In Good Company

Maes/Roy. G. 300 words.
Hughes and Roy and too much snow.

Hughes grabs the sill, straining up on his toes to peer into the kitchen. His breath softens the caked ice enough to pick at it with his mitten.

“She’s making hot chocolate,” he whispers. “I bet that’s hot chocolate.”

Roy grunts and flings another chunk of wet snow on top of the towering bank. “You’re not getting one toe over that threshold until you start shovelling,” he snaps back, the bite of it muffled by the thick scarf covering his mouth. “Why couldn’t you have rented.”

Hughes taps the glass, wiggling his fingers as if Gracia’s seen him. “Don’t you wish you had a wife like mine?” he asks, making kissy noises at the frost.

Roy jams his shovel into the drift. The snowball hits Hughes square in the back of the head. Smiling tightly, Roy says, “Shovel.”

“That was a declaration of war, Mustang,” Hughes says. “War.”

Roy ducks the return fire, a jab at Hughes’s laughable aim dying in an undignified yelp as he ends up flat on his back with an armful of Hughes. After that, it’s a good bit of cursing, several death threats, and eventually, a triumphant Hughes sitting on his stomach.

“Mercy,” Roy wheezes, fist beating weakly at the snow. “Oxygen. Can’t breathe… is that a tummy you’re developing there, Maes?”

“Gracia said if you were going to let yourself go in your old age, you might as well have company,” Hughes says, and licks at a bit of snow melting on the tip of Roy’s nose.

“She did not,” Roy says. “I am not. You’re older than I am!” Hughes keeps grinning at him as he blinks away the tiny flakes of snow caught in his eyelashes. “I’m telling your wife on you.”

Hughes’s answer is a fistful of snow and a kiss.


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