[ The sun is bright and it takes Hughes a long moment to realize they're not on the cobbled streets anymore. That it's not some spotlight or car headlamp burning through his vision. The sound that bubbles out of him next is a sort of laugh, a little creaky and broken but definitely a laugh. He must be hallucinating now. Too much blood loss. ]
Roy Mustang in domestic hell. Who'da thought.
[ What more can he say? It's like all of this is some backwards dream. He'd been shot moments before by a creature that could change form, and here he is now, bleeding out in a sunny pasture, being tended to by his best friend. His best friend, mind you, who should be climbing his way to the top and restoring their country to what it should have been all along.
He grips the bundle of bandage to his chest all the same, though, as if it wasn't some fever dream. As if Roy might actually be across from him, as if he hadn't just heard his voice on the phone receiver. It's not possible. None of this is possible.
Do you trust me?
He leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes, his whole body feeling heavy, his face pale. But there's the tiniest hint of that lopsided grin. He's dying. God, he's dying here and all he can think of is how he wishes he was back in Central, back with his wife and child, back in the office with too many books and papers and dead ends. ]
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Roy Mustang in domestic hell. Who'da thought.
[ What more can he say? It's like all of this is some backwards dream. He'd been shot moments before by a creature that could change form, and here he is now, bleeding out in a sunny pasture, being tended to by his best friend. His best friend, mind you, who should be climbing his way to the top and restoring their country to what it should have been all along.
He grips the bundle of bandage to his chest all the same, though, as if it wasn't some fever dream. As if Roy might actually be across from him, as if he hadn't just heard his voice on the phone receiver. It's not possible. None of this is possible.
Do you trust me?
He leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes, his whole body feeling heavy, his face pale. But there's the tiniest hint of that lopsided grin. He's dying. God, he's dying here and all he can think of is how he wishes he was back in Central, back with his wife and child, back in the office with too many books and papers and dead ends. ]
Only if I have to. Just do it.