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Jean tries not to feel guilty as he slides his hand inside his underwear, and it even works a little bit. He’s had a lot of practice at keeping his voice down while doing this at the barracks, but somehow the image of the Lieutenant Colonel drenched in the summer rain, grasping Jean’s bicep with a squelchy glove and doubling over in laughter even as Lieutenant Hawkeye rolls her eyes at them, makes it way harder to control his throat than he remembers.
After weeks of hanging around each other in this mission, it’s only becoming harder to ignore Mustang and his rogue beauty. Mustang and his low voice. Mustang and his sharp eyes, his charming grins to the old ladies of the town, his warmth when he stands so close to Jean he can almost feel the fire at his fingertips. The endless grassy hills and easy welcoming of these small villages in the East make Mustang stand out like a sore thumb, but it still doesn’t explain how Jean’s eyes keep coming back to him time and time again, way more than they should.
This is a violation, something that is entirely inappropriate and untoward and he shouldn’t be doing anything like this thinking about a superior officer, but Mustang is difficult to ignore. It’s come to a breaking point, today. That moment in the rain as they were coming back to the hotel haunts him. The Lieutenant Colonel was just so pretty, his face scrunched up in fleeting happiness and his body pressing close to Jean’s. He’s spent the last few weeks being tormented by a sleepy Roy Mustang greeting him every morning, by hands that settled easily on Jean’s shoulders and arms, by a messy head of soft hair that fell onto his chest during train rides, sometimes even awake and still uncaring about the closeness. Roy Mustang smiles at him and winks at him and throws cheesy lines at him as a jest, like it’s simple. And it should be, it really should.
Before all of this he didn’t think he would ever look at another man and feel his heart skipping a beat, but the other day he saw Mustang taking off his gloves and the sliver of wrist he caught felt simply obscene. Mustang hid behind him from Lieutenant Hawkeye while bantering with her like a toddler, and Jean felt his cheeks warm up.
It’s comfortable to be around them, by now, the same way it’s uncomfortable to not know how to act around Mustang. He feels hot and tingly and has vast uncontrollable thoughts about pulling Mustang closer by the lapels of his uniform, just to know what it feels like, just to breathe into what Jean can only assume it’s cologne but never could recognize well. It’s ridiculous, because Jean knows exactly what the fabric of the uniform would feel like, and because he’s pulled close many women before and even kissed them the way he thinks about kissing Mustang sometimes. He knows that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he doesn’t know what else he could do when he has so much inside of him and Mustang makes him feel like he’s ablaze. It’s been one awkward rearranging of his uniform pants too many, and if it helps make seeing his commanding officer being unfairly beautiful everyday a little bit easier, then it might just be worth a try.
The rain is sticking to his clothes still and Mustang had pressed a hand to his lower back to usher him into the room, standing way closer than it was proper to while whispering him a good night. It’s not Jean’s fault. He’s a simple man, who was just trying to live a simple life and not be dishonorably discharged. He thinks sometimes that Roy knows what he’s doing to him, because the man certainly is aware of how beautiful he is, and Jean has seen him use it before, has realized how masterful and subtle his control over his own image is. It’s terrifying and a show of competence akin to seeing Lieutenant Hawkeye on the shooting range - it’s not a coincidence that both situations get Jean breathless, adrenaline pumping like he’s just run through a series of drills.
Jean swallows dry, closes his eyes and imagines the Lieutenant Colonel’s hand instead of his own, grasping at his half-hard dick. Mustang’s fingers seem to be only slightly longer, and he would bet they are softer too, always covered in those damn cotton gloves - and oh , the gloves. He had only felt them on his skin once, when the Colonel had instated him under his command the first time and shook his hand. It had felt like nothing special at the time, but now Jean can feel blood rushing to his face (and probably spreading down his neck, damn his father’s sensitive complexion) at the memory. His heartbeat is deafening on his ears, pulse running faster already.
It should be a greater challenge of imagination to picture another human being’s warmth holding his cock and stroking, especially since he tried to be respectful during this trip and willed himself to sleep off those wants, but Jean has spent enough nights with only himself as company in the past. It’s also easier when he can feel Mustang’s presence in the room next door like a needle poking the back of his neck, something unshakeable and unmeasurable. The Lieutenant Colonel always left that kind of feeling on people, but Jean had never thought he would be as charmed as he is, and in so little time, too - he now felt an intimate kinship to the secretaries of East Command and their gossip bulb.
Roy must be sleeping soundly just one wall away from him, and yet he is wide awake, breathing way too hard in the silence of his own room. He’s aware he sounds undone, even desperate, and he bites down on his lip to keep from wishing a cigarette. The air feels heavy.
Having something to lube his way up would have been better, but he has been pent up for quite a while now and he’s pretty sure he isn’t lasting very long anyways. It’s unlikely that he can actually hear Mustang from behind a wall, no matter how much he focuses, but that’s okay: he’s had the Lieutenant Colonel talking into his ear for days. Mission details, small talk, gossip he heard from the townsfolk, questions about the countryside, pouty remarks about Lieutenant Hawkeye being too rigid. He’s heard Roy’s voice in a hundred different ways, from dramatic to matter of fact, but he doesn’t know how it would be if they were like this. Would his voice sound that low in bed too? Or would it get softer when he’s breathless? Would Lieutenant Colonel Mustang ever whimper? Jean always had liked the satisfaction of making his lovers’ go off the high end, throw their heads back and just keen . For all that his friends and coworkers may think of him, there was nothing Jean loved more than seeing pleasure drip from his partners’ eyes, know that he can make them cum. He wants to take Mustang apart so bad.
Jean strokes himself faster, tightens his hold and lets his head thud against the headboard. His muscles are contracting in a very familiar way and he brings his right hand from where it was gripping the sheets to grip his left shoulder. He ought to trim his nails soon, because he’s pretty sure he’s leaving dents on his own skin. Roy must take care of his - couldn’t not, what with wearing tight gloves 24/7 - but Jean almost wishes he didn’t. If he ever has the unspeakable honor of having Mustang on his bed, he would want him to leave marks all over his back. He could scratch Jean up to the bone and he wouldn’t care, not if Roy let him hold him close, feel the beat of his pulse with his tongue. It would feel so good, and walking around being marked by him would be so good, too.
He’s panting loudly, pressure amping up inside him. Jean imagines Roy’s hands all over him, pulling his hair and ordering him around. Those beautiful, dangerous, capable hands. The sheets slide from him as he slides down the bed, unsettled, but he doesn’t care. All he can think about is Roy and about pulling off every single piece of woolen army blue from his body, about taking his hands and putting each finger into his mouth. He wants Mustang to touch him, but if he had the man there he knows he would rather spend the night kissing every inch of him, making his talented lips red with abuse, feeling Roy’s muscles under his hands, thighs around his waist, chest against his own. Does he know that Jean would do whatever he asked of him? Does he know that he could tell Jean to get on his knees and he would? Maybe he does, he’s a very smart man. Jean doesn’t know what alternative is better.
He holds back a moan, licks his lips. He’s trembling with desire and it feels so good. Jean grips his cock harder, strokes himself faster, sticks his nails deeper on his shoulder. It’s disconcerting to know the object of his affections is a mere few meters away, so close and so untouchable. He wants to lay down with Roy, wants to make him laugh, wants to make him scream, wants, wants, wants .
There’s a metallic taste under his tongue, flooding his mouth from where he almost pierced his lips with teeth. He plants his feet on the mattress and humps his own hand, almost desperate at this point. There’s a tightening in his entire body that makes him dizzy and tells Jean he’s almost there. It’s painful to be this close to orgasm and have to keep himself from making noise - it’s really been too long since the barracks and since anything. It’s just been him and weeks of professional focus and two infuriatingly gorgeous colleagues with him, both of which are unattainable and one that’s consistently driving Jean insane. All the memories of casual touches and exchanged play flirting come to the front of his mind, become fuel to this fire growing inside him. The rain patters on his window and clings to his shirt, but he’s dripping with sweat and heat that have nothing to do with it.
He’s proud to say that he doesn’t moan Roy’s name when he comes, but it’s only by chance. Jean just inhales harshly and the name gets caught on his throat on the way in, his mouth pending open on a silent scream. The image that brings him over the edge is the sight of Mustang’s toned torso seen from below, his chin tucked in to look down at Jean, eyes glinting with heat, as he reaches to tug and caress his hair and pull him closer. It’s not a memory, because he’s never sucked dick before, and especially not Mustang’s, but it’s maybe the unexpectedness of it that does it for him. He didn’t think he would ever want to be on his knees in front of a man, but Roy Mustang is a man of exceptions, and the simple thought of actually doing it, of seeing his commanding officer’s smug smile from below and knowing he put it there. Of gripping Roy’s cock instead of his own and putting his mouth to it, making him feel good… It’s too much.
He falls back down on the bed, spent. The rain has caught strength into a storm now and Jean feels sticky, come all over his shirt and hand. He sighs and closes his eyes, tries not to think about accidentally being too loud, or about how he’s gonna have to see the Lieutenant Colonel tomorrow morning, all soft with sleep but still only a fraction less put together than usual. Reaching for his cigarette pack on the bedside table, he thinks back to Mustang laughing earlier that day, and wishes for it to happen again tomorrow. Maybe he can use these calming down moments to think of things that will amuse the man. Another sigh, the practiced motions of lighting the cigarette. He just came hard than he ever did before and he’s still thinking about Roy, and none of this is gonna help at all because nothing will, right? Jean’s done for already, and nothing will save him from loving Roy Mustang.
“ Fuck ,” he whispers, feelingly, to the empty room.