The place he's led is a hotel, small, like pretty much everything else in Bisman, and tidy, most likely due only to lack of use. Fullmetal has the uncommon decency to inquire if he's eaten before they enter, explaining that the folks here probably haven't even heard of room service, let alone offer it. More intrigued than hungry, Mustang declines, and follows him inside.

Passing a middle aged man behind the counter, chair tilted back on two legs as he reads a newspaper, Edward heads for the stairs, the Colonel at his heels. He has a room on the third floor, which Mustang finds odd, considering his strong doubt that there are more than one or two other guests taking lodging there. He drops his bag by the door, watching as Edward collapses on the bed like a puppet with it's strings cut, flopping bonelessly until he's half-curled at the foot, toeing his heavy boots off and letting them drop to the floor with dull thuds. Giving him the usual sardonic smirk, Mustang leans against the closed door, watching the young man with amusement. "Care to fill me in now?"

Fullmetal ignores the question. Waving a gloved hand vaguely in the direction of the dresser, he says, "You want a drink? There's a bottle of scotch, but I don't have any glasses."

Mustang blinks. Something is wrong, very wrong here. Entrapment in the first thing that comes to mind, although he can't imagine what offense might enlist Edward in such a plan. No matter how they've sparred in the past, or how obnoxious and insubordinate the young man can be, Edward has always been possessed of a strict, almost prickly honor. Nor has he ever been afraid to confront any problem, any authority, head on.

Caution, he thinks. Tread carefully. I haven't done anything improper, and we're just talking. Tamping down the initial flare of paranoia, he gives Edward a small frown. "How the hell did you manage to buy liquor?"

The little bastard smirks back at him. "None of your business. Want some or not?"

He walks over and picks the bottle up, pretending to read the label. "I think you're trying to change the subject." Offering the bottle to his companion, he gives a grim smile. "Or were you planning on partaking?"

Edward grimaces extravagantly. "Fuck no, I don't drink that shit! Don't know why you do, you have any idea what it does to your liver?" He sprawls onto his back, hands clasped over his stomach, an uneasy frown slipping across his face.

Mustang glances around for a chair, but there are none in the room; he settles for taking a seat at the head of the bed, still weighing the unopened bottle in one hand. "So Fullmetal," he says, all seriousness, "would you explain why you went through all the secrecy to bring me out here?"

"You in some hurry? Got a date after this?" He can see Edward's lips curling in a sneer, and his patience abruptly snaps.

"No, I've just been summoned an hour outside of Central- and my home for that matter- on a Friday night after a long work week, without any kind of explanation and at the behest of an ill-mannered subordinate who'd sooner insult me than give me the time of day. I haven't eaten, I'm tired, and all I want is something approaching an answer!"

"Fuck you," Edward snarls, but the usual heat behind the retort is lacking. "Fucking shit, you think this is easy?" His fingers lace tighter, the automail grip making Mustang wince as he watches.

"I have no idea," he replies frankly. "But I'm listening."

Edward is silent for a few moments, still staring upward, but his frown only deepens. The struggle to speak is plain on his face, and the Colonel watches with some fascination as determination finally overwhelms the young man's reticence, though his eyes never leave the ceiling. "These missions," he begins slowly, his voice faltering, "they're bad. You know that, you send me on them. Some of them are worse than bad, and I... Fuck, some of them, I can't sleep at night because of what I've seen. And it's getting worse. I can't even think, some days; the shit keeps spilling out of my brain like I'm having nightmares, only I'm awake, and nothing makes them go away, and it's about to drive me fucking crazy..."

He frowns. "Are you asking me to relieve you of duty? I don't see why you couldn't have asked that in the office..."

A loud snort; Fullmetal shakes his head violently. "No. I know as well as you that there isn't anyone else who can do what I do." He says it simply, without boasting. "An' I don't want anyone thinking I'm losing it, don't want to jeopardize my standing. I need that funding, and access to the Library. I've just got to hold it together."

He understands the look now, that he saw in the train station. It's the same one he's seen on countless soldiers, that he sees in his own eyes on the bad nights. Mustang shifts, brow furrowing as he regards the young alchemist. "Well, I don't know what you expect of me, Fullmetal, or why the great need for secrecy. There are plenty of counselors in Central who can help you better than I could."

Edward rolls his eyes, eloquently expressing his opinion of the counselors. "Fuck that," he sniffs. "Overpaid lapdogs... what the hell do they know about trying to fix a man who's been transmuted halfway into a stone altar for the sake of some fucking god that doesn't exist, or little kids who've had their guts ripped out for science?" He hisses the last word like it's foul, and the Colonel knows how much it costs him to disparage his personal religion. "Have they seen what's left over, after a human transmutation fails? They don't have a goddamn thing in their arsenal to help me, and don't fucking try to tell me they do!"

Edward's sitting up now, body taut like he's ready to spring, his voice not the usual angry rasp, but something almost bestial. The unalloyed fury in it plucks at the Colonel's instincts, as though signaling an imminent attack and he leans back, resisting the urge to slide his hands into his gloves. This is Fullmetal, he tells himself, he's not insane, he's just breaking down, and why not? Only eighteen, and the things he's already seen... "Why the secrecy, Edward?" he demands. "If you needed help this badly, why didn't you just ask, instead of making some obscure code and hoping I'd crack it eventually?"

He stares straight at the angry blaze of Fullmetal's eyes, and surprisingly, the young man looks away first. He hunches his shoulders, gloved fingers picking distractedly at a loose string on the duvet, and when Fullmetal meets his eyes again there's a calm decisiveness in them that wasn't present before. "One time, before he died," he begins, his voice oddly calm and quiet, "I talked to Lieutenant Hughes about this kind of stress. I think he was trying to warn me about what could happen; shit, I thought he was nuts at the time, what the fuck did I know? He'd seen enough shit like this, plenty of people who'd seen bad things..."

"Ishval," Mustang breathes before he can stop himself, and Edward nods.

"We talked some about how people handled it... and how some didn't. He told me how some of the men coped with what they saw, and the things they had to do..."

"The point, Edward?" Mustang is growing unaccountably more nervous by the second, anticipation fraying his nerves. "I know about Ishval. I was there with Maes."

Fullmetal gives him a furious look. "I know that, bastard. That's why it had to be you."

"What had to be me?" His hand is inches from the pocket, muscles already tensing in his fingers, and he forces himself to stillness.

Edward's face hardens, and Mustang thinks, here it comes, and his body is ready to move, to dodge whatever is coming, but not the gloves, he won't burn anyone here...

Shoulders squared, hands on the bed. Face burning like a white flame, despite the dreadful contusion marring the skin. Fullmetal stares through him with those odd, wild gold eyes, and draws a deep breath. "I want you to fuck me."

Silence stretches so thin in the room that Mustang is certain he can hear the lilt of voices, two floors away. Everything in the room seems to be picked out in surrealistic detail; the rough pattern on the duvet, the crusts of blood along Edward's jaw, his black bag still slumped beside the door. He wants to laugh, but he can't seem to draw the air into his lungs to do so. Edward watches him, an unrelenting stare that is absolutely determined and sober, and he has to wonder which of them is truly going mad.

His face is still frozen, but he's able to stand jerkily. "I'm leaving," he states, but he hasn't taken a step toward the door when Edward spits a harsh oath.

"You fucking asshole... I trusted you with this shit, and now you're gonna walk out on me?"

"You may need help, but forgive me if I don't see the connection between having sex with you and repairing your fractured psyche. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm a man, who is interested in women." He stares down at the alchemist. "This is entirely inappropriate."

Edward surges to his feet, all evidence of exhaustion erased by his anger. Hammering the Colonel in the chest with a hard automail finger, he shouts, "You owe me! If it weren't for you, sending me on these fucked up missions, I'd still be able to sleep at night! All I'm asking-"

"Those 'fucked up missions' are part and parcel of your job, Fullmetal!" he growls back, his own temper rising. "I don't recall forcing you to certify."

"Never said you did. But it's me out in the field instead of you, dealing with all the shit that comes across your desk." He's breathing heavily now, bangs falling down into his eyes. "Face it, Colonel. I'm the best goddamn tool in your box, and you use me mercilessly. And it's breaking me."

"And how do you get from that to sex? With me- why not find some agreeable young lady, and take care of it that way?" The look in Fullmetal's eyes is making Mustang nervous; it's far too old, too wise, and desperately close to a brink he knows quite intimately.

Fullmetal snorts, eyes narrowing. "I said I wanted to be fucked, you stupid shit, weren't you listening? I don't want to fuck someone. Besides," he adds with a grotesque grin, "once you've studied a woman's body like I have, and seen one inside and out..." He nods at the involuntarily look of horror that crosses the Colonel's face. "Yeah. They don't do so much for me."

Taking a step back, Mustang glares at him. "You still haven't explained how you figure sex is going to help you. No, wait. I don't want to know. I'm leaving."

He's almost to the door when Edward says, in a very different voice. "Do you know what scares me the most?"

He should ignore it. He should pick up his bag, walk out of the hotel, back to the train station and wait for the next train heading to Central. But the look he saw in Edward's eyes earlier- that familiar, yawning chasm- makes him pause. He doesn't say anything, nor turn around, but he knows that Fullmetal is watching him.

A shuffle of uneven feet on the floor. "What scares me is that if I can't keep it together, someone is going to die. I'm not worried about it being me- well, okay, I am, but only for Al's sake- but if I... if I killed someone... someone innocent, or... Shit, I don't know. It's getting harder to stay focused, and I'm always ready to explode, and it's so easy, I don't even have to draw an array..."

Edward's voice trails out, and the harsh silence is back again. And he knows he should move, he ought to get back to Central and schedule a counselor to evaluate Fullmetal as soon as the young man shows his face in the city. But some frightening inertia, an echo of the past, is holding him in place, making him listen as metal and flesh footsteps stalk closer to his back, aware that the moment is balanced precariously and any shift will see it fall apart in ways he can't hope to predict.

"Three things," Edward says to his back. "Hughes told me about three things that helped the men in Ishval."

He knows this list. He and Maes had discussed it, out in the desert night, while the rest of the camp took their fitful sleep.

"Religion, but that's a fucking joke. Even if I tried, God would just laugh at me."

No god will forgive these deeds, he'd whispered. I sent too many people ahead of me...

"Alcohol. I did try that, once, but it just made things worse. A lot worse."

It had worked for him, very well. Whiskey, scotch, brandy- it didn't matter, only the burn and the forgetfulness that followed.

"And sex. With women, when they were available, but as often as not, with other men." It's strange, hearing the young man discuss it so clinically, as though the desperation of sex during war was a rational thing. As though it didn't reverberate inside Mustang's own ribs with a terrible recognition. "It didn't have to mean anything, it was just the act. A way to feel alive, to hold off the demons..."

Hot nights, the smell of death permeating the air. What else had Maes told him?

"Colonel." Rough, but calm. "You told me once that I could come to you when I need help."

That stings. Turning, Mustang looks down at his subordinate. "Help, yes- money, information, a subtle hand at Headquarters. For god's sake, if you needed assistance moving that endless pile of books you own, I'd offer. But what you're asking..." He shakes his head. "That goes beyond help. We're not caught up in a war."

"You think it's not war out there, when I go on those fucking missions?" Edward raises an eyebrow, anger flashing in his eyes. "It's the same goddamn thing, and all I want is something to make it go the fuck away for a little while."

"Have you really thought about how I fit into this?" He folds his arms across his chest defensively, more than a little frightened of how close this comes to his own history. "I mean, since you want me involved? Edward, I'm not one of those men. I'm not desperate to escape my life, and if I were, the bottle works fine for me."

Fullmetal gives him a twisted little smile. "So you're saying your hands are clean?"

A knife twists in his gut at the sure shot; his jaw clenches convulsively, but he can't deny the truth. "No," he grates. "But-"

"Tell me you can sleep through the nights, tell me fucking honestly, to my face, and I'll drop this." Stepping even closer, craning his neck to glare up into his face. "Tell me that parade of women through your bedroom isn't to make the blood go away."

Mustang stiffens, wants to pull away, run away from the accusation that is all too perceptive. To admit to that is to accept that Edward is correct, and that he has every right to seek this means of escape. It's all too easy to remember his own nightmares, the endless killing fields and the inadequate solace that followed. His mind flails hopelessly as he stares down into the intense golden eyes, trying to find something to turn Fullmetal away, to keep these memories hidden and safe and, god help him, his own private sin.

"Go ahead," Edward whispers. "Tell me. I'll believe you."

His lungs freeze, heart stops. Lurches back to life with a sick, uneven pounding that rings in his ears. Large, expressive eyes are staring up into his, and they are every eye he saw in the cities he burned.

What he did...

Oh god, Maes, the blood...

He doesn't deserve a reprieve.

"I- I can't."

To his great surprise, Fullmetal doesn't pounce upon his weakness. He runs a hand through his pale, tousled hair, limps back to the bed and sits down heavily on the edge. Gloved hands twitch in his lap, restive and aimless, until he finally shrugs off his jacket with firm decisiveness, tossing it onto the floor. He sighs, "I'm not asking you for a fucking commitment, you know. Just sex. Won't mean a damn thing."

It's in the back of his head that he can still turn the doorknob and walk out of the room, but it's really not an option any longer. He may as well be back in Ishval now; the guns are blazing in his head, heat searing his face, crematorium ash in his hair. Something strikes his thigh and he looks down in surprise at the bottle of scotch still clutched in his hand. A humorless laugh tries to wedge its way out of his constricted throat, but he swallows it back down, all jagged edges and hard corners. Trap or no trap, he needs a drink.

"Fullmetal..." he crosses back to the bed, the young man's eyes following him as he sits at the head once again, opening the liquor bottle with a quick twist, "even if I understand what you're feeling, I still can't do this. If anyone were to know..."

"Why the hell do you think I made it so hard to figure out? Fuck, Mustang, do you think I'm stupid? You're an alchemist, even if you're a sorry excuse for one, you're used to looking at codes, and it still took you ages to figure out what I was trying to say." Edward slaps the mattress with frustration. "Do you really think some fucking gorilla in a blue uniform is gonna see it?"

"Maes would have."

Fullmetal's face tightens. "If Hughes was still alive, I might have asked him."

They stare at one another for a long minute, until the Colonel drops his gaze to the bottle in his hand. "Why me, Edward?" he groans, considering the scotch for a moment before taking a hefty swig. "What the hell were you thinking, asking me for this?"

Flushing, Fullmetal looks away. "Who else am I gonna ask?"

"A friend, some other soldier, a whore- dammit, Edward, I don't know!" Fire and screams and his tent can't hide him from the city he razed, the people he burned...

"Fuck, it's not like I'm inconspicuous! Half metal, weird yellow eyes... You think people can't put it together, who I am? I told you, I'm trying to maintain my standing, and if word got back that a State Alchemist was getting fucked by random whores... Do you want to see that on the front page? 'Fullmetal Alchemist, Carousing with Rentboys'- yeah, that'll look good, won't it?"

Mustang lets out a bark of laughter, chases it with another fiery gulp of scotch. "Oh, but it's so much better to be fucked by your superior officer. I'm sorry, Fullmetal, but no." Cannons and explosions, and oh god, make it all stop...

Fullmetal clenches his hands into fists, his face darkening. The Colonel is certain that he's about to burst out into another furious rant, but the word that forces its way out between clenched teeth is, "Please."

Please, Maes. Make it go away.

It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster. His shoulders are shaking uncontrollably, something between hysterical laughter and sobs rattling in his throat. He quenches it the best way he knows, with deep draughts from the bottle until he's coughing and swearing from the burn. Insanity- he's walked straight into insanity in this room, Fullmetal's and his own; the guns are roaring, and the walls of the tent aren't going to conceal what he does in the dark...

He knows how this will end. The heat and friction, and self-loathing in the morning, and he wonders if Edward has any idea. He hazards a glance at the other man, hunched at the foot of the bed, and sees the hard set of his bloodied jaw, wild desperation in his eyes, hands fisting in the duvet. Sees the cracks threatening to yawn open, and spill out all the hideous, twisted things he's seen and been a part of, and those are the same nightmares he catches in his own reflection when it's four in the morning and he's never left the desert.

Edward is opening his mouth to speak, brows drawn together in an angry line, but as Mustang stands to shuck off his greatcoat, folding it neatly before placing it beside the bed, he closes it again without a word. The hesitation or fear that the Colonel expects to see in his eyes is absent; instead there is a frightening, hungry relief, and if he closes his eyes he can feel the echo of it rattling in his own heart.

His hands tremble as he unbuttons his blue uniform coat. Smoke and fear and why, why, did Edward have to bring him back to this? The blue coat drops on top of the black one, the starched white shirt following, and he's somehow sitting on the floor next to the pile, his head in his hands, his whole body shivering, but it's still going to happen. The pain, the fires, the bone-crushing guilt, the warmth of flesh holding madness just out of reach...

"It doesn't mean anything," Fullmetal reminds him, his voice almost a growl. "Pretend I'm someone else. Fuck, pretend I'm a woman, I don't care." Just take the pain away. Make it go away.

His own plea had been answered, on a dry, hot night. For the sake of that memory, drawn unwillingly into this squalid little room, for that short time when death and bedlam were held at bay, there's no answer he can give but yes. The thing he's sought to avoid has subtly shifted, becoming an obligation owed to a ghost, and his own damned honor.

If he deserved succor, then Edward does as well, a thousand times over.

He draws one deep breath, then another. The thrum of his heartbeat echoes the chatter of gunfire in his mind, and he was a fool to ever think he'd left that battlefield. Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he shoves the memories back; his helpless obedience to genocidal orders, the recollection of death at his fingertips. His eye catches on Edward's bruised face, defensive and resolved and so very hurt no matter how he tries to hide it, and in that instant there is nothing but silence in his mind.

Don't think. Don't ask why.

His boots slide easily from his feet, and he's dimly aware of Edward wriggling free of his own clothing on the other side of the bed. Military issue pants slide down his legs, the softer brush of boxers slipping after them, and he's standing naked beside the rumpled pile of clothing on the floor. The bottle of scotch is there as well, tempting him to another swallow of oblivion, and he complies without hesitation before turning back to his companion.

The sense of frantic energy has left the younger man, but its intensity remains as he clambers onto the bed, naively unashamed of his nudity. His torso is marred with half-healed bruises, the unraveling bandage on his left forearm reveals a long, shallow gash snaking toward his elbow, but the play of muscles beneath his scarred skin lends a sensual animal grace to his movements that overshadows his injuries. "C''mon," he beckons, metal fingers curling with a soft clacking sound. "Don't fucking back out now."

"No," he agrees, and sinks onto the mattress in front of the younger man, and he won't think about how strange it is to be in this situation. There's a moment of awkward silence between them, Fullmetal shifting on his knees, Mustang sitting in perfect stillness. Tension is building in Edward's bright gold eyes again, but before he can release his apprehension in a volley of obscenities the Colonel reaches up, one hand tracing tenderly along the junction of metal and flesh at his shoulder.

Fullmetal flinches, just barely, but doesn't pull away. Long, pale fingers continue their exploration; trailing cautiously across the broad chest, sliding the length of a raised collarbone, ghosting over a tensed stomach. Mustang touches him with exquisite care, each brush of fingers meant to soothe more than caress, to gentle and calm the man trembling before him. He can almost feel the savage energy thrumming beneath Edward's cool facade, and leans in close to brush his lips over the tensed line of his neck.

It's like following in the footsteps of a memory. A mirrored dance with the past. Mustang is frozen in the back seat of his mind, watching with dull anticipation as he moves through the same motions he remembers playing across his own body, sand on the wind and the taste of char on his tongue.

He doesn't stop to examine the rationality of carefully pushing Edward back onto the mattress, nor the way that his hands move across his small body with an assurance he doesn't possess. Thought has become his enemy, as it was when he was on the front lines. The military has never liked its men to think; it's a liability, and Mustang knows how to be a good soldier. And some things do not bear thinking about.

He suspects that this is one of them.

But he knows that he's not prepared for the sight of Edward, flushed and compliant beneath him, watching his every move with a sunset gaze. A flicker of something greater than mere admiration lights within him, but it's more than his mind is willing to accept at the moment. Shifting back onto his heels to hide his momentary discomfort, he asks quietly, "Do you have any oil, or lotion?"

Edward grunts. "Jacket pocket," he says, waving one arm vaguely. "Lube. But I don't care if you use it or not, just hurry up." His face is filled with impatience, sweat already beading on his forehead.

Mustang swings his legs over the side, fumbling through the discarded clothing until he finds the small tube. The bed shifts as he resumes his position at Edward's hip; there can be no more stalling, and he slides one palm across the flat plane of his stomach, letting it dip lower until it brushes dark gold curls and the young man's breath hitches in his chest. His eyes squeeze closed, and Mustang watches him for a moment before slipping his hand down further still, stroking flesh already aroused and tightened.

A gasp, involuntary twitch. Head thrown back, pressing into the pillow, and Edward gasps hoarsely. "Fuck, just... Do it, Mustang. Don't make me..." Teeth bite hard into his lower lip, blood welling around his lips as the Colonel's hand pulls carefully along his straining length.

He plucks the flesh hand from it's grip in the sheets, placing it on his own stirring cock. "Help me," he murmurs, and Fullmetal's eyes open long enough to glare up at him before his hand picks up the rhythm. Something electric shoots through him at the touch, but the Colonel won't, can't think. There's a moan catching in the back of his throat from the rough stroking, delicious pressure building at the base of his skull, and he bends forward, mouth blindly seeking Edward's lips.

A metal hand is planted on his chest, pushing him back hard. "This isn't some fucking date you're on," Fullmetal grates angrily. "Don't kiss me."

He withdraws obediently, distantly aware of something that feels like disappointment. Edward frowns, and tugs greedily at the erection in his hand, his expression a melange of emotions, and Mustang will not consider what any of it means; the sounds of war have been silenced in his mind, and he follows the young man's unspoken urging, moving in closer, one hand reaching for the lubricant.

Fullmetal hisses and arches at the first touch, and Mustang soothes him down again, letting him adjust to the feel as one finger skates the rim of muscle. "Relax," he urges, the word vibrating deep in his throat and the young man makes an incoherent sound as the digit eases in.

Stretch and press, and Edward writhes at his fingertips, growls and curses spilling from a wide open mouth. Both hands are flung over the edges of the bed, gripping the mattress with ferocious strength, and an automail leg is snaked over his calf with almost painful force. "More," Edward gasps. "Don't care if it hurts, I want..."

Please, Maes...

He moves the other man's hand aside, slicking himself liberally with the lube, because Fullmetal is certainly not ready, no matter what he thinks. However Mustang obeys; it's what he was trained to do, to be a good dog, snap and sit, and move out Major, there's work to be done... He follows his commands as precisely as he did in the desert, the same way that he followed Maes' gentler instructions, without question, without thought. So much less pain, when he simply does as he's told.

Still, he's careful as he eases himself down, and begins pressing in. Edward's eyes are screwed tightly shut again, his chest heaving, and he finds himself crooning soothing words, relax, breathe, though he's not certain whether the reassurances are for Fullmetal or himself. The world has compressed to this bed, the tent in his mind, and in his fevered imagination he's both the recipient of this act, as well as the one pushing into another body. His vision spins, fogs; arousal, alcohol, and long suppressed memories melting together in an unreal fugue.

When he sheathes himself fully inside the young man, Edward screams.

It's primal, raw, as though every terrible thing he'd ever seen is being expelled, and Mustang's eyes flare open at the sound. Startled, he moves to withdraw, but an automail leg is locked adamantly around his waist. "No!" is gritted out between clenched teeth, the demand harsh but clear. Blood smeared across lips stretched thin, eyes bright with adrenaline and anguish, and Mustang is shocked from his dissociation, frightened for the young man and far, far more aroused than he has any right to be. The shame is crushing, but distant as he stares down into the pain-contorted face. "Edward?" he whispers, holding very still and feeling the clamp of abused muscles on his sex.

"No," Fullmetal repeats, panting. His voice is hoarse and strained, deadly calm. "Fuck me."

"I don't want to hurt-"

"Don't care." The automail tightens across his spine. "Just do it."

He moves, slowly at first. Edward growls encouragement, gasping moans that aren't pleasure, but are not entirely pain either. It's the timbre of release, or exorcism, a gravely song that he sings in time to the plunging of Mustang's hips. Eyes wide open, he stares over the Colonel's shoulder, his gaze directed resolutely at the ceiling even as he shakes with the rhythm of each thrust.

Despite the bizarre circumstances and incongruous partner, despite that his mind is paralyzed and unresponsive, Mustang's body knows what to do. It sets the pace that his partner demands, making Edward gasp and cry out, eyes rolling. It strokes a cadence from the bedsprings, that their breath matches in syncopation. When a high flush lights the young man's cheeks, it shifts the angle, pressing against a place that causes Edward to arch almost convulsively, clenching him in a way that pulls a fevered groan from his own lips.

The young man shrieks again, voice cracking as warmth spills against Mustang's stomach, and shudders wrack the small frame beneath him. Gripping the young man's hips, the Colonel drives himself in harder, faster, feeling Edward opening to him, and the sensation quickly drives him over the edge as well, moaning a string of unintelligible praises or curses.

Once the tremors have passed, Mustang pulls back, out, but only far enough to free himself from Edward's body. Pushing himself up to kneel, he sways lightly in between the other man's legs, chest heaving. His heart is still racing, his body overwhelmed with sensation, but his mind is empty, feeling almost drained, and only slowly does it begin to sharpen to the scene around him.

There's blood, though not as much as he'd feared, and guilt tightens his chest as he sees it, wondering belatedly if Maes had felt the same. Edward begins to stir, levering himself up so that he rests on his elbows. His hair is mussed, wisps of it sticking haphazardly from the thick plait hanging down his back, and he aimlessly picks at it for a moment. The young man seems calmer now, his eyelids slowly drooping to half mast as he says gruffly, "Thanks."

Mustang only grunts in response, trusting neither his voice nor his opinion of events. The scotch that he's drunk on an empty stomach is muddying his thoughts, making concentration a difficult and unwelcome pursuit, and he's not even sure he wants to understand what he's feeling anyway. Sliding away from the other alchemist, he dangles his feet off the bed and decides he's steady enough to stand and make his way to the closet-sized bathroom.

Once inside he shuts the door, almost falling into the wall beside him as he fights the queasiness roiling his stomach by forcing long, slow breaths. The weight of what has transpired between himself and Edward presses down, fighting against his careful breathing until he realizes that he is gasping for air, on the verge of hyperventilating. With a great effort, he reasserts control and the stars in his vision fade, the horrible constriction around his chest easing just a bit. Relax. Don't think. He passes a shaky hand over his face. It's just sex, remember? Doesn't have to mean a thing.

You have to get yourself together, Roy. He can hear the words, spoken somewhere near a decade ago, as clear as though Maes were in the room. With a shuddering sigh, he pushes himself upright, operating mechanically as he hunts down a small washrag and begins running warm water in the sink. As fast as thoughts come to him, they are shunted aside; tomorrow will be quite soon enough to examine what has just happened here, and the likely fallout. He washes efficiently and, after a moment's pause, wraps a towel around his waist and then grabs another one before returning to the room.

Edward is still sprawled on the bed, where he'd left him. He looks to be half asleep already; drowsy eyes, one arm flung languidly above his head, legs still spread and bent. As the Colonel approaches, his head lolls to glance up at him lazily, pale, bloodstained bangs falling across his face. Mustang tosses him the towel, watching as it settles across the scarred chest.

"You might want to clean up," he suggests, at the lifted brow directed at him. The young man yawns widely in answer, muscles rippling as he rolls his shoulders.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, a soft, barely visible smile toying with the corners of his lips. The tension released from his face, he looks almost his age, as though whatever nightmares had hounded him have retreated for a time. "I feel like I could fall asleep just like this." Nonetheless, metal fingers clutch the faded blue terry, making a few half-hearted swipes along his stomach and groin, and between his legs before tossing the towel aside.

"Hey," he says after a moment, prying one sagging lid open to study the Colonel, still standing awkwardly near his pile of discarded clothing. "You gonna stay, or head back now?"

Mustang had been contemplating the same question. "I don't feel especially well," he replies after a moment, aware that it doesn't answer the question.

Though it seems to, in Edward's mind. Wriggling a bit to get more comfortable, he sighs. "Suit yourself. But I paid for it, so the bed's mine. M'not sharing."

It's not the first time he's made shift with only his clothing and boots for bedding, and Ishval is still close in his mind. Wrapping the towel a little tighter Mustang settles down quickly beside the bed, grateful for the coolness of the floor against his skin as his stomach churns miserably. Sleep; he desperately wants sleep. Tomorrow he can wonder if what he has done will have repercussions in the office, whether he'll be able to look Fullmetal in the eye, or even be capable of standing his own reflection in the mirror.

He pulls his coat closer to his chin, the rough wool scratching almost painfully against bare skin and yet when his eyes close he feels Edward instead, warm flesh and cool metal. His mind is too numb to process the sensation, but the sudden realization is enough to leave him winded. What the hell does it mean that he actually enjoyed fucking Edward?

Exhausted, he lets slumber overpower the questions and drag him under.

There are guns, and the steady boom of artillery. Heat from the desert rising up through the sand, which blows and stings and blinds, and the incessant, hateful wind which pushes it. His hands and wrists ache with the repeated motion; he hates the pain, and the coarse snapping that seems louder in his ears than the explosions.

Maes is there, stern, unflaggingly positive. There's blood leaking from his chest, his glasses spattered with dark stippling, and he smiles at Roy saying, it's time. Flame Alchemist.

And the white gloved hand, stiff with pain, snaps once, and Maes is still grinning, the death rictus of a child he saw in the slums of Ishval, and holding out a hand to him whispering, please...

He shakes and rocks, hand held out before him, but the burning never stops, bodies are never devoured by the wicked, angry flames. He's awash in screams, the pelt of sand on hot wind, Maes grins, and a city erupts in a silent roaring conflagration. Metal bands wrap around his shoulder, pinching, shaking him and forcing his fingers to part. The touch is cold and he wants to pull from the tight grip of the automail.

Automail? There was no automail in Ishval.

The floor is cold against his side, and the air has a slight chill as well. He sees nothing; it's far too dark, and his eyes are screwed shut against the nightmare anyway. The automail hand on his shoulder tightens briefly, withdraws.

"You're okay," Fullmetal slurs, voice thick with sleep. "Shut th' fuck up."

Mustang believes him. He sleeps.