Fic (FMA Hughes/Roy: Ghosts)

Title: Ghosts
Author: playpossum
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Hughes/Roy
Rating: Light R

In response to: kneazles' "time request".


He's dreaming again.

Roy knows this, and he's terrified of waking up even though he can feel it—consciousness, that is—beating on the edges of his mind, and even though he knows he should want to wake up, before things are taken any further, as they were the night before. And the night before that. The countless nights in the two years before that, even, if Roy is honest with himself.

They are back in their favorite bar, sitting side by side, and Hughes is saying something that Roy can't hear, because it's completely silent in his dream. Roy tries to understand, though, tries to read Hughes' lips, and he fails miserably because all he can think of is the last time he got roaring drunk and Hughes let him kiss him. Roy wants to reach out to touch Hughes; his fingers practically itch with the urge, but he clamps down on it stubbornly, because really, the look in Hughes' eyes the one morning they woke up naked in bed together—two days before Hughes' wedding, if Roy remembers right—is something that Roy really can't forget in a hurry. Even nursing the mother of all hangovers, Roy knew that Hughes knew Roy got them roaring drunk on purpose. Thinking back, Roy can't fathom why Hughes allowed it, but the memory of that look, though it didn't answer all the questions, answered some, and for Roy, that's enough.

The dream changes, just as Roy fears and longs.

Now he has Hughes the way he had that night, drunk and all but purring over him, strong hands clamped down on either side of Roy's head, and there's a wicked and lascivious look in amber eyes that nearly paralyzes Roy right there and then. He can't feel his hands, exploring the broad expanse of Hughes' back, but he can see them, and the effect is disconcertingly similar. He knows he's panting and whimpering and pleading like a bitch in heat, and Hughes' buttons are going to be everywhere in the morning, but Roy can't help it, he's wanted this for so long. Hughes leans down, stares into Roy's eyes, and Roy moans and jerks forward, presses his mouth to Hughes', and it's exactly like he remembers it, hot, wet, hot, wet, burning like fire and making his hands tremble. Strange that he's able to feel that. He's arching up, and Hughes is sinking in and down, and Roy is gasping and crying out with the ecstasy, and the brilliance, and the wrongful rightness of it.

He comes with a scream, vision blacking out, and long minutes later, when he can see again, Roy is alone in his own bed, staring up at the ceiling. He knows the covers are sweaty and dirty, as usual; he can feel the dry scratchiness and the wet spots, but he hopes he at least didn't rip the sheets this time. His breathing is so loud and ragged in his ears that it's all he can hear, and for a moment, Roy feels his stomach lurch, and thinks he's going to be brutally sick.

Because a wise someone once said that time could heal all wounds, but Roy isn't healed, hasn't healed, and he's terrified that he never will. When he's alone at night with Hughes and his demons, Roy isn't even sure he wants to.

And that scares Roy the most.