sheets, pulling weakly at them, still unsure what he was going to do with them, just wanting to get them off the bed. That was the first step, and one step was all he could handle right now.
Maybe more than he could handle. He choked again, gagging and forcing back the bile in his throat, and sank to his knees beside the bed. He doubled over trying to breathe, trying to keep himself together, and then he heard Hughes at the door.
"Roy? You awake?"
Mustang felt a bolt of panic go through him, and he twisted around to meet his friend's eyes. "Hughes, I'm so sorry-"
Hughes' eyes widened into horror, and Mustang, deeply ashamed, turned his head away. "I'm sorry," he said again, not really sure what else to do.
But Hughes was already heading toward him, ignoring the crumpled sheets heaped on top of his bed.
"Roy! Oh god, let's get you to the bathroom...Are you alright?" He reached down and helped Mustang to his feet, pointing him toward the bathroom.
Mustang took a few dizzy steps, feeling Hughes' hands hovering behind him, ready to redirect him at need. Maybe he didn't see the sheets, Mustang thought.
"Hughes, I...I threw up," he began.
"I know," Hughes said from behind him. "You must be really hungover. You'll feel better soon."
Mustang shook his head and immediately regretted it as spikes of pain shot through his skull. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up again, this time in Hughes' hallway.
"No...I threw up on...your bed…. I'm sorry," he said desperately, pushing the words past the nauseous feeling rising in his throat.
"It's fine," Hughes told him. "Don't worry about the sheets, Roy, worry about yourself!"
But Mustang didn't really believe him.
Hughes was deeply worried about his friend. Mustang was so pale he seemed almost translucent, and he winced every time the light hit his eyes. Worse, he looked like he might start throwing up again at any second. Hughes could see the muscles in his throat working as he fought down waves of nausea. He kept one of his hands a few inches from the small of Mustang's back, ready to catch him before he fell if he appeared to be heading that direction.
Finally, they made it to the bathroom. Hughes stepped ahead of Mustang so he could push the door open, then circled back behind him again. He gently pushed on Mustang's shoulders, settling him into a kneeling position in front of the toilet.
"Let's get you out of this shirt," Hughes said. Mustang obediently started to unbutton it with fumbling fingers. Once he'd gotten enough of the buttons undone, Hughes helped him pull it over his head, leaving his friend bare-chested and shivering, looking sickly in the fluorescent bathroom light. Hughes threw the shirt into the tub, determining that he would have to do laundry later.
Mustang continued to kneel on the ground, looking miserable. "I'm so sorry Hughes, I...I didn't mean for it to happen. I'll pay for new sheets I swear, or...or a new bed…."
Mustang abruptly broke off, and Hughes saw him swallowing hard. But he still didn't make any move to actually lean over the toilet. He just kept staring at the patch of tile between his knees, eyes half-lidded. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Hughes saw a single bead of sweat drip down his forehead.
Mustang retched a little, and put a hand to his mouth. Hughes wasn't sure how long he could keep fighting it.
"Hey, Roy, it's alright," he said softly. "This happens to everyone sometimes. You'll feel better once the alcohol is out of your system. It's no big deal, I'll take care of you…."
Mustang gagged again. "Don't...want to…." he said pathetically. Hughes' chest twisted in sympathy, but there was really nothing he could do to help his friend at this point, aside from wait with him.
Finally, Mustang leaned forward a little so he was staring into the toilet. He took a few shallow, panicked breaths, then Hughes saw his back convulse and he began to weakly vomit up some of the alcohol that he'd ingested the previous night.
He threw up a couple of times, then wrapped his arms around the toilet and leaned his head on them. He looked pale and sweaty, and Hughes saw that his hands were shaking a little.
"See?" Hughes said. "That wasn't too bad, and I bet you're all done now. Don't you feel a little bit better?"
Mustang shook his head miserably, then started heaving again. Hughes reached out and started tentatively rubbing Mustang's back as he continued to bring up last night's whiskey.
"I'm sorry," Mustang began, then was cut off as another bout of throwing up forced him over the toilet again. "I'm sorry, Hughes, I'm sorry…."
Hughes shook his head. "You don't have anything to be sorry about," he said, continuing to rub his friend's back as he gagged into the toilet.
Mustang panted miserably, trying to get his breath back. "But...your sheets-"
"Are not an issue," Hughes told him firmly. "Just...focus on yourself, okay? I want you to feel better."
Mustang groaned and draped himself over the toilet, his hair hanging limply over his eyes.
"I'm never going to feel better," he mumbled, then hiccoughed weakly.
Hughes manfully fought back a laugh. "It's just a hangover, Roy. You'll feel fine in a few hours."
"I shall not," Mustang told the toilet bowl, and closed his eyes. Hughes waited a few minutes, but Mustang seemed to be done throwing up for the time being. He tapped his friend on the shoulder.
"Roy, don't lean on the toilet like that, you're gonna end up with bruises all over your face."
Mustang moaned a little, but gave him no other answer.
"Come on, trust me… One time in the Academy, I woke up with a ring of bruises all over my cheeks and chin...It looked awful. Just...lie down here, ok? I'll go get you a blanket."
Mustang muttered something unintelligible, and Hughes sighed. "What?"
"What if I throw up again?"
Hughes shrugged. "It'll be on tile. No big deal. Come on, that toilet can't be comfortable…"
Without another word, Mustang released his grip on the toilet bowl and slid slowly to the floor. He curled up in the fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the bright light. Hughes reached out and dimmed the switch, lowering the level to something more manageable for his friend's headache. Then, he left the room to get Mustang a blanket and pillow so he wouldn't have to lie on the cold tiles.
Mustang pulled his knees up to his chest and shivered on the bathroom floor. His mouth felt like something had died and then begun decaying in it, and his throat was raw from the vomiting, but he was afraid of what would happen if he tried to stand up to get water. He didn't feel quite capable of that yet. Actually, he barely felt capable of managing his current situation. Even lying in a heap on his friend's bathroom floor felt like too much effort. Every time he swallowed, he could feel an unpleasant push back up his throat, and every time he shifted even a little bit, the writhing and churning in his stomach intensified.
So he lay motionless, waiting for Hughes to come back with the blanket. At least then he'd be warmer. He kept his eyes closed against the light, and tried his best to pretend that none of this was happening.
After a few minutes, he heard Hughes come back in. Mustang didn't turn his head to look at him. He didn't even open his eyes. He didn't quite feel equipped for that at this point. Just lying here in the merciful darkness was enough. He heard Hughes' footsteps approaching, and then thought he heard his friend kneel down beside him. He felt a blanket being laid gently over his trembling form.
"Roy?" he heard Hughes ask.
Mustang didn't respond. It was easier to just stay curled up on his side.
"I'm going to put a pillow under your head, alright? You'll be more comfortable that way."
Mustang didn't say anything, and after a moment he felt his head being carefully lifted and a pillow slid underneath. Even that small movement made his stomach churn, and he tried to breathe deeply. But once his head was still and he was lying on a pillow he realized that Hughes was right, he was more comfortable. Sort of.
"Roy?" Hughes asked again after a few more minutes. "Do you...do you think you could drink a little water?"
Mustang shook his head, eyes still closed.
"Even just a sip?"
Mustang shook his head again.
"Don't you want to at least rinse your mouth out?"
Mustang considered. His friend was right, he did in fact want to rinse his mouth. Maybe getting the taste of vomit out would make him feel less sick. He nodded slowly, and then tentatively opened his eyes. Hughes was leaning over him, looking concerned, holding a glass of water. He smiled wanly when he saw that Mustang's eyes were opened.
"Alright," Hughes said. "Now let's get you sitting up."
Ever so slowly, Mustang started to pull himself into a sitting position. He kept the blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders; it seemed to help with the shivering some. The simple act of staying vertical made him start to retch a couple times, and for a second he was afraid he was going to need to lean over the toilet again. But he swallowed hard and managed to breathe around it, and after a couple heartbeats he determined that the remaining contents of his stomach were going to stay down for the time being.
Hughes handed Mustang the glass of water, but his hand was shaking so badly that he couldn't seem to grab it. Finally, Hughes inched forward so he could help Mustang drink. Normally, the fact that he couldn't even hold a glass by himself would make Mustang want to die, but right now he was too miserable to even really think about that.
Hughes helped Mustang take an impossibly small sip of water, which he used to rinse out his mouth. He spat into the toilet, and waited. He didn't throw up, and he did feel a tiny bit better once his mouth tasted less like stomach acid and old whiskey.
He reached for the glass again, and Hughes helped him raise it to his lips. This time, he took a slightly bigger sip of water, swishing it around his mouth before once again spitting it into the toilet. He still didn't throw up, and he felt a cautious surge of excitement.
"Do you think you can drink anything now?" Hughes asked, hovering over him with the cup of water. Mustang considered, then nodded cautiously. Hughes held out the glass, and Mustang swallowed a little of the water.
Then he leaned over the toilet and retched, eyes watering as the bile burned the back of his throat. His body shuddered and he dropped the blanket from around his shoulders as he vomited again and again, slightly astounded that there was still anything left in his stomach to come up. When he was done, he crumpled back onto the tile, staring vaguely at a crack in Hughes' baseboard, barely able to hear Hughes' frantic apologies coming from somewhere above his head.
Hughes was starting to get really worried about his friend. Hughes had been hungover plenty of times, but he'd never been unable to keep down water…. If Mustang couldn't rehydrate himself, then he wasn't going to feel any better for quite a while.
Mustang was still curled into a ball at Hughes' feet, and Hughes, unsure of what else to do, sat down on the hard floor beside his friend. He leaned back against the bathtub and as Mustang twitched and shuddered with nausea, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.
Mustang hadn't thrown up for almost half an hour, and Hughes was cautiously optimistic. He shook Mustang's shoulder gently, and he moaned a little.
"Whaa?"
"Hey, it's been quite a while since you threw up, and the couch is gonna be way more comfortable than the bathroom floor. Can you get up?"
Mustang shook his head slightly, his hair flopping into his eyes. Hughes tugged on his shoulder.
"Come on, Roy...This can't be comfortable. Just...let's get you to the couch, ok?" He pulled Mustang up, and he didn't resist. Hughes released him as he stood, but his legs were shaking so violently that Hughes feared he would fall over. Unobtrusively, he offered his friend an arm, and Mustang leaned on it slightly. Together, they made their way out of the bathroom.
Hughes helped his friend through the hallway, slightly shocked at just how weak Mustang seemed. Of course, he'd probably thrown up everything in his stomach, and he hadn't been able to replace any of it. No wonder his limbs were shaking, and his face was an ashy grey, and the circles under his eyes were black against his pale skin. Hughes sighed. His friend looked absolutely miserable. But at least he wasn't throwing up anymore.
They entered the kitchen and began to walk through the tiny room to the living area on the other side. As they passed the counter, Hughes frowned at the two glasses still sitting on the stone surface, one with a little whiskey left in the bottom.
"Damn it, I need to wash those," he muttered to himself. He saw Mustang's head turn dizzily in the direction of the glasses, and then felt his friend's body lurch. Mustang let go of Hughes' arm and threw himself toward the sink, where he began retching again. Gooseflesh stood up on his bare shoulders, and he shivered violently. Hughes thought Mustang was going to fall, but he stayed bent over the kitchen sink, his skin showing up stark white against the dark green counter.
He threw up a couple more mouthfuls of what seemed to be mostly stomach acid at this point, and Hughes rubbed his back and shoulders in a way that he hoped was comforting. Mustang groaned softly.
"It's alright, it's alright, you'll be fine, you just need to get everything out of your system," Hughes said mindlessly, continuing to rub his friend's back. Inside, however, he was seething with worry. Mustang must be so dehydrated at this point, and he seemed to be on the point of collapse. He couldn't keep down anything, not even a small sip of water. Did he need to go to the hospital? How would Hughes know if he passed the point where he could be rehydrated on his own?
Mustang retched again, but this time nothing came up. Hughes figured there was nothing else to come up. He dry heaved a couple more times, and then started to sink slowly to the floor. Hughes went down with him, helping him turn around so he was leaning up against the cupboards. Mustang sunk his head into his hands and murmured something unintelligible.
"What was that?"
"I'm never going to feel better," he said miserably, voice muffled because his face was still resting in his arms.
Hughes sighed. "Roy, that's not true. You...it's a little concerning that you've thrown up this much, but I'm sure you'll feel better by tonight. Don't worry." He put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
Mustang shook his head. "I will not feel better by tonight. I'll be hungover forever," he said.
Hughes resisted the urge to laugh at him, although it would have been pretty funny if his friend weren't so miserable. "You'll feel better soon. Come on, let's get you up. You'll be more comfortable lying on the couch than sitting on the kitchen floor."
Mustang shook his head again. "I'm staying here."
"Roy…."
"I want to stay here. This...this is comfortable, please don't make me move anymore…."
"You'll be more comfortable on the couch," Hughes said, as firmly as he could.
"What if I get sick again?"
"You won't," Hughes said. He suspected this was true, not because Mustang was better but because there was physically nothing left inside him to throw up. But he wasn't sure that telling him this was going to make him feel better.
Hughes didn't think Mustang believed him, but all the fight seemed to have gone out of his friend. Without saying anything else, Hughes grabbed him under his shoulders and heaved him to his feet, where he swayed listlessly for a few seconds.
"Alright," Hughes said, leaning Mustang against his arm again, "let's see if we can get you to the couch now."
Mustang collapsed onto the couch and hid his eyes with a shaking hand. If possible, he felt even worse now than he had when he'd first woken up. Everything felt off, even his balance. Just taking a single step was a struggle, like he'd somehow forgotten how his muscles worked. And breathing... About every third breath, his chest would tighten, his stomach twist, and he found himself taking in large gulps of air just to prove to himself that he still could.
He'd never been this hungover before, hadn't known that you could even be this hungover without dying. But that's what it felt like: dying. He groaned miserably and leaned back into Hughes' cushions, staring at the ceiling. His hair fell into his eyes, but he didn't want to expend the energy necessary to brush it away.
He felt Hughes sit down next to him, but he didn't want to say anything. Even if he could talk without throwing up, which was doubtful, he was deeply embarrassed about his current situation. And to make matters worse, he had a vague memory of tears from the previous night. Had he...cried?
He shuddered mentally, not really wanting to know the answer. He had a horrid feeling that he had. It's a wonder Hughes is still speaking to me, he thought idly. As if on cue, Hughes cleared his throat and touched Mustang lightly on the shoulder. Mustang hauled his head upright and focused blearily on Hughes.
"You must be cold," Hughes said. "I'll go get you a shirt, okay?"
He rose from the couch and paused at the door of the living room. "Just...keep breathing." He laughed, like it had been a joke, but Mustang could see the worry on his face even from the couch.
Even feeling as horrible as he did, Mustang didn't want to worry his friend. Not when he'd already thrown up in three of the four rooms in his new apartment. Three of five if you count the hallway, he thought, but the distinction didn't really make him feel any better. He'd inconvenienced Hughes enough without making him worry about Mustang's health on top of everything else. So as Hughes came back into the room, Mustang forced himself to sit up, just a little.
"Here," Hughes said, handing Mustang one of his own shirts. "Put this on."
"No," Mustang said dully. "I don't want to take one of your shirts."
Mustang heard Hughes sigh. "You're not inconveniencing me, you know that right? None of this...it isn't a big deal."
Mustang looked up at the ceiling and didn't say anything to him.
"Just put the shirt on. Please." Hughes gave a small, forced smile. "I don't wanna have to keep looking at you shirtless."
Mustang felt the shirt dropped in his lap. He groaned, but managed to pull it on. Normally he would hate borrowing his friend's clothes as much because he didn't like them as because he didn't want to owe Hughes, but now, he couldn't have cared less what the shirt looked like. Trying to closely examine it would have involved keeping his eyes open for too long.
Mustang lay back down on the couch, and after a few minutes he felt Hughes cover him with a blanket again. Mustang felt weak and shaky, even the simple act of moving his hands to adjust the blankets or push his sweaty hair out of his eyes seemed like too much work. His head was pounding, and if he so much as breathed wrong spikes of pain would radiate from behind his eyes. Every few minutes, his stomach would flip over and he would have to concentrate very hard on not being sick. He didn't even really understand how he could still be nauseous. There couldn't possibly be anything left in his stomach. He'd barely been able to eat since getting back from Ishval, how had there even been this much inside him in the first place?
All he could do was lie trembling on the sofa and wait for it to pass.
It had been about half an hour since Mustang had thrown up into the sink, and Hughes thought that it might be time for him to try liquids again. Mustang appeared to be asleep, or at least trying his best to head that way, so Hughes tried to make his way into the kitchen as quietly as possible. He made a pot of tea on the stove, and drank a cup of his own leaning up against the kitchen counter, snatching the small moment of peace while he had it. Then he poured another mug for Mustang, and got him a glass of water too for good measure, unsure exactly what he was going to feel most up to.
"Roy?" he said as he reentered the room. He saw Mustang stir slightly, and finally his eyes opened blearily and he focused on Hughes.
"You must be thirsty," Hughes said. "Here, I brought you something to drink. Do you think...do you think you could keep a little bit down?"
Mustang didn't respond, just continued to blink slowly at Hughes. Hughes wasn't sure if he was afraid to open his mouth, or if he was simply too dehydrated and exhausted to really figure out what was going on.
"You would feel better if you drank a little something. Roy, please."
Mustang nodded, almost imperceptibly. Relieved to have an answer, Hughes moved to the couch and offered his friend both the tea and the water.
"I have green tea with lemon, if you're up to it," he told Mustang. "Best hangover cure there is."
"I'll try anything," Mustang muttered, and reached for the mug of tea. As before, Hughes had to help him drink. Hughes could see the shame in his friend's eyes, and he wished he could put Mustang at ease, find some way to help him without hurting him at the same time. But he knew his friend was far too proud for that.
After a few sips, Mustang sat back, clutching his stomach in weary anticipation. But his expression didn't change, and after a minute, he opened his eyes again.
"Could I have some more?" he said weakly, and Hughes breathed a sigh of relief.
"Of course," he replied, and he brought the mug to his friend's lips again.
Over the course of the next ten minutes, Mustang managed to drink the mug of tea Hughes had made, plus a little of the water. Hughes thought that he was looking a little better. He wasn't any less pale, but he looked like he was moving slightly less carefully, like he no longer thought he would throw up if he moved wrong.
"Feeling better yet?" Hughes asked hopefully.
Mustang regarded him through slitted eyelids. "A tiny bit," he finally said begrudgingly.
Hughes beamed and sat down beside his friend. "Excellent," he said. "You'll be good as new in no time."
He watched Mustang carefully for the next few minutes, but his friend seemed to be keeping the tea down. Eventually, Hughes determined that it was time for Mustang to try to get some food in his empty stomach.
"Roy, do you think you could manage some toast?" he said, suspecting he knew what the answer was going to be. He was right.
"No," Mustang said flatly, not even opening his eyes.
"Come on," Hughes wheedled. "You have to eat something. You must be starving."
"I can't tell, it's hidden by the nausea," Mustang said, a little tetchily. Hughes blamed it on the lack of food and forged onward.
"Seriously, Roy. You need to eat something."
Mustang shook his head once and closed his eyes, but Hughes would not be deterred.
"Toast! It's the most boring food ever invented! You won't get sick off a piece of toast."
Mustang opened one eye and considered Hughes dubiously. Hughes waited. Finally, Mustang nodded slightly.
"Okay, Hughes. Toast."
Exuberantly, Hughes returned to the kitchen to make some toast for his friend. Within five minutes, he was returning to the sofa with a small piece of buttered toast and another glass of water.
"Here," he said, holding out the water. "See if you can drink a little bit first."
Mustang managed a few more sips of water. He was even able to hold the glass himself this time. Once he had finished about half of the water, Hughes took the glass from him and handed him the plate of toast. Mustang eyed it warily. He still looked rather ill.
"I will throw up if I eat this," he declared.
Hughes sighed again. This felt like the millionth time he'd retread this ground with Mustang today, and they'd only been awake for a few hours. "You haven't thrown up in almost an hour. You'll start feeling better once you can eat. The water didn't make you throw up, remember?"
Mustang nodded, and tentatively reached out and took the smallest imaginable bite of toast. His expression didn't change.
"Is it staying down?" Hughes asked. Mustang nodded again.
"Eat it slowly," Hughes said. "Not too much. Stop if you feel like you can't have anymore."
Mustang took another small bite, then a larger one. He seemed to finally figure out how differentiate between hunger and nausea, because within another two minutes the piece of toast was gone. Hughes winced a little. He knew his friend must be starving, but he was pretty sure you weren't supposed to start eating solids that fast when you'd spent the whole day throwing up. But he figured Mustang probably knew what was up with his body better than Hughes did, and he could do worse than to trust him.
It had taken Mustang around five minutes to determine that the toast was not sitting right. The water and tea had been finally starting to make Mustang feel a bit better, but the addition of any solid food was not helping at all. His stomach had finally started to calm down a little, but now it was churning again and threatening to push back up his throat. He swallowed hard. It didn't help.
He settled himself back against the sofa cushions, eyes closed. He focused on taking deep, calming breaths. Hughes had told him that he would feel better if he could get some solid food into his stomach, and he trusted Hughes. Therefore, he needed to keep this down. I will not throw up, he told himself. I...I am stronger than this.
His stomach gave another nauseating lurch. He wanted to cough, but he knew if he did he would be sick. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Saliva pooled in the back of his mouth.
Somewhere above him, he heard Hughes asking if he was okay. He wanted to respond, but at this point that seemed impossible. He tried to swallow through the horrible roiling feeling in his stomach, but his throat clenched shut and he almost threw up right there on Hughes' couch. He clamped his hand over his mouth and staggered unsteadily to his feet. Hughes leaped forward, but Mustang didn't have time to explain the situation. He dashed for the kitchen on wobbly legs.
Mustang made it almost twenty feet before his shaky legs gave way beneath him and he hit the ground. The sudden downward plunge shook the meagre contents of his stomach, and before he really knew what was happening, he was retching onto the living room floor. Four out of five.
As soon as he could, he covered his mouth with a hand and choked as he vomited again. He tried to push himself off the floor, to keep going towards the kitchen, but he couldn't make his legs strong enough to hold him up. Then, he felt Hughes grab him under the shoulder and help him begin stumbling toward the kitchen, and he made it to the sink just as he threw up again.
When he was able to speak again, he turned frantically toward Hughes, ignoring the pain spearing through his head.
"I'm so sorry, Hughes," he said, horrified that he'd been unable to control himself once again. "I...I couldn't make it...I tried…"
Hughes shook his head, eyes dark with worry. "No, it's all my fault. I should have listened to you about the toast...I'm sorry."
Mustang bent over the sink again, still worried. The toast was not an issue. The problem at hand was Mustang's inability to control both his mental and physical state, and the inexcusable decision to drag Hughes into the middle of the mess. Mustang was furious at himself for involving his best friend in his own difficulty coping. These issues should be his alone to deal with - Hughes had his own life to manage.
But he was far too miserable to articulate any of his thoughts, and he didn't want to dump them on Hughes anyway. He'd done that enough, that was the whole problem. The closest he could get was apologizing for ruining...Hughes' night? The next day? His carpet? His sheets? The list was getting almost impossibly long.
"I'm sorry," he choked again, gagging. There really wasn't anything left in his stomach now. He was just dry heaving. Hughes rubbed his back again.
"Stop talking," he said. "Please…"
Mustang wanted to explain himself, to fix things, but when he opened his mouth to try, he gagged again and let his head fall onto his arm as he heaved weakly.
"It's alright," Hughes said. Mustang could feel Hughes' hand still gently rubbing his back and shoulders. The physical contact was...comforting, in a way, but at the same time he wished Hughes would stop. This wasn't Hughes' job. Every touch was just putting Mustang further into Hughes' debt. And he didn't want that. He wasn't sure it was something he would ever be able to repay.
"I...hate this…." Mustang said weakly, cut off as his stomach convulsed one final time. "I hate this."
Hughes was pretty sure Mustang was done throwing up, but he continued to rub his back anyways. He didn't want to stop, not when his friend was clearly so miserable. Not when it was his fault Mustang was so miserable. Hughes couldn't believe that he'd forced Mustang to eat the toast. Mustang hated throwing up more than anything, he could see that in every tense line in his body, hear it in every ragged breath that he took. And Hughes had forced him to do more of it. Mustang must be furious at him. He wasn't sure how he could ever make it up to his friend. So he just continued standing there, rubbing Mustang's back and wishing he could take Mustang's pain into his own body so his friend wouldn't have to feel it anymore.
"I'm going to get you another glass of water," Hughes said when Mustang finally seemed to be done.
"No," Mustang croaked. "Don't...want it…."
"You don't need to drink it," Hughes said. "In fact, you probably shouldn't drink it. Just rinse your mouth out. That's all."
All day, Hughes had been pushing fluids on his friend, and trying his best to make sure that he kept them down and rehydrated himself. But clearly, whatever Hughes was doing wasn't helping. In fact, it was making things worse. Hughes had no idea what the right thing to be doing was anymore. He was clearly no good at any of this. All he was doing was making his best friend miserable.
Mustang nodded a little and spat weakly into the sink. Hughes brought him a glass of water, and watched carefully as he swished a little around his mouth and then spat that out too. Once he was done, he crumpled into the sink, head resting on his hands. He mumbled something too quiet for Hughes to catch.
"What was that, Roy?"
"I want to go home."
Hughes' heart dropped. Mustang was mad at him. And he was right to be. Hughes was trying his best, but Mustang could still probably take care of himself home alone better than Hughes could take care of him here.
"Are you done throwing up?" Hughes asked cautiously.
"Yes," Mustang said, gagging slightly. He clamped his mouth shut and stared at Hughes defiantly.
Hughes looked at Mustang's ashen cheeks, his hair limp with sweat, his hollowed eyes, and felt another twinge of guilt. He couldn't let his friend go home when he couldn't even keep toast down; he just shouldn't be throwing up alone. However much he might want to appease his friend's anger, he couldn't sacrifice his health.
"If you don't throw up for an hour, I'll drive you home," Hughes finally said reluctantly. Mustang frowned slightly, but then nodded. Hughes' heart sank. He wished he had never tried to interfere.
"Do you want to go back to the living room?" Hughes asked meekly. Mustang considered, then finally nodded again. Trying to do it subtly, Hughes offered Mustang his arm, and they began making their slow way back to the couch.
Hughes was a little shocked by just how weak his friend had gotten. He could feel Mustang's body trembling against his arm, and Hughes could tell he would fall if Hughes let him. Before, Mustang had just been using Hughes as a tool for balance, but now, he couldn't stand without him. Hughes was taking most of his weight.
Finally, they reached the couch, and Mustang released his grip on Hughes' arm and collapsed gracelessly onto the cushions. Hughes opened his mouth to ask Mustang if he needed anything, then broke off as his friend turned so he was lying with his back to Hughes, curled into the sofa back.
Hughes didn't bother finishing his sentence. Mustang clearly didn't want to speak to him after the toast incident, and Hughes didn't blame him. He sighed quietly and retreated to the hallway to see if he could salvage the carpet. Maybe Mustang would be less angry once he felt less sick? Hughes could only hope.
Mustang stared into the back of the couch, stomach roiling both with nausea and embarrassment. He couldn't even look Hughes in the eye anymore. He must despise me, Mustang thought with a familiar wrench of fear. He hated being alone, and even more than that, he hated admitting that fear to himself. But for a while, he hadn't had to worry, at least he had Hughes. Had he messed that up too?
Hughes had befriended the quiet orphan boy with big aspirations, and he had remained friends with the Flame Alchemist, the hero of Ishval. Hughes had seen...the more broken parts of Mustang before, yes, but that had been different. It was one thing to be shaken after watching a family killed right in front of you, after killing them, a lot of the time. It was quite another to cry in your friend's apartment into a half-full bottle of whiskey, and quite another yet to throw up in your friend's bed as your body refused to even hold down water. Hughes had become friends with a soldier, not this pathetic...this damaged...Mustang didn't even know what to call himself.
Hughes hadn't signed up for any of this, and Mustang didn't want to inflict himself on Hughes anymore.
All Mustang wanted to do at this point was go home and sleep until he could pretend that none of this had ever happened, and all he needed to do in order to make that possible was not throw up for an hour. That seemed...doable, if only because Mustang didn't even have water in his stomach at this point, and successfully ingesting anything had not been part of the deal. It wouldn't be a particularly fun hour, but he could do it. He would just lie on this sofa and not talk, and not move, and not open his mouth. And then Hughes would have to take him home.
After a little while, Mustang heard Hughes come back into the room. "I fixed the carpet," he announced proudly. "And the sheets and your shirt are in the laundry. They'll come out as good as new."
Mustang didn't respond. He heard Hughes walk towards him. He didn't look at him.
"Roy…."
Mustang curled further in on himself, burying his head into the pillows, and after a while he heard Hughes leave the room again. Mustang breathed a sigh of relief.
Finally, after almost more time than Mustang felt he could bear, he heard Hughes come back in. "It's been an hour. Do you still want to go home?"
"Yes," Mustang whispered. He was somewhat alarmed at how weak his voice sounded from all the vomiting.
"Can you even sit up?" Hughes asked, sounding somewhat suspicious.
"Yes," Mustang said again. He dragged himself into a sitting position. His stomach dipped alarmingly, but he swallowed his nausea down and looked at Hughes triumphantly.
"Alright," Hughes sighed. "You win. But take this." He grabbed the metal trash can from its position near the sofa and held it out for Mustang to take. "Just...just in case. I'm sure you'll be fine now, but...cars are a little harder to clean."
Mustang nodded stiffly and took the trash can. He promised himself that no matter what happened, he wouldn't throw up in Hughes' car, too. It shouldn't be hard to avoid, not with his completely empty stomach.
He allowed Hughes to help him up one last time and leaned on him as he struggled to stay upright. His legs were shaking so badly now that he was worried he would fall, even with Hughes' supporting arm. But he knew that if he fell, Hughes would feel duty bound to keep him there longer, and Mustang would just end up being more of a burden.
Somehow, he managed to stay upright long enough to slump into the passenger's side of Hughes' car. He propped himself against the door and clutched the trash can balanced in his lap, reassuring himself that it was there. Hughes climbed into the driver's seat and cast him a worried glance.
"Are you sure you can make it? You could just stay here, it's no trouble," he said, although Mustang imagined he heard a reluctant note enter his friend's voice.
Mustang couldn't stay, couldn't face his own weakness anymore. He shook his head.
"I want to go home," he said again, and tucked his head against the window so he didn't have to see Hughes' eyes fill with pity that Mustang didn't want and didn't feel like he deserved. After a few seconds, Hughes started the car and began driving.
The ride passed in silence. After they left Hughes' parking spot, they didn't exchange a single word. Mustang felt a black despair join the growing battle in his stomach. He didn't want to lose his only friend, but it seemed inevitable at this point. He shouldn't be surprised… One way or another, everyone left him behind. But he'd dared to get used to having Hughes there beside him, and he didn't know what he'd do without him. He searched for something to say to bring him back, to undo everything he'd said and done, but nothing came to mind. So he just leaned his forehead against the cool window glass and gagged quietly and fruitlessly into his trash can.
Finally, they arrived at the military dorms. Mustang steeled himself and pushed the car door open. Behind him, Hughes spoke the first words he had in over fifteen minutes.
"Wait! Do...do you want me to come inside with you?"
Mustang knew what he was asking, did he need help to get from the car to his dorm. Mustang thought that the answer was probably yes, but he wasn't about to ask Hughes for something else. So he shook his head and took one small, shuffling step, somehow managing to stay on his feet.
"Roy!"
Mustang paused and carefully twisted so he could see Hughes. He waited, not wanting to try to speak. All of his energy was being funneled toward not falling on his face.
Hughes looked at him strangely, with a mixture of worry and...something else that Mustang couldn't quite place. "When you feel a little better, please try to drink some water, ok? And if you want to eat-"
He must have seen the look on Mustang's face, because he broke off. "I know, I shouldn't be giving you any more advice, but if you feel up to it, rice shouldn't be too hard on your stomach."
Mustang nodded slightly. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to eat again, but he knew he'd have to force something down eventually.
Hughes turned away from him, and right before he started the car, Mustang mumbled "Thanks."
"Course," Hughes said, smiling a little, and waved at him. "See you later, Roy."
Mustang's room was on the second floor, and the journey up the stairs seemed to take him an entire lifetime. He was leaning heavily on the bannister, and part of him knew that if he were to try to walk without it he would fall. He was so shaky he was a little surprised he was managing to stay on his feet even with the help. But at least his stomach was starting to calm down the tiniest bit now that he was out of the moving car.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was more like ten minutes, he reached the door that led into his rooms. He had managed to keep his keys in his pants pockets, somehow through everything, and he quickly let himself in, breathing a sigh of relief that he had actually survived the journey.
The second Mustang entered his room he felt his legs give way beneath him, and he slid slowly to the floor. He just knelt there for a while, catching his breath and waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. Finally, he felt recovered enough that he could ease himself to his feet and walk the remaining twenty feet to his bed, where he collapsed on his side and was almost instantly asleep.
Mustang wasn't exactly sure how long he slept, but it must have been at least a little while, because when he woke up it was dark out. Keeping his eyes closed, he took a quick inventory of how he was feeling. His stomach actually...felt a little bit better. For the first time all day, he found that he was thirsty. He sat up tentatively, and while his head pounded thickly and his stomach lurched the second he was vertical, he didn't feel like he was going to throw up again.
Mustang eased himself back into his small kitchen, every step seeming to take a whole lifetime. He got himself a glass of water from the sink. He knew better at this point than to try to drink it too quickly, but he finished it off over the next ten minutes and it helped to settle his stomach nicely. His head still ached, but he found that he was actually a little bit hungry.
What had Hughes said he could try eating again? Rice? Mustang did normally have some cooked rice ready in the fridge, and he thought he could manage eating a little. He carefully made his way over to the fridge, acquired the container of rice and a spoon, and then gave up on the idea of walking and settled himself down on the floor. The first bite of rice made his stomach turn over, but he swallowed past it and after a few minutes decided that eating really was making him feel a little better at this point.
The phone rang, startling Mustang. He had no idea who would be calling him at this point, he didn't have a lot of people who he knew well enough that they would bother checking in on him. Could it be something relating to the military? Tentatively, he picked up the phone and held it to his ear.
"Roy?" he heard a familiar voice say.
Mustang sucked in a sharp breath, and nearly hung the phone back up on the spot. He didn't particularly want to have another conversation with Hughes, not now, after everything. He didn't want to listen to Hughes yell at him, or try to gently break the news that the friendship wasn't going to work out for him anymore. He didn't want to be reminded that he had thrown up in Hughes' bed and hallway, or that he'd cried in front of him. He didn't want to think about the fact that he couldn't live up to who Hughes wanted him to be.
He just wanted to pretend that none of this had ever happened, and he couldn't do that if he was talking to Hughes. He kept holding the phone to his ear, but he didn't say anything.
"Roy, guess what?" Hughes said, plowing on undeterred. "I just got a call from Gracia! She was a little concerned that she hadn't heard from me all day, and she wants to meet up the day after next! Wow, she's so beautiful. I can't believe how beautiful she is. Are you sure you don't want me to find someone like that for you too?"
As Hughes continued to blather on, Mustang found himself smiling a little bit. This was...the same exact Hughes that he'd always known, talking to Mustang the same exact way that he always had. It really was as if nothing had changed. He didn't even ask if Mustang was alright, which was just the way that Mustang liked it. Slowly, he felt some of the tension in his chest release.
Maybe it would take more than a little tears and vomit to end their friendship after all.