Havoc first noticed him around the place when they got transferred back to Central. The soldier was blond, with long bangs falling past his cheekbones, and looked bored, like he didn't have enough to do; that was strange already, what with Scar having passed through, and everything else that had been happening recently.

He glanced, as he passed, at the soldier's shoulder - ah, a sergeant. Low enough ranking to be kept out of the loop, but high enough to avoid most of the menial labour. He remembered being a sergeant. It would probably have been boring then, too, except he'd been at war.

He headed off, met with the officers, put his bag down in his new office, and headed back out. The soldier was still there, down the hall, and pacing with a strange swagger in his step, almost a sashay.

Bet he's queer, Havoc thought.

As he got closer, he heard the soldier counting to himself.

"...three...two...one." The soldier punched the air in something resembling delight. "Off duty!"

"Hey," Havoc said. "Got a light?"

The soldier jumped, and saluted abruptly, almost professional. "I, uh, sir! Yes, sir!"

"Don't do that shit," Havoc said, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. "You're off duty." He headed for the door, and the soldier trailed behind, fumbling in his pocket for a lighter.

Cigarette lit, Havoc inhaled, let the smoke trail from his lips, watched the soldier watching. Definately queer. Havoc knew better than to ask. "Thanks. You new around here?"

"Not too new, sir," the soldier said, self-consciously. "I've been here half a year. You? You, uh, seemed to come in with Colonel Mustang's unit."

"I did. We were here three, four years back, got transferred out east." Havoc smoked in bland silence for a few moments, then added, "It's good to be home."

"I believe it."

The soldier was watching him, apparently thinking he was being subtle about it. Havoc rolled his eyes. "Got a name?"

"Broche, sir. Sergeant Broche."

"Havoc, Second Lieutenant. Is Macy's still open?"

Broche blinked. "Macy's, sir?"

Havoc raised both eyebrows. "You've been in Central half a year and you don't know the best bar here? C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

He did, and then he bought Broche another drink, and a third, and had four himself. It was late at night when they stumbled back.

"You at the dorms?" Havoc asked, cigarette hanging from his lips, Broche's arm thrown about his shoulders, only half for balance.

"Yeah..."

Havoc considered, wavered slightly in the night air. "It's too late for the dorms."

"...yeah."

Havoc said, "Y'know, I'm an officer."

"Yeah?"

"I have my own room."

Broche's blue eyes widened, then narrowed. Slowly, he grinned. "...Yeah?"

"Yeah."

It was almost funny how much faster their feet wanted to move, the pace at which they made it back to the base, into the officer's residences, into Havoc's room, which he hadn't been in yet.

Once inside, the doorknob still under Havoc's fingers as he locked up, Broche hesitated visibly. Maybe it was the way the bed dominated the room, maybe not, but the sergeant began to say, "Sir, uh, should I assume-"

"Don't ask," Havoc said, and spat his cigarette into the wastepaper basket. "Never ask. If you're in the room with another soldier, alone, he invited you there, and he takes his shirt off?" Havoc shrugged out of his uniform jacket, tossed it at a chair, missed. "...that's enough proof."

Broche's cheeks were red. "Ah. And, uh, if you're wrong?"

"Then you get the shit kicked out of you and learn to watch their face next time."

Broche's eyes jumped to Havoc's face, which he kept bland as usual. The younger soldier began to back away and Havoc wondered, amused and frustrated, if the kid'd been celebate these six months.

"I'm an exception," Havoc explained, blandly, and undid his belt.

"Oh," Broche said, then didn't seem to find any other words, so busied himself by fighting with his uniform.

Nervous and drunk, Havoc thought. What a fucking combination.

Naked, Havoc sat on the bed and watched Broche undress the rest of the way. "Don't shake," Havoc said. "You have done this before?"

"Yes," Broche said. "Just, uh, not with an officer."

"I'm out of uniform now, aren't I?"

Broche laughed, managed to calm his hands, let his pants drop.

Havoc looked him up and down. Not bad. Clearly had been in training a while. Not bad at all.

Apparently reassured enough, Broche came over, movements loose, and flopped down on the bed. He reached up, ran a hand over Havoc's shoulder, almost thoughtful, then tugged.

Havoc went willingly enough, and the kiss was wet, hot, active. Broche's hands were strong, the hands of a good soldier, as they tangled in Havoc's hair, too tight and just tight enough. Havoc braced himself on one arm as they kissed, let Broche run a hand down his chest, twist a nipple, then down.

"Do you have any lube?" Broche asked abruptly, running his hand up and down the length of Havoc's erection.

Breath suddenly short, Havoc shivered. "If you want that," he muttered, "come back tomorrow after I've had time to move in."

Broche considered, and his eyes were strangely serious. "Maybe," he said, and squirmed down to take Havoc in his mouth.

Heat, wetness. Havoc closed his eyes, moved, let his hips jerk and Broche do the rest. Here and now, he always lived in the here and now, and here, now, it was burning, heat, pressure, wet.

Broche was good.

He came a little early and blamed the drink silently, but Broche didn't say anything. He just slid up on the blankets, one hand stroking himself firmly.

Havoc relaxed, let himself curl up beside Broche, and pushed Broche's hand away to finish him off.

Broche's face went oddly solemn, as if he was fighting to keep from showing too much, as he came.

"There," Havoc said, and if it was a little inane, that was the drink as well. He wiped his hand off on the blanket, watched Broche consider responding, give up, close his eyes, sleep.

He continued to watch a little longer, watched every flitting emotion of every flitting dream cross his face. He wondered what Broche's first name was, then sighed. No, that was too personal; it was best not to know.

After a moment, Havoc gave in to his craving and leaned over the bed to pull his cigarettes from his own pocket and shake one free of the package. It touched his lips with old familiarity and he picked up Broche's uniform pants, took his lighter out without asking.

Havoc lay back on the bed and smoked, watching it curl towards the ceiling, one leg pulled up. He was half cool from the night air - Central was always cool, and he'd gotten used to East city, where he'd sweat through his uniform day in and day out. His other side was warm where Broche's back touched him, curled.

He wondered if Broche would, in fact, show up tomorrow. It might be better if he didn't. He wondered if this would become familiar.

He'd missed home, he realized. He'd missed this.