"The Interval" (Fullmetal Alchemist, Maes/Roy, 1/1)

[mjules.livejournal.com]

Title: The Interval
Author: m.jules
Summary: Nothing is ever quite as hidden as it seems in the spaces between.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: These are all Hiromu Arakawa’s because it’s all manga-verse, baby.
Fandom/Pairing: Fullmetal Alchemist, Maes/Roy
Word Count: 677
Timeline: In Ishbal, manga-verse.
Author’s Notes: Written for evil_little_dog for the Under 400 Word Drabble Challenge (which I failed - check out that wordcount). Her prompts were Steam, Map, and Edge of a Knife.

Cross-posted at fma_ot4.

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“Darkness is to space what silence is to sound: the interval.” -- Marshal McLuhan



“Coffee?”

Roy looked up at the raspy question -- it was the first word either of them had spoken for hours. He nodded, conserving words like the water in his canteen. He didn’t need to tell Maes that the temperature was rapidly dropping as night saturated the desert, and Hughes didn’t need to be told to know that, master of fire or not, Mustang’s slender body lost heat as easily as the sand itself.

Silence, deep and eerie, settled between them again, and Roy took comfort in the small sounds of Maes’ busyness that relieved the stillness as delicately as the stars that dusted the night sky interrupted the black. Darkness and silence seemed to go together, Roy thought absently, abandoning the map he’d been studying in favor of watching Maes prepare coffee over their small cook fire.

Both were designed to obscure, to hide things that were better left unseen and unheard. Despite the chill, he felt warmth flare through his nerves at the memories of secrets that were never quite hidden: Dim gray light filtering into the barracks, softening the angles of Maes’ jaw and emphasizing the broad expanse of his shoulders; muted whispers and stifled moans when mouths found particular patches of flesh or hands curled just-so into muscles and skin. They were hiding, but the room was never quite dark, never completely silent.

Maes paused to remove his glasses, wiping them on the stomach of his shirt to clear the steam that had fogged them as he’d been leaning over the boiling coffee, and Roy chuckled. Maes looked up at the sound, squinting in the firelight until the glasses were returned to his nose, then smiled at his friend. Pouring the thick substance into two tin mugs, Maes walked to the other side of the fire and handed one to Roy, keeping the other for himself.

This was the only time Maes was ever quiet, these scouting treks into the desert, just the two of them, looking for evidence of enemy plans, ambushes, or hideouts. Neither of them spoke much on these missions once night fell, though the days were full of discussion, speculation, conversation.

Maes settled on the sand, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his knees bent to support his forearms as he held his coffee. He was sitting so close to Roy that their hips touched, and Mustang leaned into the warmth, shivers working through his body. Hughes felt the slight tremble and leaned closer, sliding his arm around Roy’s shoulders and pulling him in.

Mustang sighed, turning his face to nuzzle Hughes’ neck, and Maes tightened his hold on his friend’s slight frame. When the tip of Roy’s tongue flicked wetly across his pulse, Maes felt a low groan work out of his throat, felt his eyes slide closed. Roy repeated the maneuver and Maes turned his head, catching the smaller man’s mouth with his own and plundering it unrepentantly.

It was Roy’s turn to moan as he angled his head, accepting and returning Maes’ invasion. Roy’s hand slid across Maes’ strong back, smoothing over his shirt, then ventured down to his hip, dipping below the waistband of his trousers.

A sharp cry tore from Roy’s mouth as he fell back, jerking his hand to himself as if he’d been bitten. Concern shone through the fog of hunger in Maes’ eyes, then the taller man laughed softly when he saw a trickle of blood running down Roy’s finger, the liquid almost black in the firelight.

“Looks like you found my knives,” he croaked, and Roy pouted at him.

“It’s not funny,” he sulked, and Maes schooled his expression, though his eyes were alight with mirth.

“No, it’s not,” Maes agreed, capturing Roy’s hand and sucking the injured finger into his mouth. Roy’s eyes widened, then clouded with lust as he tore his hand away and lunged for his lover’s mouth.

In the glow of the fire, they challenged the silence together, unaware of the noiseless, cloaked figure in the inky shadows, her scope unwaveringly trained on them.