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Negating Need	By : trowacko Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 983 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Negating Need
- 1
Title
- Negating Need

Author - trowacko

Rating - PG13

Warnings - Hughes/Roy. Angst.

Disclaimers - I do not own Full Metal Alchemist in any way, nor do I make a
claim to. No profit, no harm done.

Author's note - for boof. Some feel good angst (yes,
I realize that's an oxymoron)

The sun hadn't made that final slip from the sky before Roy's half shaking hand
slid the glass toward its comrade, its pal, that one thing that mated them. The
whiskey bottle clinked mutely against the lip of the tumbler. The kiss was
brief and the liquid whisper that went into the cup made Roy's mouth water. The
sun was dying and Roy raised his glass in toast to their shared demise; he was well on his way to going down too.

"And just like you, I have to be up in the morning," he intoned
quietly. Eyes closed, he took a large swallow, letting the taste engulf his
senses before he let it slide down his throat. Maybe he wouldn't go to work.
Again. At least in the numbed bliss of being drunk, he could bury away the
images, burned into his mind as much as his flames had burned away people he
stopped counting when the number had exceeded believability. Hotter fires had
seared his tears to the point that they no longer fell. Oh, but he could feel
them behind his eyes, boiling to be free, but he wouldn't shed a damn one of
them again.

The glass fell to clatter indignantly on the desktop, though what was left in
it failed to spill over. Which was good because he intended on having every
last bit of the bottle.

"Roy."

Roy closed his eyes to the voice; he didn't want to hear Hughes right then, let
alone see him. He was supposed to be left alone, hidden away in the sanctity of
his room where he could get trashed and pretend he'd rebuffed the tears that
would end up falling anyway. Roy reached for the glass, fingers trembling from
the exhaustion of drinking three days straight.

Night, he reminded himself. He only drank at night. Never mind that the
sun had yet to drop beneath the horizon, but it would and what was ten minutes
early?

A pair of hands slipped over his shoulders and Roy's eyes squeezed shut to keep
his treacherous emotions under control. Go away, he silently commanded, knowing
full well Hughes understood what the silence meant. In one swift movement, he
picked up the glass and drank off the rest of the contents. The hands tensed,
yet they didn't dislodge. Hughes sighed at last, shifting to sit on the rumpled
blanket on the bed. He scooted back until Roy could see him peripherally, yet
he kept his silence.

"When did it start this time?"

Reproachful, sad, demanding.

Maybe it was a lie not to tell Hughes, but how was that his fault really? Roy
hadn't been the first to lie; he only kept the tradition now.

Or was the lie merely Roy's disillusionment?

They hadn't been lovers for months by the time Roy was sent off to his first
post and then his first war. He didn't mind the lack of physical pleasure he
received at his lover's hands. They were memories, bright and hot that kept him
sane when his mind insisted it was okay to break, and okay to die. Through the
torment he had Hughes waiting for him. Hughes had said he'd wait for him, and
maybe he did in his own cryptic way. Only when Roy had gotten home, there was a
house instead of the familiar room in the old barracks. There was a dining room
table with two chairs and a third pulled from the library because a third chair
wasn't needed before. There was a young woman about to become Gracia Hughes. A
wife, and that's where the lies began or ended.

Hughes didn't wait for him.

Hughes had a life and a loving partner who made him smile simply for being her.
In the small recesses of his mind, Roy wanted to hate her, but he couldn't.
Maybe that's where truth decided it wanted to be a clever puzzle and protected
shroud to keep Roy safe from pain. Maybe that's why the first time the dreams
turned to nightmares that played out in his head for days he hadn't told
Hughes. But Roy wasn't a very good liar either, or he hadn't intended to be.
The second day, Hughes had all but broken down the door, demanding to know why
Roy hadn't bothered working for days only to find the soldier huddled in the
corner of his room, glove on one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.
Memories of Hughes, their bodies aligned in slumber, the feel of a beard
against his cheek as Roy slept was the only thing that kept Roy from flicking
his fingers in the throes of his waking nightmares.

Roy didn't need a psychiatrist. All he needed was Hughes and Hughes was never
really his.

"Talk to me, Roy."

No.

If Hughes wanted to stop him, he'd have to get up to do so and that was the
reason Roy poured himself another drink. His fingers shook and by extension the
glass did as it made its brief journey to Roy's lips. Dark and sweet, it was
the only reply he could hope to give. And, yes, he did blame Hughes for the
rift that seemed to exist between them. He felt betrayed and disillusioned by
coming home to find his foundation had been set in sand - no, just plain gone.
Could Hughes truly fault him for his lack of communication?

It wasn't Hughes' fault, Roy reminded himself. It wasn't his own fault either -
things simply changed and he hadn't been prepared for any of it. Hell, he
hadn't been prepared for the war either. In a second, the reason for his
drinking rushed back to grip him mercilessly and Roy rocked back under the
onslaught. The smell of burnt flesh drifted around him and he could feel the
phantom flames he'd inflicted upon so many creep into the sides of his vision.
Hughes was about to be engulfed in them and Roy acted on instinct, shooting
upright to drag an innocent life to safety. Just one, he could save just one,
couldn't he?

Except Hughes fell back in surprise on a bed devoid of the nightmarish scene.
The rush of adrenaline sapped his strength and Roy sank to his knees. The tears
he'd kept at bay ran free at his weakest, slipping down his cheeks to pepper
Hughes' pressed slacks with dark splotches that hurt him to see, so he closed
his eyes.

"Roy--"

"Please. Maes."

Hughes fell silent and let Roy weep against his lap. Hands that were always so
sure now hesitantly plunged into Roy's hair, down his neck to quiver against
the rumpled uniform Roy hadn't changed in two days.

"Why won't you let me help you?" Hughes pleaded in a voice that
sounded so young and afraid. It broke Roy even more to hear the strength he
used to count on just as lost as he had become. Sobs worked their way up from
their burial spots in the pit of his gut to gush against Hughes' pants. Roy
could feel spittle gather at his bottom lip only to overflow and get soaked up
by the ready cloth. He barely felt Hughes move aside and get up, gone, just
like he had been those few short years ago. Roy's mind retreated, halted by the
feel of arms around his chest, yanking him up and dumping him on the bed. He
curled up against himself, wanting to shun everything else. But like a doll, he
was moved at Hughes' direction, shoved aside just enough to allow the other to
sandwich him between the wall and a very warm body.

Right then, Roy didn't care what happened or how or why. Hughes was next to him
in his bed, arms encircling his waist, and beard scratching at his chin as if
time had reversed its path. The fit of weakness tapered down to a series of
coughs and snivels. The pain in his chest refused to go away

till you see, fool

and Roy wormed an arm under Hughes, the other over. The comfort was welcomed
with the appreciation of the weary, except it was wrong at the same time.
Different.

open your eyes

"Why--"

"Quiet, Roy," Hughes whispered, stroking slowly up and down Roy's
back. It was warm and comforting, a courteous gesture from one friend to the
other. Rather than remain pressed against Hughes, Roy sank back a bit, feeling
like a child with a wound that couldn't be kissed away when he felt lips
against his hot forehead, scraping down his cheek toward his lips.

"I couldn't save anything," he muttered sullenly. Not the people he'd
been ordered to eradicate, the soldiers who died under his command - not even
his own humanity it seemed. The one thing that kept them all from being his
undoing and let him perish along with the fading screams that were just as
fresh now was that he had Hughes and he'd lost him, too.

Hughes' hand stopped moving and his mouth pulled away. In the silence Roy
closed his eyes. The last three days he'd hoped Hughes would somehow heed a
silent plea to save him, comfort him, let Roy be his again, but now he wanted
the other man gone. He wasn't about to let anyone else become that cherished
pillar he craved except for this one man and that time was over. All he had
left was the bottle of whiskey and a small measure of his minute strength to
see him through.

Roy was no one's fool except his own and that meant he could shun everyone and
everything for his own selfish reasons and not be swayed. He could pull his
arms back and push Hughes away like he was doing and turn over to face the
wall. He horded his precious burden of pain to his chest, curling his legs up
just in case it wanted to escape the first defense of his arms.

"Don't do that," Hughes sighed painfully.

Roy didn't need a lover either.

He felt a tentative grip on his waist that melted away, back into the shadows
where it belonged. Yes, he wanted and needed. Gods, yes, but he could at least
see - now, why now? - that it was still pity that would bring Hughes to his
bed, not the love he thought had been there. Besides, it was surely night and
he had two silent companions to see him through one of many such difficult
nights.

Roy didn't need a friend right then, he needed a drink.

"Go home," Roy whispered. Before the want became too much. He had
resolve, but he was still human. And it was probably the human part that
mourned when Hughes got up and left with heavy steps.

*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko doesn't necessarily mean it's
insane*
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Negating Need