Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Setting: Anime canon (spoilers through 50)
Category: Drama, Romance, Yaoi
Summary: He can’t explain, but he wants to remember in these slow, liquid moments that this is a privilege, and to give it voice. To remember, also, that everything would change if they were discovered.
For: miss_arel, as promised, in gratitude for her gorgeous colored Havoc & Roy drawing.
A gust of Central City holiday snow blew Major Roy Mustang into the Crucible, his expression brittle from the cold. Inside the pub’s warm interior, he extracted his hands from his pockets and shook the melting ice from his lapels, taking a moment to acclimate.
Mustang first came to the Crucible on Hughes’s inarguable ‘hunch’ that the simple green door with the name in cream block letters, set into a nondescript masonry wall, must cloak something worth seeing. The clientele minded their own business without being frosty, Mustang enjoyed the name’s sly nod to both alchemy and politics, and the bartender remembered his brand of Scotch on the second visit. He told himself it was mere coincidence that he bought a house within walking distance.
Inside the restaurant, high windows that lit the space when it was a warehouse let the patrons see the weather without being seen by pedestrians. Only the windows and the rough stone floors remained from that humble beginning. Black velvet and wood paneled walls, green leather bench seats in high-backed booths, and generous oak plank dining tables surrounded the horseshoe bar with its brushed brass rail. The bartender was named Mallory, straight out of a period novel in his white dress shirt, green apron, and the black silk sash around his right bicep. He’d asked Mustang’s name the third time he visited, and Mustang had surprised himself by answering, “
Mustang nodded to Mallory before he spotted Havoc slumped at the bar, his cheekbone propped on the edge of the his most recent shot glass. If the regulars were the sort to pay attention, they might have noticed the flicker of surprise, followed closely by relief and then eclipsed by a smirk on the Major's face.
“Jean, I don't think you're supposed to literally be 'in your cups',” he said, not unkindly, when he reached the bar. Havoc just snorted and raised a brow above one closed eye.
Mustang tugged his gloves off and pulled up a stool beside the Lieutenant. “Ice water and black coffee for him. 12-year for me,” he said without looking up. Mallory gave him a wan but appreciative smile with his drink and accepted the tip – more than the price of the Scotch – without comment.
The Major rattled his ice cubes between sips, making an exaggerated study of the bar’s wood grain. He was getting to know these particular whorls and striations well: Havoc always picked the same stool to fall from when he ended up in the Crucible. After perhaps five minutes – just when Mustang had begun to wonder if Havoc really could sleep with a shot glass for a pillow, and what the resulting bruise would look like in the morning, and how Havoc would explain it to Hawkeye on Monday – one blue eye, dull with alcohol and bitterness, opened and trained on him. Mustang felt the look before he turned to meet it.
“What're you doing here?” Havoc grumbled.
Mustang took another sip of Scotch and said mildly, “Same thing I do every night before bed. What are you doing here?”
Havoc dragged himself upright, looking like a marionette with the strings attached to his shoulders instead of his head. He glared at the water and coffee on the counter, but took the mug after a moment and squeezed his eyes shut through a long pull. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he exhaled.
“It’s been snowing for two hours. You won’t be able to walk home and the Motor Pool is parked except for emergencies.”
Havoc sighed and drained his coffee.
“Well,” Mustang went on, with practiced disaffection, “finish your water. You can sleep on my couch.”
Mallory collected another exorbitant tip with the glassware as he watched the Flame Alchemist guide his friend through the green door, one glyphed glove settled low and familiar in the small of the taller man's back.
Snowflakes eddied a little in the waning wind outside. The only discourse between Mustang and Havoc was the crunch of ice beneath their boots, long uneven strides and shorter determined ones covering the block to Mustang's house. Havoc sucked on his damp cigarette and tried without success to hunch down into the collar of his overcoat. He shivered miserably by the time the key turned in the lock. Mustang didn't look at him, but held the door open and followed him across the threshold.
Havoc unlaced his boots while Mustang lit the lamps and banked the fire. After Mustang had disappeared up the main stair, Havoc let out a small sigh and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the second hook from the door. He settled on the floor in front of the hearth, just intending to get warm, but the next thing he knew Mustang was shaking his shoulder and speaking to him. “...brought you some blankets and a pillow, Jean. You'll regret it in the morning if you sleep there.” An arm encircled his chest, urging him up. He turned, burying his face in the curve of Mustang's shoulder, both hands gripping the arm around him.
“I'm sorry, sir,” he said into the rough cotton of Mustang's shirt.
Mustang didn't reply. He waited, crouched awkwardly in the heat of the fire, and after a few moments Havoc made a small sound and let go of his arm, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled to the couch and dropped, shivering again, snoring lightly by the time Mustang extricated the folded blanket from beneath his hips to cover him.
“Good night, Jean,” Mustang said under his breath, and dimmed the lamp before he went back upstairs.
“Don’t want to. Sir.” He can’t explain, but he wants to remember in these slow, liquid moments that this is a privilege, and to give it voice. To remember, also, that everything would change if they were discovered.
Mustang’s hands brand his body in slow strokes across his shoulders. His lips map the path from jaw to collarbone and Jean half-wishes he’d be less careful, so that he could see the evidence in the mirror the next morning.
If he starts remembering now, the inevitable end will not surprise him.
Mustang peeled out of what remained of his uniform almost ritually, hanging his slacks near the radiator where they'd dry without wrinkling and opting to wad his dress shirt up for the hamper. He padded down the hall to the bathroom in boxers and undershirt, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen to Havoc's faint, rhythmic snore.
The pattern had become a refrain: days of formal salutes and blandly delivered directives and rumors, always secondhand, of the girl Havoc was courting and how that was going. Through it all, Mustang smiled on cue, nodded when prompted, went about his business and tried not to acknowledge, much less show, the hollow ache that made him short of breath and inattentive. With every iteration the routine became easier, but despite how each ended with Havoc appearing at the Crucible – where Mustang went every night and where they never went together, when they were together – he could never shake the fear that this would be the time Havoc didn't crack.
Mustang brushed his teeth and washed his face, lulled by the sound of the running faucet and the warm water. At the top of the stairs, he stood for a moment with one foot hovering to descend, but at last shook his head firmly and went back to his room. Havoc had gone to the Crucible. For now, it was enough.
Havoc wasn't sure if the popping log in the fire or the overwhelming need to piss woke him. He shifted gingerly, crawling out from under the blanket tucked around him on the couch, waiting for a crashing headache, but none came. He could only assume he'd been functional enough for Mustang to force a glass of water down him before he passed out. It didn't surprise him to be on Mustang's couch; he remembered going to the Crucible even though he had at least three drinks in him when he started the walk.
He made his way up the stairs, wincing at his full bladder and still wobbly despite having slept off a good deal of drunk. He couldn’t gauge from the snowed-in silence or the watery streetlight through the window what time it was, so he tried to stay quiet, not turning on the bathroom light and cringing when he flushed the toilet, listening in the ringing silence that followed. The house was completely still.
At the top of the stairs he paused, chewing on the inside of his lip and desperately wanting a cigarette. He'd have to dress, get his boots on, get his coat on, go out into the snow on the back porch. He knew it wasn't worth the effort, but somehow imagining the steps, envisioning this little bit of well-rehearsed normalcy, soothed him. It was something to think about without thinking of consequences.
Havoc smokes, leaning against the driver’s side door, and since his back is to the cab Mustang simply looks. Even pressed up against the glass, his ass is perfect. The crush of white fabric where his shirt has come untucked from the waistband of his pants is a serendipitous work of art.
The view leaves him breathless, possessive and vigilant.
Mustang woke at Havoc's tread coming up the stairs and listened to him shuffling around in the bathroom. The footsteps stopped in the hallway and he lay still, straining to hear another movement. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it again, drawing his fingertips over his eyes and trying not to sigh. The next move belonged to the Lieutenant.
Fraternization. The military's legal term for a sexual relationship between soldiers. On paper, it applied to every soldier equally, but if it were Riza and not Jean's name cried out in passion, the term would be thrown about with a congratulatory “grrrah” of approbation. To Mustang, the benefits of their arrangement outweighed the potential disadvantages, as long as they were discreet. With a wry smirk, Mustang thought to himself that discretion was certainly the harder part of valor.
He stopped breathing when he heard Havoc move again, one step on the creaking top stair and then the shift, the shuffle, the footfalls coming now toward his door.
Havoc stopped in the doorway, tall and lean and disheveled, hands in his pockets. He squinted and then startled when he saw the faint gleam of Mustang's eyes, open and watching him from the bed.
“I'm sorry I woke you,” he said softly, and leaned against the doorjamb.
A slight head-shake rasped against the pillow. “It's all right,” Mustang replied, neutral and low.
“I'm sorry,” Havoc repeated. The Major said nothing, so after a few seconds, Havoc cleared his throat. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“You're halfway there,” Mustang said obliquely.
Havoc crossed the dim room and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Mustang, shoulders slumped. “Everything we've worked for could be destroyed,” he said. “Everything you've worked for. Everything I've done to help you.”
“I do not say 'thank you' often enough,” Mustang replied, his voice disembodied in the dark.
Havoc chuckled. “You say it very well.”
“Jean,” Mustang began, and he lifted a hand to touch the other man's back but reconsidered, and it fell to the sheet between them.
Havoc let himself drop back slowly, head pillowed on Mustang's chest, their bodies perpendicular. He captured the hand that rose to embrace him in his own, bringing it to his lips. Mustang sighed and shifted beneath the warm weight as Havoc trailed the tip of his tongue between index and middle finger, down to the webbing.
“Jean,” Mustang tried again, his voice a half-octave lower, “I wish we didn't have to be so careful. I know I ask too much.”
Havoc shrugged and curled Mustang's fingers in his hand, rubbing his thumb along a tendon absently. “I don't mind,” he said after a moment.
“Of course you do,” Mustang grumbled. “If you didn't, why would we have to keep going through this?”
“What?” Havoc sat up and turned to look at him. “That's not it.”
Mustang frowned. “Then why do you leave?”
“Come on, Major,” Havoc drawled, “we both know what would happen if anyone knew about us. For once, they'd have ammunition that didn't implicate the military too. Someday you're going to tell me we can't do this. I don't want to hear that speech.”
Mustang looked hard at him for a few long seconds before he whispered, “Then why do you come back?”
Havoc leaned down and brushed his lips over Mustang's. “How could I not come back?” he breathed.
Mustang's answer, as sarcastic and incisive as anything he could deliver in words, was an open, hot mouth and the possessive sweep of his tongue against Havoc's lips.
For a while, they both lost sense of time. Three weeks of sleeping alone left Mustang desperate for his lover's touch. Havoc finally forgot the searing guilt of laying his hands on anyone else, and especially a woman who didn't deserve to be part of the game. There was only contact, the rustle of cloth as Roy squirmed out of his undershirt and let Jean's mouth go for a too-long moment to yank the garment over his head, soft exhalations without words and finding the angle where Mustang's shorter frame fit perfectly against Havoc's lithe body.
Lieutenant Colonel Mustang,
Lior is still hot and I miss seeing you without your jacket.
“How many times will you do this before you understand I won’t send you away?” Mustang asked, sliding a hand under the soft black material of Havoc’s shirt to push it up toward his chest.
Havoc considered. The press of Mustang's lips against the skin he uncovered made it hard to think rationally, but he replied with a shiver, “If I stopped asking women out now, don't you think that would look even more suspicious?”
Mustang worried a nipple with his teeth, fingers bunched in the cloth at Havoc’s throat. When he'd drawn out a shuddering moan, he paused. “I just wish you wouldn't leave me for them,” he murmured and moved lower, stroking the jut of a hipbone before he unfastened Havoc's pants and slid them down.
With the Major's lips closed lightly around the head of his dick, Havoc thought forgiveness had never felt better. The answer on the tip of his tongue was forgotten, overrun by a hiss of encouragement.
Mustang smiled in spite of himself and shifted carefully, mouth still on Jean's cock, to settle between his legs and pin his thighs beneath his arms. He slid his hands under Havoc's buttocks, cupping them, squeezing gently as his head dipped lower, tongue bathing salty skin to slick it for better access. Havoc arched against the weight, tightening gorgeously in
Mustang rose to his elbows, weight off Havoc's thighs, eyes shut tight in concentration. The shoulders braced over his legs restrained Havoc from thrusting too far and Mustang could have moved up, if he had to, but this was a dance they both knew well and neither man wasted a thought on the mechanics.
“Who was your first love, Colonel?”
Mustang shifts, rearranging the blankets, and fits his head beneath Havoc’s chin before he replies.
“Maes,” he breathes.
Havoc nods and says nothing, merely tightens his arm around Mustang’s shoulders.
“Wish I had told him.”
“You did that on purpose,” Havoc grumbled huskily. After pulling off his shirt, he wrapped a long arm around Mustang’s shoulders and pulled the man down for a slick, messy kiss, probing for his own taste and half-laughing as he licked the teeth that tried to capture him. His free hand crept down to squeeze Mustang’s ass and he grinned widely at the answering shudder.
Mustang pulled back enough to retort, “I most certainly did,” before sealing their mouths once more. He thrust his erection into the curve of Havoc’s narrow hip, growling low in his throat.
Havoc laughed again, pushing playfully at pale shoulders until he held the smaller man up on trembling arms. Mustang was no help, smirking down at him, dead weight bowed from shoulders to hips. “Now what am I supposed to do?” Havoc groused in mock irritation.
“Well,” Mustang replied with another languid roll of his hips, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“I could leave you to your own devices,” Havoc grunted, arms trembling a little more now. “I feel a little sleepy.”
Mustang shook his head. “I’m plenty bored with that. Three weeks you left me, Jean.”
“I didn’t get any either, if it makes you feel any better,” Havoc shot back, and in a burst of strength he pushed Mustang over sideways, pinning him with a long leg between pale thighs, one hand spread across his ribs. “Major. Please. Let me watch you.”
Mustang would have protested, had it not been for the please. He didn’t like to see Havoc beg, but he loved to hear him ask, and if an eyeful would bring him back to attention sooner, he had no real objections. He smiled and lay back against the pillow, one hand brushing over his own chest, fingernails flicking across each nipple in turn. Havoc grinned and rolled to give him room, propping his head on the heel of one hand while the other unconsciously mirrored
Mustang let his eyes slip shut when he wrapped his hand around his hard-on; it had been neglected for too long and it was all he could do to keep from putting efficiency before the art of performance. He could still see Havoc in his mind's eye, though – the elegant curve of his torso and the lazy movement of his fingers; the focused, hungry set of his mouth. He sighed, stroking slowly, pausing to wet his palm with saliva and circling it flat against his head, hips rising to meet his own hand. A few more moments, a rough swipe of thumb in the slit, and he felt the vertigo of the edge, so he curled his fingers tightly around the base, waiting for it to pass. When he let out a slow breath and began to move again, Havoc chuckled and the sound was positively wicked.
“Stop,” he said, still chuckling, and grasped Mustang’s wrist, pulling it away from his cock despite a nearly pathetic sound of protest. “Get up,” Havoc whispered, and Mustang opened furious eyes to rake his gaze down Havoc’s body. At least, he thought wryly, the show wasn’t completely in vain. He rose slowly to all fours, trembling, and waited with what little restraint he could muster.
Havoc came up to his knees and paused to admire the view, running his palms down Mustang's sides and nestling his growing erection in the cleft of his ass. He stretched forward, stroking the darkly-stubbled jaw. Mustang turned his head and captured two fingers in his mouth, pressing back against Havoc as he sucked and wetted them, feeling Havoc's cock twitch in response. He nipped at a fingertip as Havoc withdrew his hand and then fell to his forearms with a sighing groan when both fingers circled his entrance and pressed in together. Havoc's free hand glided absently over the muscles of his back, distracting, misdirecting, and he didn't mind the burn, not at all, because Havoc wasted no time making it worth it. Mustang was helpless, the taste of come lingering on his tongue and long fingers moving inside him, stroking in parallel along either side of the trigger that lit his spine. So, when Havoc wrapped his free hand firmly around his cock and pumped him hard, it took no time at all before he was filling that palm with semen, gasping and shuddering while Havoc slicked himself with it and pressed in between spread, retreating fingers. Mustang was too high to mind the sudden invasion; this moment was everything he loved about the Lieutenant. For all his affected nonchalance, Havoc had been born a leader, confident and sure, and in return for his loyalty, Mustang craved his ownership when the uniforms were shed.
“This is your opportunity to get out, Lieutenant Havoc.” Mustang steeples his gloved hands and lowers his chin, seductive but for the grim resignation in the set of his jaw. “If we fail, you’ll only be able to save yourself by turning me in.”
Havoc shrugs and says, through a lazy curling mouthful of smoke, “Sir, if I wanted out, I wouldn’t wait for your permission to go.”
Havoc began thrusting into the residual clenches of Mustang's orgasm, his slick hand curled around the hip beneath him. Mustang gasped weakly, unable to hold himself up, and hissed “Too much...” as he collapsed forward. Havoc went down with him, lips at his pale jaw, murmuring softly. He braced his weight over Mustang, rocking his hips just enough to stay hard while he let the overwhelmed moment pass.
“All right, sir?” the blond man whispered when the tremors beneath him stopped. Mustang nodded and curled his arms at his sides, waiting for Havoc to move. They rose up together in one fluid motion, and this time when Havoc drove forward Roy growled out an almost desperate “More!” as he rocked back with the force of his weight.
Mustang closed his eyes, anchored to the flesh inside him, breathless with the fear of falling each time Havoc drew back almost completely, safe again when he plunged in. Havoc shifted his hips and his palms pressed lightly, one on Mustang's back, the other against his belly, encouraging him to arch just so until the next thrust turned his spine into a blaze of liquid heat. “There,”
He wrapped one arm around Mustang’s chest and lifted him, angling his body, supporting both of their weights while he flexed his thighs and pounded hard, small snarling sounds and forced breaths in
Mustang barely caught himself on his palms as they both crashed back to the mattress. Under Havoc’s weight his body was full and strung tight, and he couldn't muster the presence of mind to speak. He lay still, panting, and after a few seconds Havoc whispered in his ear, “Thank you, sir.”
He smiled, turning just enough to feel Havoc’s nose press against his cheek. “My pleasure,” he murmured.
Havoc sighed and rolled to lie on his back, stretching one leg out to hook his ankle under Mustang's foot. “Night,” he sighed, eyes already slipping shut.
The kiss is languorous, thorough. Jean submits, eyes closed, hands wandering aimlessly over Mustang’s back, down to his waist. When he finally looks, he has to laugh. It’s nothing short of creepy, kissing a lover dressed up to look like himself. Mustang smiles back, but his eyes betray him.
“Can we pull this off?” Havoc asks, stroking a finger along Mustang’s jaw.
“We have to.” Mustang leans into the touch. “I don’t want to be without you.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Havoc replies.
“Then we have to pull this off. So I can keep you close instead of keeping you a secret.”
“Major General Mustang, this will be the last secret,” Havoc agrees, and leads the next kiss.
Mustang stopped at Havoc's desk on his way out of the office and stood watching the Lieutenant for a moment. Havoc squirmed a little under the scrutiny, but met the gaze with his trademark innocent stare and a slight twitch of the unlit cigarette between his lips. He noted, with deep satisfaction, the split-second lowering of Mustang's eyelashes at the movement.
“I'll be at the Crucible at nine-thirty. Why don't you join me?” Mustang said, all business but for the depth of dark in his eyes. Havoc could only nod with a small quirk at one corner of his mouth. It wasn't until the office door had closed behind the Major and he was alone in the room that he slumped bonelessly, one hand spread unconsciously across his chest.
Havoc passed right on by the green door the first time. He'd tried to wait, but arrived at nine-fifteen anyway, and if nothing else he had his pride to maintain. So, he ducked around the corner in the opposite direction from Mustang's house and chained two cigarettes to mark the time until a casually tardy if not impolite nine-thirty-five. Then he straightened his coat and ran his fingers through his hair, pausing mid-motion to laugh at himself out loud. Giddy and nervous, as if it were a date. But, he reasoned, there was really nothing else to call it.
He pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, nodding to Mallory. The bartender didn't look surprised at his arrival, but he did a barely perceptible double-take when Havoc turned down a shot of whisky in favor of coffee instead. Mustang was nowhere to be seen, and Havoc found himself torn between annoyance at the Major's subtle power play and genuine worry he wouldn't show at all. He raised an eyebrow at Mallory, who simply shook his head once and moved on to the next customer.
Havoc jammed a cigarette between his lips and forced himself not to turn when he heard the door open, looking to Mallory instead. The bartender's expression didn't change; he simply pulled an old-fashioned glass from the drying dishes in front of him and loaded it with ice. Havoc looked up from lighting his cigarette to find an ashtray in front of him and two fingers of Scotch on the rocks just to his left. He allowed himself a fraction of the grin he felt welling up and turned at last, just as Mustang raised a leg to the stool.
“Major,” he said, and he knew it came out too husky to be mistaken for a polite address.
“Jean,” Mustang agreed, smirking, black eyes glittering.
Havoc took a deep drag from his cigarette and rolled it against the lip of the ashtray. “You're late,” he said softly, but he couldn't make it into an accusation.
Mustang made a little “Mm” sound and took a drink. “I had to pick something up on the way,” he replied.
Since Mustang wasn't looking at him, Havoc kept his eyes on the bar when he asked, “To what do I owe the honor of the invitation?”
Mustang chuckled softly. “It's just a drink, Lieutenant.” His tone contradicted the words, but Havoc still cast a sidelong glance at him, frowning. “One I should've invited you to have a long time ago,” Mustang amended, and his smirk softened when he turned.
Havoc nodded, feeling as if gravity had suddenly been adjusted in his favor. He had a hunch he was actually blushing. They drank in comfortable silence then, and by small increments Havoc mastered the urge to bury his fingers in Mustang's unruly hair and kiss him breathless where he sat. There would be time.
Mustang finished his Scotch and crunched contemplatively on an ice cube, eyes focused on some intangible spot between the bar and the bottle rack. He turned with a faint tilt of his head at last and dug into his pocket, extracting enough coin to cover his drink and Mallory’s friendship. Then he extended that same hand to Havoc and smiled. “I'll be going in another ten minutes or so myself,” he said.
Havoc returned the handshake, a little bewildered and even more so when he felt something cold and metallic between their palms. He recognized the shape of a set of keys as he brought his hand to his pocket.
Mustang's expression was as faultless as his still-buttoned dress shirt, but he nodded very slightly.
“Right,” Havoc said, floundering, and, “Good night, then, sir.” Mustang nodded again and studied his ice.
Havoc left the Crucible sober for the first time and tried not to run the block to Mustang’s house, already plotting how best to greet his commander when he returned home.