The ride back into Central seems longer than the trip out. The Colonel leans against the window, not really seeing the landscape blur past, his eyelids drooping sleepily. The rumbling clamor of the train is a comforting drone, but as soon as sleep surrounds him it becomes the boom of artillery, the nightmare he can't hold at bay, and he awakens with a start. Exhausted by his fearful vigil the night before, he settles his head in his hand, wishing for the rest he dares not take. Half-dozing, half-awake, when the conductor finally announces their arrival at Central, he's only too happy to disembark.
But even the accustomed sights and sounds of the city are jarring. He flinches at a baby's wail drifting down from a window, and can't help recoiling when a dark-skinned lad, likely from Southern, darts past him in the crowd. A street away, a car backfires, and he's scrabbling for the gloves in his pocket before sense masters his alarm. With a haunted glance over his shoulder, Mustang hunches forward and picks up his pace.
The relief that surges through him is overwhelming when he finally reaches his house, almost fumbling his keys in his haste to open the door. The comforting familiarity of home envelopes him as soon as he crosses the threshold, and his nerves cease their frantic jangling once the front door is closed and solid at his back. He strips off his coat, realizes he's sweating and frowns. Flashbacks. He doesn't want to think about Ishval; he put it behind him long ago. A shiver traces its way down his spine, and his hands itch for his gloves.
The Colonel always keeps his bar well stocked, and that is where he goes; tumbler, ice, potent amber liquor. Downs the drink in one long gulp, and pours another. It follows the first, and he makes a third. Carries it to the sofa, where he drops to the cushions, his knees gone watery and his head spinning.
It shouldn't be coming back. He doesn't want to go there again.
Sunday passes as a painful blur; hangover and unease a sour mixture in his stomach. He's not visited by bad dreams, but feels the echo of their passage in the shadows that reach across the room. In the afternoon Mustang finds himself wrapped in his robe, sitting on his back porch and clutching a cup of tea while the trees whisper overhead. The filtered light is peaceful, so different from the dark corners of his home or the harsh glare of the desert, and for what feels like the first time since arriving back in Central his heart isn't thrumming out an adrenaline-laced rhythm against his ribs. The tea is warm, sweet on his tongue, and he stares into the cup wondering if his return to the office will drive off the memories that stalk him.
He thinks of Edward, with his ferocious will and the burning anger he uses to shield himself from his own demons. Fierce, sunset eyes, and he can't help but recall the demanding, helpless edge to the young man's voice- please- and he'd gladly give over his rank and future for one half of that strength. Edward, begging, still manages to be mightier than any Fuhrer's command.
But now with thoughts of Edward also come the unnerving sensations that the Colonel is at a loss to control. Cool metal plates and warm, tanned skin, the soft whirr of bearings and pale scars that lie slick and pink beneath his palms; he'd never before imagined he'd picture such things at Fullmetal's name. Heat and flame, and he's seized with the irrational urge to taste, and the teacup drops from his fingers to shatter on the steps.
Shaken, he looks down at the shards, the brown liquid soaking into the wood. What am I thinking? He clenches his eyes tightly shut, scrubs his face with the heels of his hands hard enough to draw stars to his vision through his closed lids. I don't need this, he thinks, desperate and a little reckless. I don't want this.
He leaves the broken teacup where it lies on the step, rises and returns to the den. Rifles through his desk until he locates his black book, and holds it to his chest as he eases into the chair. Flipping on the table lamp, he opens the book reverently, scanning the names and phone numbers, the oblique notations that fill the margins. Studies the pages as though they contain the remedy to his preoccupation. From time to time he glances over at the telephone, contemplating the merits of following through on such a therapy, but every name is wrong, every face too soft, too friendly, and with a snarl of frustration he lets the book fall to the blotter.
What the hell is happening to me?
Something of his weekend must show in his face, for as soon as he arrives in the office, the Colonel notices his staff giving him a wide berth. Even Breda, who is never above ribbing him over his appearance or excesses, gives him one look and then takes to his paperwork as though it were the most consuming pleasure of his existence. Lieutenant Hawkeye appraises him coolly, one slender eyebrow arched, then hands him a stack of papers.
"Here are the recent evaluations for promotion, sir. They'll need to be completed by this afternoon." He can feel his expression darkening, but she pays it no mind, ever the professional. "If you begin now, there should be plenty of time." She blinks at him slowly, something in her countenance softening. "I will bring your coffee, and see to it that you're not disturbed."
Solitude. That should be well enough. Mustang sighs, relaxing fractionally. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Without a glance for the rest of the staff, all watching the exchange from the corners of their eyes, he marches back into his office and shuts the door.
Slumping into the large chair behind his desk, he drops the papers into a messy pile and rubs his temples. Lack of sleep preys upon him, and his head hurts abominably. He hadn't suffered the bad dreams again, but his nerves had tuned themselves to hair-trigger awareness, every noise jolting him awake, heart racing. What rest he had gotten came only in brief snatches; minutes, maybe a half-hour, before his overstrung senses pulled him back to painful consciousness. Every fiber of him now clamors for sleep, but even as he eyes the leather sofa with longing, Mustang doubts that he could find rest here.
The door opens; Hawkeye, bearing his coffee. She brings it to the desk, setting it down and noting the untidy paperwork with a slight frown. "Are you alright, sir?"
Annoyance flares, quickly stifled. He wants to growl at her, to tell that no, he certainly isn't all right, but there's really no point. "Bad weekend," he grumbles, reaching for the coffee. "Haven't slept well in days."
"Well then," she says and pauses, as though debating with herself before continuing, "please try and complete these evaluations. As long as they're done by three, I can't imagine we'll need anything else from you today."
He gives her a bleary, grateful look over the top of his mug, and she favors him with a slight smile as she turns to leave. At the door she adds over her shoulder, "Take better care of yourself, sir. We need you at your best."
Mustang manages a ghost of his usual smirk, tossing her an exaggerated salute that she ignores as she exits, and in a somewhat better mood, picks up the first evaluation.
But hopes of an early departure vanish shortly after lunch, when orders come down from General Simmens for a meeting at two, and the Colonel swears quietly as Hawkeye delivers the news to him. Budgets again, no doubt, and his head aches at the idea of sitting through dry hours of numbers and haggling. However there's no getting around it, and he hands off the nearly completed papers to the First Lieutenant before preparing himself for what will surely be a grueling session.
It's almost six before the meeting adjourns, and the Colonel is finally free, irritable, exhausted, headache swelled until he's almost nauseous from the sickly throbbing. Thankfully the office is empty, and Mustang gathers his coat, basking in the balm of silence clinging to the rooms. A glance out the window, where a stiff wind is rippling the trees, and he decides to head for the motor pool, pull rank for once and be driven home rather than walk the few blocks in this state.
Long corridors, streaked with the early evening shadows, and blessedly free of the bustle that normally fills them. Mustang relaxes somewhat, as his boots echo dully and the promise of home looms nearer. A hot bath, a fire in the grate, and he thinks that perhaps he'll toss some blankets on the floor and just sprawl in the flickering warmth there...
"Colonel?"
That voice, almost hesitant, breaks his stride. He turns to see Fullmetal staring at him from an adjoining corridor, wide eyes looking shadowed and bruised. The snappish reply that had been on the tip of his tongue withers and dies, leaving behind an aftertaste of weary resentment. "What is it, Fullmetal?" Clipped and impersonal, and part of him feels childish for the petulant response, but damn it all, he doesn't have the strength to endure this right now.
Edward hunches his shoulders uncomfortably, hands jammed deep in this pockets. "I wanted to know if there were any leads for me. Went by the office earlier, but Hawkeye said you'd left already." He gives the Colonel a flat look, as though he were the one responsible for the misinformation.
The headache pulses behind his eyes, and Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. "Fullmetal, I've been in a finance meeting for the past four hours. And if I did have a lead for you, you would know about it already. Now if you'll excuse me..."
Don't look at the lines on his face. Don't see the exhaustion pulling down on his youthful skin, darkening his molten eyes. Pay no mind to the worn expression he wears, so like your own that you ache in sympathy. Just take yourself home, sit in blankets like an old man and don't bother wasting care on someone who neither wants nor needs it.
"Hey, Colonel. You look shitty. Are you sick?"
He stiffens, but though his strides slow, he doesn't stop. "You're one to talk, Edward. Have you looked in a mirror?" Childish or not, he can't resist tossing a wry smirk over his shoulder. "I'm fine, don't bother yourself."
With that parting shot he heads once more for the motor pool, stomach cramping, head a wreck, wishing that he could at least feel the satisfaction of having the final say. As it is, all he feels is miserable.
A long, hot soak turns out to be worth every bit as much as he'd imagined. When he emerges Mustang feels much improved, if still ragged and drained. Although the tribulations of the weekend can still be felt in the corner of his mind, they are quiet for now, and he can almost pretend that nothing is, or has been amiss. Toweling his hair dry, he pads into his bedroom to pull on a pair of loose pants, then retrieves one of his ignition cloth gloves with a tight smile. Blankets and a fire, and the evening plans will be complete.
Soon he's drowsing on the sofa, letting the unsteady light from the grate dance on his eyelids, a blanket wrapped snugly around him. His headache is all but gone, and he feels more at peace than he has in what seems like ages. Since before Edward barged into his personal life, awakening the old memories, disrupting the balance he'd found...
Eyes still closed, he gives a slight shake of his head. No, Edward is on the list of things he will not think about tonight. Maybe then, he can sleep easily...
The fire's warmth is soothing, and the crack and hiss from the hearth becomes a gentle, lulling murmur. He must have nodded off, for the sudden knocking at his door makes him jerk awake, disoriented and groggy. Letting the blanket fall, he staggers upright, his body still slow to respond as he makes his way to the door. Runs a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable, but a glance at the hall mirror, and he gives it up as a lost cause. He looks as he feels; worn, tired, and no amount of primping will hide it. With a rueful grimace and a glib excuse ready should it be needed, he pulls open the door.
Black leather, a fall of hair like sunlight. Edward glances up through his bangs, his face shuttered and carefully empty as he offhandedly says, "Hey."
Mustang blinks at him, at a loss for what to say and completely taken aback at the young man's appearance at his home. It is not a scene that, even after their meetings in the hotels, he's ever contemplated before, and he finds himself out of sorts and somewhat resentful at the intrusion. Fullmetal frowns, and he remembers belatedly that he ought to say something. "What the hell are you doing here, Edward?"
Gold eyes roll, and Fullmetal tosses his head with a snort of annoyance. "Oh, that's nice," he growls. "I suppose it would kill you to at least say hello before telling me to fuck off?"
"I didn't tell you to fuck off. I asked why you were here." Some dark impulse makes him smirk and add, "Subtle difference, I know, but you are supposed to be a genius."
"Asshole. I needed to talk to you, why else would I be here?" Edward folds his arms tight across his chest, giving Mustang a glare so familiar that it hardly seems belligerent any longer. Or maybe he's just too tired to care.
"Fullmetal, I have office hours. I'm sure we can discuss what leads I do not have for you then."
Those bright eyes flicker with... uncertainty? "I already tried to reach you during your fucking office hours. Besides..." his feet shuffle anxiously on the porch, "this isn't about the leads."
I'm tired, Mustang wants to tell him. I'm worn to the bone, and all I want is to sleep. But...
We take care of our own.
Damn. He closes his eyes, grasping desperately for whatever patience he still possesses. With a sigh, he steps back into the hall, holding the door open. "Come in. We can't very well discuss this on the porch."
Edward eyes the sofa and blanket as he's escorted into the den, and steers himself to a chair beside the fireplace, leaving Mustang to settle back into his nest. Firelight paints deep shadows across the younger man's face, and the Colonel can't help but notice the fatigue in it that he'd forced himself to overlook earlier. "Can't sleep?" he inquires, and Fullmetal's eyes snap back to his face.
"No," comes the grudging reply. "Not well, anyway." Edward stares down at his shoes, as though the admission costs him more than he cares to pay. "Mrs. Hughes told us to stay as long as we liked, and Al's happy there, but... fuck, it just keeps reminding me."
He cuts a sharp, almost sly glance at the Colonel. "That was some stunt you pulled," he states, "calling Mrs. Hughes to check on me."
Mustang pauses in pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, you weren't really thinking, were you? It was pretty careless."
He frowns at the other alchemist, lolling in the chair as though he belonged there. "It's hardly out of the ordinary for me to check on you, seeing as how I was the one who made the request of Gracia. And I didn't specifically ask about you, if that's what has you bothered." He lets the smirk out once again. "Don't think so much of yourself."
Edward curses, face reddening, and Mustang watches him with vague amusement. This is the ground he's familiar with; he can feel in control with this. Fullmetal, off-balance and swearing, not a hint of weakness save for his susceptibility to the Colonel's precisely delivered taunts. He prefers this to the new Edward he's become acquainted with, not for his ability to wind him up or the subtle illusion of dominance, but because Edward is meant to be this raging force, in perpetual motion and filled with vigor. He hasn't realized until now how he hates seeing the sickness welling up inside of the younger man, eroding his strength and casting shadows where there was once only radiance. Edward isn't meant to be diminished, not when he is the brightest, the biggest, person Mustang has ever known.
He becomes aware that Fullmetal is no longer grouching, and is instead giving him a hard, questioning look. "What the hell are you staring at?" he growls, defensive and bristling.
Mustang only shrugs lightly, the hint of a smile curving his lips.
Edward's face abruptly darkens; he shifts in his seat, staring into the flames dancing in the grate. "You shouldn't have called," he grumbles, automail fist slowly opening and closing on the chair arm. "Just fucking shouldn't have."
Something turns over in Mustang's stomach, sour, and the smile disappears from his face. "That's right," he answers coolly, eyes narrowing. "You don't want my concern. You just want me to fuck you when it's convenient to you."
"You knew that from the start, " Edward snaps, and his face in the firelight is feral. "I never pretended otherwise."
"I've got news for you," Mustang leans forward, irritation flaring into full-blown anger, and he hasn't a mind to even try and control it. "You can't ask me to help keep you from falling apart, and then tell me I can't feel concern for you! It's not rational, Edward."
"I don't want you to care about me!" Teeth bared, eyes wild, and looking ready to launch from the chair, Edward isn't quite shouting, but his voice echoes from the corners of the room all the same. "I don't need your pity!"
"Who said anything about pity? You're making assumptions again." Fatigue is starting to weigh him down once more; the usual thrill that runs through him when he argues with Fullmetal is notably missing tonight. "So I care about you. That's not such a terrible thing. I care about all of my friends."
There's a moments pause, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Edward rasps a laugh, his voice bitter, but quieter."Hah! Since when are we friends?"
Mustang stares at the young alchemist, wary and aggressive where he's perched on his chair, ready to beat down anything that pricks his honor, yet it's the flicker of desperation in his eyes, the nervous flutter of pulse at his throat that fills his vision. He closes his eyes to the sight, and sighs.
"Since you trusted me enough to come to me when you needed help."
Silence. He can hear his own heartbeat pattering out its quiet rhythm, and the soft draw and release of his breath is deafening. In the grate, a log pops, and it's an explosion in the stillness of the room. Edward hasn't moved a muscle; neither a creak of the chair nor the clink of automail betrays his intentions, and Mustang waits with patience borne of years of practice; it seems like he's always waiting for something, a promotion, his plans to come to fruition, might as well add Edward to the list...
Across from him, breath hisses out. Feet shuffle against the floor, but Edward isn't leaving, and he dares to open his eyes to see the young man staring into the flames once more, face awash in the glow.
"...Doesn't mean I like you," Fullmetal mumbles sulkily.
Resisting the urge to sigh again, Mustang stands, letting the blanket hang from his shoulders as he crosses the short distance separating them. He hesitates only a moment before reaching out and cupping Fullmetal's chin in his palm, gently pulling the other man to face him. But Edward only allows a half-turn of his head, staring suspiciously up at the Colonel through the corner of his eyes.
"Is it really so hard," he asks in a low voice, "for you to accept compassion from others?" The fingers holding that stubborn jaw curl, caressing, and Edward resists for a few seconds before finally giving in, letting his eyes flutter closed as he relaxes beneath Mustang's touch. The pad of his thumb brushes across warm skin, and the Colonel recalls how Fullmetal had recoiled in the office only days before, unwilling to allow contact, obdurately holding onto his pain, and how can he stand to be so alone? Studying that proud face he suddenly wants to show Fullmetal that he doesn't have to hold himself apart, and this time doesn't hesitate at all before sinking to his knees, leaning forward to drift slow kisses along the tense line of Edward's neck.
Wood groans as metal digits lock onto the chair arm, but other than that Edward doesn't move, barely breathes. Mustang's lips trace down the tendon until they meet fabric, and then warm fingers are tangling in his hair, pulling him back. Edward looks down at him, silent and unreadable, then grasps the hem of his shirt, slipping it over his head and letting it drop beside the chair. Tugging Mustang's head forward once again, a whisper of a moan teases up from his chest as the Colonel's mouth closes on his shoulder, sucking lightly.
Touching that fire-gilt skin, tongue leaving glistening trails across scar and muscle; it's as though the weight of the weekend is lifted, delivering Mustang from traces of the past and the uncomfortable present. His hands, palm-flat against jutting wings of shoulderbone, salt and iron tingling on his tongue, listening to the shuddering gasps that Edward makes; it's the only thing that seems to have made sense since the previous week. For a moment he forgets that he does these things for Edward's benefit, and loses himself in the taste, the feel, the warmth pressing against him...
"Jus'..." Edward hisses, as teeth graze his chest. "Jus' don't make it personal, okay?" Gold eyes, glazed and intense, stare down at him, and behind the steel of the words Mustang can hear a note of pleading. "Promise that."
"How is it not personal already?" the Colonel murmurs, and his skin is crying out for Edward's body, for the beautiful oblivion of being lost amidst that brightness.
Metal fists in the blanket, pulling his face closer, and the young man growls, "Promise!" Urgent, needing, and even as his hips rock forward into the Colonel's chest, he knows that Fullmetal will flee if he doesn't say the word. He looks up into Edward's flushed, handsome face, and thinks, how did I imagine I could deny you anything?
"Promise," he husks, the word cutting like sawgrass in his throat, and those bright eyes sag shut, hand relaxing its grip. With boneless fluidity Edward slides from the chair, practically into his lap, mouth moving tentatively against the Colonel's neck and anything resembling rational thought perishes within him.
There's a mad scramble to undress, and it's only sheer luck that keeps any clothing from ending up in the fire. Connected skin to skin, from shoulder to ankle, and the only thing Mustang finds odd anymore is that he's never kissed Edward's mouth. Those thin lips are half-parted, panting against his shoulder as their hips grind together, a constant stream of curses and incoherent pleading spilling from them; before he thinks his head is tilting, angling to capture them. But Edward draws his head back, a look of mingled anger and panic flooding his eyes.
"Not that," he grates out, arching against the lean body covering his in a way that makes it almost impossible for the Colonel to think. He knows diversion when he sees it, but Edward's forceful grinding is a most thrilling distraction, and one to which he willingly abandons himself.
Greedy and desperate, and there will be bruises on knees and backs in the morning, but he's helpless to care, caught in the inevitable gravity of Edward. Pulled down and in, and Edward moans, fingers scrabbling at his back, eyes clamped shut. Pressing and fading, Mustang moves within him and keeps his own eyes open, memorizing the image of the golden youth beneath him. His hips rise and fall to a rhythm he can't control or contain and Edward doesn't fight him, but cries out a long, broken note, writhing and pulling Mustang deeper.
He's losing his mind, everything fragmenting into shards of firelight and gold. One hand slides blindly along a sleek flank, grasps the arch of a hipbone. A gasp tears from Edward's throat as Mustang's hand finds his firm length, stroking until the other man shakes around him, voice gone high and thin. Then there is warmth and wet, and stars explode behind his eyes as he's drawn down once again, forehead to the broad, scarred chest, the breath squeezed from his lungs and he's tremblingand weak, but this madness makes sense...
And Edward breathes, shifting, reminding him that he's heavy and pinning the smaller man to the floor, and Mustang rolls beside him, one arm still draped across the slender waist. Fullmetal's cheeks are dusky with the flush of arousal, the arresting gold of his eyes shuttered, but aside from his chest still heaving with each panting breath he's as still as death, splayed and silent.
"I'm so tired..."
It's scarcely a whisper, and the Colonel lifts his head in surprise, wondering whether Fullmetal even meant to speak aloud. Eyes still closed, hair falling from its plait; Edward looks vulnerable and broken and it's cruelly unfair to ask him not to care about this.
The Colonel nuzzles gently at his neck, stirring him from his repose. "If you're tired," he tells him, "I can take you upstairs to a bed."
Gold eyes flare open, dazed but cautious. "I don't-"
"I'm offering you a bed, Fullmetal," the Colonel interrupts, not wanting to hear the walls coming back up. "It's a place to sleep, not a proposal."
"I..." The fight goes out of his eyes, and he lets out a sigh, eyelids drooping closed again. "Okay."
He leads the younger man up the stairs, down the hall to the master bedroom. Edward looks askance at the wide bed, but crawls in without saying a word. Curls in a tight ball on one side, and is asleep before the Colonel has settled beneath the sheets beside him.
It's hard to look at Edward's still form next to him, and Mustang wonders when he will ever feel anything but conflicted over this arrangement. Certainly there was enough enthusiasm when he took the other man on the floor in front of his fireplace, but there is nothing like normality in the rest of their dealings. They can barely even have a civil conversation and yet here he is, by Mustang's own invitation, in his bed. Where his other lovers have teased, or pleaded for his attentions, Edward holds him at arms length, forbidding any encroachment upon his heart.
He finds it worrying that Edward so resolutely evades anything that resembles an emotional attachment. The young man is not without a tremendous capacity for love; anyone who has seen his devotion to Alphonse can't deny that fact. But his aloofness confounds the Colonel. When did Fullmetal ever need to protect himself in such a manner, as though simple affection could do him harm?
A surge of tenderness catches him unawares at the thought, and he realizes too late that this isn't a single moment of sympathy. It's a rip current, fast and dangerous, and damn it, despite everything else, this isn't what he wanted. Pulled out of his depth, beyond reason, and he promised...
Promised Edward he wouldn't care. Promised himself that he would.
This was supposed to be a simple arrangement; a release, an escape, nothing more. How could it possibly have become so complicated?
He could almost laugh, were it not himself caught in this tangle. Nothing that involves Fullmetal is ever simple. He sighs quietly, draws in closer to Edward's warmth and resolves not to think of it any more this evening. So much easier to set it aside, like Ishval, like his guilt... After a moments contemplation, he carefully settles an arm around the sleeping man, hand resting against the sturdy cage of ribs. Beneath his palm, Edward's heartbeat thumps an even rhythm, steady and soothing.