Smudge
The air dried out everything, from the rations that had never expected to find themselves in such an environment to lips. Licking them only made it worse, smearing bits of blood from cracked flesh in a sort of macabre lip-gloss. It was the most benign bleeding the long days and hectic nights provided. The sun stared down on them, an unblinking, bright disdain- something convenient to curse when the enemy remained hidden.
Roy Mustang had run out of ways to damn the weather, and feared repetition would only add to the general frustration the war had wedged securely into every free neuron.
Instead he thought of new ways to damn the impudent, irrepressible Maes Hughes. If only the man were less…competent. The bastard gracefully slid through everything, was so smooth you had too look for his little expert touches to see he had been there at all. His knives were subtle, and his verbal barbs inescapable. The smile that lingered at the edge of his lips took the bite out of what would otherwise have been quite cutting commentary. But understanding him was a far more advanced skill, and one that Roy desperately desired classes in. Maes was a smirk here, a touch there, and a flock of butterflies spastically flopping around in Roy’s midsection.
A hand casually ruffled Roy’s hair as Maes folded long legs and settled next to Roy on the bunk.
“You have your own tent.” Roy winced a bit at the petulance that drifted through his voice. He hadn’t even heard the man come in.
“I do. But it isn’t nearly as interesting as yours. Did you know your tent is a bit loose in the back? Easy to slip in.”
Maes was a quiet knife in the night, and a polite smile over breakfast. A few weeks ago he had inspired waves of gooseflesh t march down Roy’s arms, the skin on the back of his neck to tingle and try to wriggle away. A few weeks ago Roy had given up trying to analyze just what it was about Maes that made him wary, assuming it was the utter lack of angst or anger in that smile.
Maes was a misplaced bit of confidence amidst a politically motivated mess. Roy given up looking for a tangible motivation, giving into the fact that he was dealing with some sort of idealist.
Roy uttered a safely noncommittal “Hn” and evaded the urge to slide closer, brush uniformed legs and attempt to soak up some of that comfortable contentment that seemed to work well at keeping Maes sane.
As sane as any of them were anymore. The sun and the struggling with underfed and under armed civilians day after day had a way of wriggling like worms through a man’s sense of purpose and assurance of being in the Right.
Hiding things from Maes Hughes was about as useful an attempt as screaming at the desert sun to fucking sod off already.
That same silly sort of smile smeared across his face, the kind that made people warm up and buy the next round, Maes shifted close to Roy. It was by no means the politely insipid expression it was widely thought to be. Roy had come to decide it translated into ‘I know what you are thinking even if you don’t’. It would have been infuriating, if it didn’t give Roy an excuse to pretend this was Maes’ idea all along.
It made the brush of dry lips against lips less startling, took the decision to shift and shimmy out of heavy uniform jackets out of his hands. It allowed his attention to center on sensation, on the almost ticklish brush of calloused hands along sunburn as Maes did what he did best; snuck through obstacles like they weren’t there.
Reality shifted to make way for Maes Hughes, allowing something as taboo and tentative as covert rutting in the ranks to seem easy. Insignia and uniforms as battered as their owners set aside in the sandy dust that slipped into the tent at every opportunity, Maes reminded Roy once again that the makeshift military issue bunks had more than enough room for two. All that was needed was some physical contact.
Roy would never mention it, would never admit out loud that those furtive encounters, the almost frantic grasping and panting, allowed him to wake up in the morning without screaming at having to face another day. And he would never have to.
Understanding was what curled at the edge of Maes’ smile. It wasn’t amusement, not always. Amusement was a mask, containing and protecting the sharp attention that hovered hidden in the back of Maes’ eyes.
They were both weapons. But as they twisted and twined sweaty, scabbed legs and pressed cracked and bleeding lips together, they reminded for a bit that they were human.
Roy Mustang had run out of ways to damn the weather, and feared repetition would only add to the general frustration the war had wedged securely into every free neuron.
Instead he thought of new ways to damn the impudent, irrepressible Maes Hughes. If only the man were less…competent. The bastard gracefully slid through everything, was so smooth you had too look for his little expert touches to see he had been there at all. His knives were subtle, and his verbal barbs inescapable. The smile that lingered at the edge of his lips took the bite out of what would otherwise have been quite cutting commentary. But understanding him was a far more advanced skill, and one that Roy desperately desired classes in. Maes was a smirk here, a touch there, and a flock of butterflies spastically flopping around in Roy’s midsection.
A hand casually ruffled Roy’s hair as Maes folded long legs and settled next to Roy on the bunk.
“You have your own tent.” Roy winced a bit at the petulance that drifted through his voice. He hadn’t even heard the man come in.
“I do. But it isn’t nearly as interesting as yours. Did you know your tent is a bit loose in the back? Easy to slip in.”
Maes was a quiet knife in the night, and a polite smile over breakfast. A few weeks ago he had inspired waves of gooseflesh t march down Roy’s arms, the skin on the back of his neck to tingle and try to wriggle away. A few weeks ago Roy had given up trying to analyze just what it was about Maes that made him wary, assuming it was the utter lack of angst or anger in that smile.
Maes was a misplaced bit of confidence amidst a politically motivated mess. Roy given up looking for a tangible motivation, giving into the fact that he was dealing with some sort of idealist.
Roy uttered a safely noncommittal “Hn” and evaded the urge to slide closer, brush uniformed legs and attempt to soak up some of that comfortable contentment that seemed to work well at keeping Maes sane.
As sane as any of them were anymore. The sun and the struggling with underfed and under armed civilians day after day had a way of wriggling like worms through a man’s sense of purpose and assurance of being in the Right.
Hiding things from Maes Hughes was about as useful an attempt as screaming at the desert sun to fucking sod off already.
That same silly sort of smile smeared across his face, the kind that made people warm up and buy the next round, Maes shifted close to Roy. It was by no means the politely insipid expression it was widely thought to be. Roy had come to decide it translated into ‘I know what you are thinking even if you don’t’. It would have been infuriating, if it didn’t give Roy an excuse to pretend this was Maes’ idea all along.
It made the brush of dry lips against lips less startling, took the decision to shift and shimmy out of heavy uniform jackets out of his hands. It allowed his attention to center on sensation, on the almost ticklish brush of calloused hands along sunburn as Maes did what he did best; snuck through obstacles like they weren’t there.
Reality shifted to make way for Maes Hughes, allowing something as taboo and tentative as covert rutting in the ranks to seem easy. Insignia and uniforms as battered as their owners set aside in the sandy dust that slipped into the tent at every opportunity, Maes reminded Roy once again that the makeshift military issue bunks had more than enough room for two. All that was needed was some physical contact.
Roy would never mention it, would never admit out loud that those furtive encounters, the almost frantic grasping and panting, allowed him to wake up in the morning without screaming at having to face another day. And he would never have to.
Understanding was what curled at the edge of Maes’ smile. It wasn’t amusement, not always. Amusement was a mask, containing and protecting the sharp attention that hovered hidden in the back of Maes’ eyes.
They were both weapons. But as they twisted and twined sweaty, scabbed legs and pressed cracked and bleeding lips together, they reminded for a bit that they were human.
