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The muffled boom of music filtered through the cracks in between the floorboards; classical music, to be sure, and was driving Roy Mustang absolutely up the wall.
He stomped his boot. ‘Keep it down!’
He had about a mountain of text to revise through; his stomach clenched in anxiety just thinking of the state exam that would be carried out within eleven months— and some idiot was content to show off his record player in all hours of the day and half the night, to hell with the complaints that Roy’s was only a fraction of. The thin walls of his dormitory made him deeply conscious of the sound of the tap when he brushed his teeth in the morning, he was careful to keep his singing in the shower to a minimum, and was overall adept in following the house rules. Then again, his main (or, pretty much, only) hobby was studying. Not exactly the most rambunctious pastime.
But still. Just who does that damn bastard think he is?
Thankfully, the music stopped. There came a sheepish chuckle from under his foot. ‘Ah…sorry about that.’
Roy huffed, unsatisfied with the poor apology. He turned back to his books which, now that it had his full attention again, had its alchemical equation problems taunting him with a vivacious vengeance. His notebook was worn thin with the constant erasures, and he was on his sixth pencil— from the strength of Roy’s grip, it too would likely meet the same fate as its brothers.
But twenty minutes passed and Roy was able to move to the next section of his practice problems. He was entering a smooth rhythm, he even hummed as he began to check his answers, more correct than incorrect now. This is good, he thought with a grin, this is—
‘What a beautiful day, for a wedding in May—’
—great.
Roy glared at the floorboards so fiercely it ought to have erupted in flames then and there. Now, there’s an idea….
‘She’s a vision of JOY—!’
There was no music this time; perhaps his new-found nemesis had sensed that, dare he try again, his record player would have been a molten sludge of brass and vinyl. But, in its stead, Roy’s ears were assaulted with the most abysmal singing he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing. It rang loud, out-of-tune, and surely even the weeds in the yard had wilted.
‘The birds are SINGing, for me and my GAL!’
Alright. Alright. No problem at all… he wouldn’t bother stomping his foot again, no…. It looked like the caterwauling was coming from the dormitory directly below his. He’d go pay his dear neighbour a visit— and provide a free heating service, as a special gift.
He was tugging on his gloves as he trudged down the stairs. Cadets before him froze mid-greeting; from the sight of Roy’s face, it was obvious that he wasn’t in the friendliest of moods.
‘Make way for the King,’ Roy heard someone mutter, a sarcastic jab. He recognised it to be Mulder’s, whom he himself didn’t get on with very well, to say the least. The “King” comment was somewhat of a nickname of his that had started with Mulder and had spread across the trainee division of the Academy— he didn’t have to put in much consideration to guess what the others thought of him; as a pompous, arrogant, better-than-thou eejit who was gunning for the crème de la crème of the Amestrian military. That was just his guess, however.
‘Thank you kindly,’ he told Mulder, who scowled in response.
The singing grew louder as Roy approached the scene of the crime. Outside of Dorm Eight, someone had their forehead pressed against the wall outside, body slumped. He turned to Roy, his eyes sunken, expression helpless.
‘The parson’s waiting, for me and my gal…!’
‘Make him stop….’ he whispered.
Roy took pity on him. It seemed that his vendetta now had a vein of justice. For his sanity, as well as others, he knew he ought to bring an end to the terror of the tone-deaf villain once and for all. He swung open the door and it slammed, a bang onto the wall that made the sole occupant of the room turn round. The man’s glasses were askew, his hand gripping his shirt as his head rolled back with the force of his high note that rattled the window panes. His eyes were misty as he regarded Roy; a look of some tortured soul that had Roy’s blood boiling. In a few brisk steps, Roy reached him and grabbed him by the collar, before giving him a good shake.
He hissed, ‘I really don’t want to say this again. SHUT THE HELL UP!’
The man didn’t reply— probably because he was now a blur of a back-and-forth movement. Roy released him, panting with the mini-exercision, before gearing up to just let rip.
‘I’ve had it with you,’ he declared. ‘You seem to think you live alone here, and not with a double-dozen other bastards who value their sleep and peace, two things you clearly don’t respect! You think you have taste? I’ve seen grandmothers more in vogue than you are— did you get your taste in music at the nursing home? And, ho boy, your singing makes the lot of us want to rip out our ears. For the sake of national security, you should stop, or otherwise Amestris won’t advance far as a deaf country. In other words, either keep your mouth and your stupid record player quiet or I’ll do it for you!’
He knew his face had coloured a humiliating red; he hated it when that happened. The man— Maes Hughes, Roy was now remembering— had his own face in a comical gape. Of course the culprit was Hughes, how could he not have guessed? The two of them didn’t cross paths often; Hughes was in Combat while Roy continued his alchemy studies though state-funded tutoring. But occasionally they’d run into each other in the mess hall, or award ceremonies, and were consequently forced to interact. Roy had learnt that Hughes was a funny man— as in, funny peculiar and not funny ha-ha. Roy never spared much more than an insincere chuckle at Hughes’ jokes, which sounded as though they’d been memorised from a comic-strip. Then there had been occasions in which Hughes had asked Roy for his opinion on his new haircut, or where he thought the best venues in Central City were.
Roy rested his case— peculiar.
‘Ah,’ Hughes said, his gaping mouth morphing into a surprised grin. ‘That was you upstairs?’
‘Well, what do you know,’ said Roy.
Hughes went right on grinning, undeterred by the mocking jibe. ‘You should have come to visit sooner! The instructors love you so much, I thought you’d had your own private digs! Well, this is great. Now we can hang out more.’
‘Hah!’ Roy said, unable to help himself. ‘Why would I waste time with you?’
Hughes blinked innocently. ‘Because Roy,’ he said. ‘We’re friends.’
Roy gagged.
Roy gingerly spooned his morning porridge into his mouth, willing the mess hall’s flavourless sludge to become sweetened with phantom syrup; it didn’t work. Well, lately he had been getting plenty of practice at pretending. He could kid himself that he wasn’t going to fail the state exams, he could poke at the bit of belly that wouldn’t go away and convince himself that he could be rid of it by the end of the month, and— better yet— he could act as though there wasn’t some idiot currently sitting beside him and talking his ear off, completely UNINVITED.
‘Listening, Roy?’ said Hughes, nudging Roy so that his eating hand jostled and the porridge spilled.
‘I’m listening,’ Roy said darkly.
In the weeks following the incident, Hughes had all but latched onto Roy as though determined to prove that they were indeed friends— it didn’t matter how frosty Roy was to him, and neither did his efforts to ignore Hughes, for Hughes clearly had an agenda to carry out and would be discouraged by no cold shoulder. At least, Roy did get an explanation for the relentless noise. Practice, Hughes had said, as though that made any sense. For my girl, he’d added, which in actuality doubled Roy’s bafflement. Were girls into screeching sounds these days? Perhaps he ought to go out more.
Hughes had a sweetheart, a pretty little lady named Gracia, who baked like she had the hands of an angel— Hughes was kind enough to share the apple pies with Roy— and came from a rather wealthy family that seemed to have musical talent written in their genetic code. Gracia herself could play the piano, violin and cello, and she could sing like a songbird. Naturally, Hughes had been intimidated by her talents and, dreaming of a romantic duet, vowed to exercise his vocal cords and become familiar with the tunes his sweetheart’s maestro father would deem acceptable (Hughes usually preferred jazz).
Of course, such an excuse did not write Hughes out of Roy’s hit-list. Spite ran deep in his veins still, and as he wordlessly reached for the napkin and wiped the spillage, he planned incessantly for how he would be rid of the idiot once and for all.
‘I’m thinking of getting a new shirt,’ said Hughes. ‘What do you think? Will pink do it?’
‘Maes.’ Roy put down the napkin. ‘Why the hell,’ he said, ‘do you keep asking me these questions? Do you think I know what Gracia will like? Do you really believe that I am some kind of expert on the Fairer Sex?’
‘Well, aren’t you?’ Hughes chuckled. ‘I know you’re Mr. Popular.’
Roy glared. If by “popular” Hughes meant the constant fussing over him by older women who gave him obnoxious monikers like honey, which was surely to do with his baby-smooth face that refused to grow an inch of hair despite his nineteen years then sure, he was. Growing up in a brothel, otherwise, had not given him much of a leeway when it came to the opposite sex. He understood women to the extent that one look at Hughes’ pink shirt would send them sprinting in the opposite direction, and he knew that most weren’t really keen on overly grand gestures, so long as you attended to their primary needs and interests.
‘Look,’ Roy began, ‘why not bring her over to the barracks? You know all about her, why not give her the opportunity to get to know you? And then,’ he continued with a smirk, ‘once she sees what a sleaze you are, she won’t be bothering to string you along any more.’
Hughes laughed loudly and slapped him soundly on the back. Again, he was never fazed by Roy’s harshness (though Roy’s back did rather sting) and either brushed it off or took him at his word.
‘Oh, you…. So, are you saying I should bring her over? Though it’s kind of nasty here.’
Roy shrugged, unconcerned. ‘If you like. When she dumps you, be sure to let me know.’
‘Mean!’
But Hughes took heed of Roy’s suggestion, and on the following Friday Roy was able to meet Gracia for the first time. She was short statured with a kind, round face below a large sun hat that shielded her from the stares of the other cadets of the building’s male wing. She held a basket of baked goods that Hughes took with a delighted grin before passing it to Roy, who had been forced to accompany Hughes to meet Gracia at the gates. She smiled at him warily, and Roy did not blame her. Really, how could Hughes not have been the obvious issue of bringing a pretty girl into an area swarming with single, physically adept men?
The three of them sat in Hughes’ dormitory— Hughes’ roommate was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he’d withstood far too much ear assault and had perished— in, for some time, tense silence. If Roy had any tact he’d also know he ought to leave, and on both counts he did. But the suddenly terrified look in Hughes’ eyes tugged on Roy’s sympathies. Clearly, the man was at a loss for what to do, how to entertain Gracia, who looked eager to make her excuses and escape. Hughes kept on wringing his hands, smiling a little stupidly, and Roy sighed.
‘So, Gracia,’ he said. ‘How did you two meet?’
Gracie’s light green eyes swiveled to meet his, and her smile was full of relief. ‘Oh, I believe it was at the library. I was trying to reach for a book that was far too high up—’
‘And I reached it for you!’ Hughes interrupted, sounding glad to have something to say at last. ‘And then I asked you out to lunch….’
She smiled. ‘You made me laugh so much that day!’
So they continued with their reminiscence, and Roy took it as his cue to finally exit. Before he passed the door, he noticed Hughes’ grateful look; Roy nodded simply, suddenly feeling a little awkward.
It occurred to Roy that this may have been because he had done Hughes a favour— as a friend would. He’d been considerate to Hughes, when not that long ago Roy had cursed the former’s inconsideration. If this was Hughes’ particular brand of friendship, it seemed to Roy rather one-sided. It made him feel rather gross— after all, he was an alchemist taught by the stern hand of Equivalent Exchange.
He returned to his own room, which he did not share with a roommate. Hughes had been half right; the instructors’ favour was enough that he had been given a space of his own. He was often alone, then, wrapped up in his studies and writing on occasion the odd letter to Aunt Chris. He hadn’t minded it. He didn’t now. And attending the Academy was with the intention of an in-and-out process; he’d receive his qualifications and make something of himself. Roy had considered staying in the military and making a quest of climbing the ranks— Mulder had been onto something there— instead of simply draining the government’s funding dry with his research. That latter plan seemed a little too simple for Roy’s grandiose tastes; it seemed like everything was a little too simple lately.
Perhaps a part of him had unexpectedly welcomed Hughes’ obnoxious disturbances, as a fresh breath of air that gave him recess from the mundanity that was his life here at the Academy. Again, his years here were supposed to be, in hindsight, a mere gap in between his youth and future, perhaps successful, career.
For a moment Roy listened to the faint murmuring from below; Gracia’s sweet hum that was interrupted by Hughes’ barking laugh.
They sounded pretty happy.
Soft echoes of faltering music could be heard from Dorm Eight below. This time, Roy did not lose his temper. The two of them had struck a deal— the music Hughes played was what Roy considered a woman’s favourite, and it would be played in certain hours of the day, when Roy was not studying.
What Hughes didn’t know was that Roy had told a small lie; Roy twirled his pencil like a conductor to the melody of his own favourite tune.