Archive of Our Own

He carries the journal with him all the damn time.

It’s not an alchemist’s journal, full of notes on theories and arrays—Roy’s never seen him write in it, so he knows that it isn’t Edward’s own, and the gentle way he handles it, the almost tender way he smiles at some of the pages sometimes, lets him know that this isn’t just some obscure journal that Edward’s trying to decode.

No one, and by no one, Roy means his team, of course, has been able to get a look at it, despite how curious they all are, despite how much Edward flips through and stares at the pages. There’s only been one other person, that Roy knows of, who has seen the contents of that journal—Edward’s younger brother, Alphonse, naturally.

It’s mildly infuriating.

Roy knows what it’s like to keep secrets, to hide away the most vulnerable parts of oneself, which is why—although Edward has the gall to keep looking at his private journal in public—he won’t order him to show it to Roy. Not to mention that that would likely shatter any trust that they’ve been able to build between the two of them, since Edward and Alphonse had miraculously returned from beyond the Gate. And Roy doesn’t want that—he treasures his relationship with both of the Elrics dearly, and risking them just for the sake of his own curiosity isn’t an idea he’ll attribute any merit to.

But still.

He wants to know what’s inside that damn journal.

x

Edward gives him these looks sometimes, when he likely thinks Roy isn't looking―but Roy is always looking, always watching out of his one remaining eye, too afraid of him disappearing again, of vanishing into another world for good this time, to be able to look away. They're indiscernible, and although Roy knows that Edward's time away changed him in more ways than one, he's still not quite used to being unable to read him.

Golden eyes will stare at him, burning quietly with a depth of emotion that Roy can't figure out. He'd almost call it longing, except, well, ever since the disaster that was his attempt at a coup, when he murdered the homunculus and then-Führer Bradley, Roy hasn't been one for giving himself false hope―and entertaining the idea, no matter how briefly, that Edward returns his feelings, that he yearns for Roy the way Roy does for him, is the cruelest hope possible. Because there is no way in Heaven or Hell, or even on that place that Edward calls Earth, that Edward would fall for a disgraced, broken man like him. Except, a little voice in the back of his head niggles, why else would he re-enlist under your command, when he seemed all too eager to escape both the military and you, before?

x

The door to Roy's inner office is open.

Major Hawkeye had come in just moments ago, and stands in front of Roy's desk, going over the paperwork he needs to complete, surely threatening him with bodily harm in the event that he does not get it done. But Roy, for all his self-preservation instincts are screaming at him for ignoring her, isn't paying attention to what she's saying. For the door to his office remains open and he can hear the rest of his team talking to Edward.

It sounds, as if for once, Edward is talking about his time spent on the other side of the Gate.

Roy can't help but to listen in, for Ed rarely allows himself to speak of the years he and his brother were gone, and even less of the years that he was without Alphonse.

"―and I had told Alfons that it wouldn't work but did he listen to me? Nooo―"

A voice cuts him off. "Alphonse? I thought you said that this was before you came back, the first time. Wasn't Al still here?" Breda, it sounds like. Heymans always was one of the sharper ones on Roy's team. Roy silently thanks him for picking up on and asking about a detail others may have missed.

Ed grows quiet, and Roy begins to wonder if he's ever going to answer. "Alfons," he softly corrects, and it's so close to Alphonse, but Roy can hear the minute distinction between the two.

"Annnnnd…?"

Ed sighs and begins again. "On the other side of the Gate―on Earth―there are… people, who, although they may have a different name and a different story, have the same face and spirit of someone here. A doppelganger basically. Alfons was Al's double."

"'Was' ?" comes Falman's inquiry.

"Alfons―Alfons died―was killed, getting me back to Amestris the first time."

It's silent then, in the wake of Edward's harsh words, and it seems like no one is willing to speak, until Havoc blurts out, "aww, c'mon, Boss. You can't just drop a bombshell like that on us and then stop. Did'jya meet anyone else's lookalike? My double had to be a real lady killer, right?"

Ed huffs in amusement quietly, so quiet that Roy can barely hear it, and although it's a far cry from the boisterous laugh Roy is used to from the younger, he finds himself, for once, thankful for Havoc's graceless tact. Because while Roy is sure part of Jean's question is genuine curiosity, he's also willing to bet that he only asked in an attempt to get Ed's mind off of what he's surely blaming himself for.

"You were a fisherman, down at a wharf in England. I don't know about 'lady killer' but you somehow managed to find a woman willing to marry you. Even had two kids; they were cute little shits," Ed answers, and Roy can't say if he's surprised or not to hear the fondness in his tone. Despite all his blustering, he knows Edward has a soft spot for small children, particularly ones who are related to those he may call friends.

There's scattered laughter around the office, at what Roy imagines must be the dumbfounded look on Havoc's face. He wouldn't be surprised if the unlit cigarette he's always chewing on fell out of his mouth.

Ed continues, "I met Hughes too, in the place where I first ended up. He hadn't even been able to convince Gracia to go on a date with him yet by the time I met both of them, if you can believe it. And he was always trying to convince me to talk to Gracia for him and shit―it was kinda a little pathetic," he finishes wryly.

This time it's Fuery who pipes up. "Did you ever meet the General?"

And Roy―Roy freezes. He wants to know, but he's not quite sure if he's ready to hear Edward's answer. He's not sure if he's ready to know if he's the universe's worst version of him, or if the other is worse. Would Earth's version of Roy have the blood of thousands of innocents on his hands as well? Is his soul destined to be stained and worn and damned in every incarnation of him there is?

Whatever Edward's answer is, Roy doesn't get to hear it. Riza has finally noticed that Roy isn't paying attention to what she's saying―or if Roy's being honest here, she likely noticed a long time ago and just didn't act until now. Nothing escapes the Hawk's Eye, after all―and is staring at him.

"Sir, these really must be done today. I'm sure whatever questions you may have for Edward can wait―these cannot." At this, Riza's hand strays to her side, where Roy knows she keeps one of her handguns hidden.

Roy turns his gaze on her, one eye meeting two, and smiles blandly, genially. "Of course, Major. I'll have them done before you go home tonight." He doesn't respond to the last part of Riza's statement; he doesn't have anything to say, anyway.

"See to it that you do, sir."

He inclines his head, "dismissed, Major."

Riza takes her leave, and he watches as the door snicks quietly shut behind her, sealing his fate in never knowing how Edward may have answered.

Roy glances at the stack of paperwork Hawkeye had set on his desk and sighs. Sometimes he misses his isolation in the north, if only for the fact that he rarely had to deal with paperwork and bureaucracy. He grabs the first file and sets to work―he has a long night ahead of him and he doesn't look forward to what the Major's retribution may be if he doesn't finish it all.

x

Roy’s team has the tradition of going out for drinks once a week, usually on Fridays, after work, because typically Saturday’s have a late start and so it’s not that big of a deal if they let a little loose with a few or more drinks. It hadn’t been Roy who had started them—no, it had been Hughes, some ten odd years ago, when Roy had just made Colonel and allowed a team of his own. He had never attended the gatherings religiously, but he made it more often than not, unless he had a date or a ‘date’.

Until Hughes’s death, that is.

After that, they were a painful reminder of what he had lost―and of course, what he still had, but mainly what he would never regain. He didn’t abandon them completely―as little as Roy thinks of himself sometimes, when he’s either had too much whiskey or not enough, he wouldn’t want to desecrate the memory of his best friend, of something he had created and given life, like that. But… it was obvious, or as obvious as it can be, to someone who didn’t think of Roy as just a skirt-chasing upstart Colonel, that his heart wasn’t into the bar nights anymore.

And after everything that had happened six years ago―the destruction of Liore, the murder of Führer Bradley and his son Selim, the disappearance of Fullmetal, the loss of Roy’s eye, and his subsequent demotion and assignment in the north―well, no one was surprised that Roy stopped showing up at all.

But when Fullmetal had re-appeared in Central two years after his initial vanishment―looking so much older than a mere eighteen, so much more tired and world-weary and beaten-down than Roy had ever seen him; the expression he had worn upon his face as he said goodbye would haunt Roy’s dreams for years to come―when a spark had been reignited in Roy, when he finally decided to challenge the decision to demote him and gotten his rank―at least, as Colonel; he had to work his way back up to Brigadier General―restored, Roy attended his team’s weekly bar sojourns more faithfully than the most devout priest to church. It wasn’t that everything was right in the world again; that was far from it. But the fog of depression that had surrounded Roy’s mind for nearly three years had lifted somewhat, leaving behind a haze that threatened to thicken and obscure him once again if he left himself alone for too long. So, Roy had made it a point to start going to the bar with his team nearly every time they met. It helped, at least for a while, to keep the banks of the black clouds in his mind at bay, to keep his thoughts from dwelling too long on unpleasant matters, on things that would trigger his guilt and cause a spiral much like he had had in the north.

It wasn’t easy―depression never was―and Roy had to fight as much as he gave, to stay afloat and stay present.

Being surrounded by people he trusted, who were somehow still unwaveringly loyal to him despite all his flaws and transgressions, by those who he could call friends, helped.

And after Edward and Alphonse had returned to Amestris―for good this time, thankfully―just over six months ago, they had been invited to join as well.

It took nearly two months for Edward to finally join them, at what Roy is sure was Alphonse’s behest.

Alphonse didn’t join them, not usually at least, because although mentally he may have been twenty-one, physically he wasn’t yet twenty, which was the legal age for drinking in Amestris―unless you happen to be a member of the military, then which it’s dropped to eighteen, but that’s another matter entirely.

But that's how Roy has ended up here―here, tucked into a booth in the far corner in the bar that his team has surely come to think of as theirs, slowly drinking his way through a glass of whisky―a single malt scotch, neat, because while Roy may not let himself indulge deeply into spirits anymore, on the occasion that he does drink, he will drink properly.

Edward is sitting on the other side of Havoc, who sits on Roy's left―regrettably, in his blind spot. Roy would prefer it if he could see all of his team, could actually see the person sitting right next to him. But Roy's been alive for too long, too paranoid, and has been in the practice of always being on guard and aware of his surroundings for years―that he prefers to sit in such a position that gives him the vantage point of being able to see anyone approaching near them.

But Roy's team, his friends, are perhaps far more perceptive than he's given them credit for (excepting Riza, of course). For he's noticed that whoever sits on his left―Havoc, this time―sits at just the right angle that they begin to slip out of his blind spot and he can see the beginning edges of their outline with his right eye.

Which is why Roy sees, rather than just hears, Havoc stand and make motions to the rest of their group to scoot so he can get out of the booth. A quick glance at the empty glass on the table where Havoc sat tells Roy that he's likely gone to get another―much to Edward's chagrin, if the way he's muttering as he slides back in has anything to say about it.

"Insulting people's drink choices again, are we Edward?"

Ed just levels a flat, unamused look at him and scoffs. "Duh? I don't get how anyone can drink that cheap ale, just tastes like watered down stale piss.  'S almost as bad as fucking milk." He shudders in revulsion, and Roy's not entirely sure if it's mocking or genuine.

And Roy―really can't resist. "Well, I can't say that I know whether drinking someone's urine would be beneficial, but perhaps if you had learned when you were younger to swallow down beverages you didn't enjoy, you might not be so… vertically disadvantaged." He allows a slight smirk to curl his lips up, although really, as Ed points out, it's not quite fair of him.

It's a testament to Edward's growth and maturity that at a comment that would have once sent him off on one of his infamous explosive tirades, he simply glares and responds "'m not short, you bastard. You're not even that much taller than me."

And it's true―Edward had grown both times when he was on the other side of the Gate, and now he stands with the top of his head just at Roy's nose. Roy finds himself for a moment almost nostalgic for the short alchemist who would've blown up in someone's face at the barest hint of a sleight against his height. But then Roy remembers he enjoys not having ringing eardrums near constantly, and he's not quite as nostalgic anymore.

"In any case, what would you know about good beer?" It's not Roy's best transition, but it'll have to do. He's off his game, but to be fair, he hasn't been 100% the same as he was for years. And an older, slightly inebriated, glowing from the flush of alcohol Edward is something that throws Roy off his game even more.

"Spend enough time in a country known for its beer, it's kinda hard to not pick something up eventually. Amestris's beer is shit. But you want some good, strong lager? Germany. They have an entire fucking festival dedicated to beer." He snorts. "Called it Oktoberfest because it was during October. Original, right?"

“The bounds of human wit will never cease to amaze me,” Roy replies laconically. “An entire festival dedicated to one drink though? Are you sure you weren’t residing in a country full of burgeoning alcoholics?”

Ed grins, knife sharp and sun bright. “Oh man, Mustang, if you think Germany’s fulla alcoholics, you should see Russia.”

“Well, I don’t know how much seeing I’ll be doing of this ‘Russia’ you speak of, but perhaps if you deign to explain it to me…” Roy trails off as Ed begins to sidle up next to him, stopping just a hair’s breadth away, their thighs nearly touching. For a brief second, Roy mourns the loss of the ability to see Ed’s face but basking in the warmth radiating off of him, he can’t find it in himself to complain.

He opens his mouth to question why Edward moved, but he’s cut off before he can begin. “Don’t even. Just shut it, will ya? It’s easier if I don’t gotta yell to be heard.”

The you always used to shout, even when you weren’t straining to be heard is left unsaid.

Roy considers protesting, in the name of his innocence, but reconsiders after a glance at Ed’s face. He raises his empty hand in a placating gesture, and makes a sweeping motion to indicate for him to continue. “By all means then, the floor is yours.”

Gold eyes roll back into their sockets for half a moment, and then Ed is speaking again. “Russia—the entire fuckin’ Soviet Union really—was a helluva place. The way they drank vodka could make grown German men cry—even rykobka, the lite-vodka they drank before Lenin fucking kicked the bucket was way stronger than any beer that Germany could brew. Shit was insane. First time I had any I nearly broke a table from choking so damn much. Al couldn’t decide whether to help me or say ‘I told you so’, the little shit. Damned stuff looks like water, how was I supposed to know it’d be like drinking fucking fire?”

“That’s rather poetic of you, Edward, in a roundabout sort of way I suppose.” Roy very much does not let his mind linger on how Ed’s voice sounds curling around the foreign word, nope, not at all.

“‘M’not fucking exaggerating. I half-wish I had a bottle with me just so you could taste it and see just how much I’m not exaggerating.”

“I’m sure I know what a stiff drink tastes like—I’m no stranger to the pastime, after all,” he replies, holding up his barely-touched glass of whisky.

Only to find his glass removed from his grasp not two seconds later by Ed, who is gently swirling the scotch around in the glass before holding it just away from his face and sniffing. Evidently, he must find the scent acceptable, because he’s taking a drink before Roy can voice any objections. And Roy, who has been hearing Ed go on about strong drinks, who has seen Ed drinking before, is still shocked when the only reaction that passes over Ed’s face at the taste of the scotch is a barely-there grimace.

“Well? Was my drink to your satisfaction?” he asks, raising an eyebrow sardonically when Ed looks at him.

Roy feels more than sees Ed shrug. “Was fine. Definitely not as bad as some of the shit the Soviets drank. But I still prefer Augustiner-Bräu over the smokiness of that,” Ed says unrepentantly, ignoring Roy’s pointed tone. He stares into the depths of his own drink before tossing the rest back. His voice is subdued as he continues, “he was never much of a beer or vodka drinker—preferred the bubbly shit France made, when he could get his hands on a bottle of champagne. Was into whiskey otherwise.”

“‘He’?” Roy questions quietly when Ed doesn’t continue. But his prompting is for naught—Ed remains silent and unanswering, staring off into the distance at nothing with a glazed, far-away look in his eyes.

Turning away, Roy stares down at what’s left of his drink. He’s not sure what to make of what Edward’s told him. But he can’t allow himself to focus on what Ed’s said—nor what he didn’t say. Maybe if Roy were a stronger man he could handle the implications in the words that were left unsaid, but it’s pointless to wonder.

Much like Edward did only minutes ago, Roy knocks back the remaining whisky. Perhaps he’ll allow himself a second glass tonight.

x

There are some nights that Roy simply cannot sleep―whether it be from nightmares or depression or just plain insomnia, sleep will elude him.

He usually can tell when these types of nights will occur; when he wakes up, his bones will feel heavy, as if they're made of lead, and his mind will be sluggish and clouded.

On nights like these, he used to turn to the bottle. But now that he is trying to remain unreliant on the mind-numbing effects of alcohol, to not be so dependent on it that he's drinking at least every other hour of every other day, he has had to find a new way to cope with his insomnia.

Thus, why he is here at the office so late at night. Catching up on paperwork from earlier in the day and getting a head start on tomorrow's.

But how silly of Roy to expect that he would get anything done tonight―Edward is at the office as well, for who knows what reason, and it seems some of his old combative bullheadedness has decided to rear its head. For he's sitting atop Roy's desk, thus preventing Roy from being able to fill out any forms or draft reports, interrogating Roy.

Apparently, Ed has decided his curiosity can be held at bay no longer and is breaking the unspoken―the implicitly understood―agreement between the two of them that they don't ask the other about their experiences during Edward's time away―because most likely, neither of them would necessarily want to answer.

"So what's this I hear about you getting demoted to a corporal and being a Mustang-icicle up north? Don't tell me I actually outranked you for a while?"

Roy sighs, accepting his defeat in his battle against the paperwork, and pinches the bridge of his nose in more of a show of irritation than anything genuine.

"Why hello, Edward. I'm fine, how are you? How's Alphonse? Oh, wonderful to hear. Yes, it is quite late at night but it's as they say―'there's no rest for the wicked'. Assuming the wicked had to deal with such menial things such as paperwork, of course."

The blond snorts and rolls his eyes. "Oh, shove it Mustang. Just answer my question and go the hell home before you pass out and Hawkeye makes me drag you there tomorrow."

Well… Roy would like to say that that's never happened before, but alas, we don't always get what we want, now do we?

"Haven't you asked Alphonse or Major Hawkeye about this? Surely one of them, or even any other member of the team could answer your question."

"Oh, I've asked them, but I want to hear it from you. What the hell happened that you got fucking demoted all the way down to corporal?"

Roy stares at him. "Edward. I killed the Führer. You must know this by now―it's the military's worst best-kept secret. Surely you didn't think that that would be without its consequences."

Ed frowns, a twist to his mouth that makes it look more like he's concentrating on trying to solve a difficult puzzle rather than sucking on a lemon. "Yeah, but the military woulda just stuck you in front of the firing squad if that was the only thing."

"I very nearly did face the firing squad," Roy murmurs, more to himself than to Edward. "We had―a rather flimsy excuse of, really―a cover story of sorts. Havoc was posing as myself while I was supposed to be stationed near the Drachman border, and in the end, it came down to a lack of irrefutable evidence more than anything. And I believe that some of the brass was grateful to me, in a way, for disposing of Bradley―it was evident that he was no longer ruling in Amestris's best interests but in his own."

"Not to mention the bastard was a homunculus," Ed mutters.

Roy huffs in amusement. "Yes, there was that as well, although I admit that that particular tidbit of information didn't get spoken of at the tribunal." He sighs and continues, "I suppose that part of the reason they were so eager to be rid of me―other than being an easy, a guilty scapegoat, for killing the Führer of course―was that the brass had started to clue into my true ambitions."

A single eyebrow raises, demanding more from him.

Roy smirks wryly, self-deprecatingly. "I didn't just want to become Führer―I planned on changing Amestris from a military state into a citizen-led democracy. I would've given her to her people."

"And what? Now you won't? Too arrogant of a power-hungry bastard to give up the top seat?"

"I… Pardon?"

"You used past tense, Mustang. Don't tell me you've given up now."

He barks out a dry laugh. "Well it's not as if anyone would accept me as Führer now anyway, would they? That's assuming the military would let a disgraced murderer like me even get close enough to the top. Don't be so naïve, Edward. I could never achieve my goals now."

"Bullshit, Mustang. That's a bull-fucking-shit excuse and you know it. You still have support within the military―you've got your entire team and at least half of investigations ready to follow you at a moments notice. And you're still a charming, smarmy bastard, so don't pretend like you wouldn't be able to win over the public. Don't act like things are impossible when it's only that you've given up."

How refreshing―and how rightfully infuriating―it is to be called out on what Roy only allows himself to think when he's plunged into the drowning depths of self-loathing.

"Be that as it may―I won't discredit your intelligence by trying to deny any of what you've said―there are more factors at play than you know. Becoming Führer just… isn't in the cards right now. Perhaps one day, yes―I've not yet discounted the idea entirely, but currently, things are manageable here." He raises his shoulders in the barest of shrugs. "Protecting Ishval and the refugees, and eventually working to restore it, were what I wanted to accomplish as Führer before I changed the government. But I've been able to work towards that where I am now―if you had returned to Central a year earlier than you did, you would've found me in the desert, mixing cement to build the foundations for new towns."

Ed's face shifts into what Roy can only attempt to describe as incredulous bewilderment. "Why the hell didn't you use alchemy? Would've been way fucking faster and easier."

"Because," Roy quietly replies, "alchemy is akin to blasphemy in Ishavallan culture. It's sacrilegious to them. And even if it wasn't, I don't think that I could stand to try to rebuild their homes with the very same weapon that so easily destroyed them."

Comprehension dawns on Ed's face, though his nose scrunches in irritation at what must be the thought of doing so much work without the aid of alchemy. He sighs, blowing a lock of hair out of his face―not that it does him much good; the lock simply falls back into place where it was. "I guess I can understand that. Teacher drilled it into our head enough times the importance of being able to do things without alchemy."

"Quite," Roy says in agreement. "In any case, I didn't need the Führership to help Ishval―and most days, I find myself not necessarily wanting the top seat anymore. I'd suggest Major Hawkeye should pursue it if I didn't believe that she'd shoot me at the mere thought." He stares at the arrays on his gloves, contemplating. Murmuring, he says "and for those who wish―no, need to atone for their sins, can they call their life their own? Or are they duty-bound to the end?"

Abruptly, Roy changes the subject. "Edward, why are you still in the military? You've restored Alphonse, and you seem to be in no rush to do the same for your limbs―so why? You don't need the access being a state alchemist would provide you anymore."

He lifts his head to find Ed meeting his gaze, honey-colored eyes boring into his. "You haven't figured that out yet, Mustang?" Ed snorts. "And here I thought you were supposed to be smart―c'mon, bastard, think a little." He hops down off of Roy's desk, one foot landing a little heavier than the other.

"You know, you could just tell me. It'd only be equivalent for me answering your questions," Roy drawls dryly.

Ed shakes his head, smirking. "Where'd the fun in that be? 'Sides, equivalent exchange is a goddamn lie." And with that, he slips out of Roy's private office, the door closing quietly behind him.

Which leaves Roy staring at the door in confusion. 'Sides, equivalent exchange is a goddamn lie.' Now what the hell did Edward mean by that? What exactly did Edward learn on the other side that would make him toss aside one of his guiding principles so easily?

x

They’re at the bar again.

But the mood tonight is much more boisterous, more spirited, than it normally is.

And Alphonse is with them this time.

Because they’re not just meeting to meet—Roy’s team is celebrating Edward’s birthday. His twenty-third birthday, to be precise.

It's more than a little jarring sometimes, for Roy to see who Edward is now, compared to his memories of the short―er, hot-tempered, spitfire fifteen year old alchemist. But Ed's grown into a fine young man―mature and self-contained-and-possessed in ways that many his age are not.

The bar isn't Ed's first place of celebration tonight―Roy knows he and Alphonse were at Mae―Gracia's earlier, in a joint party for Edward and little Elicia, both of them sharing the same birthday. Except―Elicia has just turned eleven, hasn't she? The same age Ed was when he took the state alchemist's licensing exam, already equipped with automail and saddled with the horrific memories of his attempt at human transmutation.

Perhaps eleven isn't so little after all.

Or more likely, Edward is just the exception to nearly every rule Roy has ever known.

Because as much as Elicia is inquisitive like her late father, she is nowhere near as precocious as Ed had been at that age.

In any case, Roy is glad that Elicia has her 'big brothers Ed and Al' back in her life. He remembers the first time she had asked him where they were, just barely able to grasp onto the memories of Al in his armour, after the second time Edward had left Amestris. Roy hadn't been able to answer her at the time.

Now, if Elicia were to ask again―though Roy is sure she received an answer long ago―now, staring at Edward, home with a whole Alphonse, happy and flushed, Roy would be able to respond.

Speaking of Edward, he's currently managed to untangle him from the grasp that is known as a joint hug between Havoc and Breda―being smothered more like, Roy thinks―and is ambling his way towards where Roy stands near the bar.

"Bastard!" he greets exuberantly, and Roy's not sure if he's ever heard someone referred to as that with so much cheer. He wonders if there's something wrong with him for starting to think of it as an almost pet name at this point.

"Hello Edward," he says amusedly, "I take it by your current state of inebriation that you're having fun?"

"Da," Ed says. "More fun than you at least, brooding in your emo corner. It's a party, Mustang, lighten the fuck up a little."

Roy smirks slightly as Ed stumbles and hops up to sit on one of the barstools, but otherwise refrains from making a comment. He remains silent as Ed flags down the bartender and orders another drink.

"Happy birthday, by the way. I don't believe I had the chance to say so earlier."

Ed turns to look at him and smiles wide, freed from any unconscious restraints by the alcohol flowing through his veins. "Thanks. This is a helluva lot better than how I spent my last one honestly. Would not recommend being a полити́ческий."

And yeah, Roy's not even going to try repeating that word. "A what?"

Ed blinks at him, before understanding sparks in his eyes. "Oh―a politicheski," he repeats slowly, sounding out each syllable and enunciating, as much as a drunk person can, Roy would imagine. "It's what the Soviets called political prisoners."

The implication of what Edward is saying leaves Roy feeling a little dizzy and more than a little concerned.

"Are you saying you spent your last birthday in prison? Good god, Edward, are you capable of remaining anywhere without running into problems with law enforcement?"

Ed points an accusational automail finger at Roy's face. Roy tries to not feel indignant. It's a valid question. "Oi ―I resent that, you bastard. I never had any problems in France or Dublith. I can't help it if the Russians were fucking crazy and rounded up anyone they thought was against their so called precious Soviet Union."

Roy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Leave it to Edward to completely ignore a country's political climate and find himself caught up in its mess.

"'Sides, it wasn't all bad. Al broke me out after a few months, and then a few months later we were back here," he continues, shrugging.  

"A few months," Roy repeats faintly, vaguely horrified yet almost entirely unsurprised that Ed is recounting his experience so blasély.

"Mmm. Yeah. Was a good thing Al got me out when he did―the guards seemed more likely to blow my brains out each day that I was stuck in that shithole." He tilts his head, pondering some silent thought that Roy cannot even begin to fathom, and then grins, face lighting up. "We should have a drinking contest, Mustang."

"I don't believe that's necessarily the wisest course of action, Edward. Especially considering your… already intoxicated state."

A challenging glint gleams in Ed's eyes and the edges of his grin sharpen, fierce and unafraid. "What's wrong, old man? Scared I'll drink you under the fuckin' table?"

"No such thing, of course. I merely worry about your liver and just how much Alphonse will be inclined to murder me in my sleep if I so much as encourage you to continue. Besides," and Roy pauses here to let a smug expression unfurl, "I think we both know that if anything, I'd drink you under the table―it's not like it'd be much of a challenge in any case."

Ed snorts. “Leave Al outta this and just admit you’re too chickenshit to even try. But if you’re so fucking confident that you’d win, then let’s fucking go, Bastard. My liver can handle it.”

Roy… really should be a responsible adult here. He really should. He should say no, and direct Edward back to Alphonse, who would likely have a better chance at getting Ed to slow down but… He doesn’t want to. Roy is usually mature enough to not rise to obvious bait, but something about Ed tonight is making him feel younger, freer. More unrestrained than he’s been in years.

“Have it your way, if you must Edward. But you don’t get to complain when I’m telling you I told you so in the office tomorrow morning.” Briefly, Roy considers sending up a prayer to spare him from the wrath of Alphonse to whatever deity may be out there—God, Truth, or otherwise—but he’s never been a pious man and he doesn’t really plan on starting tonight.

Roy’s the one who motions to the bartender this time that they’re ready to order again, and soon enough, they’re equipped with ammunition for their—utterly ridiculous, what are you even thinking, Mustang? Or are you just not thinking at all? —contest.

…

Roy… really doesn’t remember much beyond his seventh shot—it’s all a little hazy from there. Which leaves Roy’s ego feeling a bit more bruised than he’d like to admit. It used to take upwards of eleven shots for him to be well and truly drunk—but he also hasn’t binged alcohol in quantities like this for years, not since his home consisted of a godforsaken outpost that was snowed in more often than not.

If he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can remember tapping out somewhere around nine or ten shots total—Edward is on his… twelfth, Roy thinks? And it doesn’t seem like his discontinuation is entirely voluntary, by the way he’s glaring at the bartender. Roy shoots the bartender what he hopes is an approximation of a grateful look, for preventing Ed from continuing any further. He’s already not looking forward to having to both deal with a hangover himself and a hungover Fullmetal. Maybe he’ll just give everyone the day off tomorrow—it is Saturday after all. He’ll probably have to try and convince Riza of it though, and she’s not one who can be swayed easily.

Hmm…

Roy fuzzily tunes back into the present moment, shaking himself out of his distracted thoughts, only to find Edward babbling in—what language even is that? It’s nothing native to this world as far as Roy can tell, and it doesn’t seem to have the harsh syllables or guttural sound that Roy’s come to learn to recognize as either German or—was it Russian? Oh dear. Perhaps Roy really is a might too drunk—just a tad too old to be this drunk, shhhh! —for this.

“Je déteste ton joli stupide visage, mon salaud. Mais vous n’êtes pas mon salaud. niquer tous deux d’entre vous en raison de me faire aimer vous.”

Roy stares at Ed as he continues speaking incomprehensibly and Ed stares back, going quiet. Roy suddenly feels very warm, sure his face is flushed, and he wishes the alcohol was entirely to blame. Ed’s aureate eyes narrow, seeming far more perceptive than Roy would expect given just how much he’s drank within the last hour alone. He leans forward on his stool, towards Roy, and Roy has a brief moment of internal not-panic over whether he’s going to end up with a lap full of a drunk Edward. But Ed balances himself against the bar, and now his face is so close to Roy’s own that Roy can feel the warmth of Ed exhaling. He’s so close that it wouldn’t take much for Roy to just lean forward and close the distance between— no. Roy duly refuses to think about kissing Edward; even drunk, he won’t allow himself that.

Ed’s gaze bores into Roy’s, and he seems to be searching Roy’s face for something—but for what, Roy cannot say. Nor does Roy have any idea if Edward found what he was looking for or not.

He moves back to his own seat, still watching Roy with an inscrutable expression—almost pensive, if Roy had to put a name to it.

“Почему у тебя должно быть такое же лицо? (Pochemu u tebya dolzhno byt' takoye zhe litso?)” he says, and a small part of Roy wants to slam his face into the wood of the bar in frustration, because damnit Edward, I can’t understand what you’re saying. If Roy weren’t so intoxicated, it’d occur to him that maybe that’s exactly the point.

Alphonse is his saving grace at this point—a bronze vision in all his sober, intelligent, sensible glory.

He looks at Roy first, who’s currently got his head in his hands and is doing his best to remain upright, before turning to look at his older brother with a sigh—one that’s all too reminiscent of the soft sighs Riza gives whenever Roy’s done something particularly disappointing.

But apparently Alphonse is meant to vex Roy tonight as well.

“Bruder, was machst du?”

“Wonach siehts aus?”

"Sieht aus als wärst du betrunken und nervig.”

“Al,” Ed says imploringly. “пошли они оба нахуй, почему я люблю их обоих? (poshli oni oba nahui, pochemu ya lyublyu ikh oboikh?)”

“Ich weiß es nicht,” he replies and then Alphonse sighs again, and as much as Roy is steadfastly trying to appear as if he’s not paying attention, he feels Al’s sigh deep within his soul.  “Okay, komm schon, Bruder. Zeit nach Hause zu gehen. Aufstehen. Hast du das Skizzenbuch?”

“Ja,” Ed grumbles, but obeys what must have been Alphonse telling him to get up without much complaint, and Alphonse is turning back to Roy once he’s made certain Ed isn’t going to trip over his own feet and fall.

Roy braces himself for the younger Elric’s anger at him failing to be responsible and keep Ed from making dumb mistakes. People who don’t know any better always assume Edward is the more terrifying of the two brothers, with his penchant for swearing and yelling and blowing things up with alchemy, but they’re wrong. Alphonse may have the cherubic face of an angel, and for the most part, a soft demeanor that’s more likely to cry over abandoned kittens than anything, but his outward innocence belies his true nature—when it comes to his brother, or something that he believes in, Alphonse is ruthless. A skilled manipulator too, if reports are to be believed. Roy is only rightfully afraid.

But the wrath Roy was expecting never comes.

Instead, Alphonse smiles at him, sheepish. “I apologize for my older brother, General. He can be a bit… much, when he’s had too much to drink.”

"Please Alphonse, I've told you, there's no need for formalities. Call me Roy. And there's no need to apologize―your brother reaching such a state of inebriation is partially my fault anyway. I shouldn't have let myself get caught up and risen to his bait."

The tilt to Alphonse's mouth turns a bit wry. "Right, old habits die hard and all, I guess. Sorry. But don't blame yourself too much. I'm sure you needed to relax, and although I don't know exactly what happened, I know Brother well enough to figure whatever shenanigans the two of you got up to were his idea."

Roy laughs quietly. "Yes, well, in any case, I didn't necessarily do my best to discourage him when I probably should have. He's likely going to have a nasty hangover whenever he wakes up tomorrow―please let him know that I don't expect to see him in the office until Monday."

"Thank you, General―Roy," Alphonse is quick to add at the look Roy gives him. "I'm sure he'll appreciate that, even if he may not actually say so."

"Oh, it's not an entirely altruistic decision, I assure you. Unless the two of you have managed to alchemize some cure-all for a hangover, Ed'll likely be fairly useless tomorrow. I'm simply just trying to mitigate any potential damage from the Major in the office."

And now it is Alphonse's turn to give Roy a look, skeptical, as if he doesn't buy Roy's excuse. If facial expressions could say words, Roy is sure this one would be saying sure, keep telling yourself that. Maybe even you'll believe it one day. Which―Roy's reasoning that he gave Alphonse isn't entirely false―he does prefer to spare himself the consequences of Hawkeye's irritation whenever possible, but he has to admit, it's not the driving force for why Roy is giving Edward the day off.

Roy gives a slight cough into his fist, and that seems to be the cue Alphonse needs to jolt him back into action. “Right. Well, whatever happened, thank you for coming out tonight with us. I know it means a lot to Brother.”

Roy raises a hand and—oh dear, is he seeing double now? Maybe he should head home as well—waves his gratitude off. “Think nothing of it, Alphonse. I care about the both of you—coming out to celebrate a birthday is no hardship.”

Alphonse beams at Roy’s response, though something in his eyes seems far too shrewd—far too knowing for Roy’s liking. Despite the fact that Roy has done his best to hide his feelings—to bury them deep down inside and hide them behind layers of masks upon masks—he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Alphonse has picked up on the older man’s feelings for Edward—he’d be more surprised if he hasn’t, honestly.

A shiver crawls down Roy's spine―those damn Elrics and being too percipient for their own good.

"Still, though. Both of us appreciate it." And then Alphonse glances to the side, at where Edward is currently leaning on and hanging off of Fuery, seemingly chattering away at the shorter man and at Falman, who stands across from the two. "I guess I better go collect Brother again or we'll be here all night." He laughs softly, a sound not unlike the gentle tinkling of bells, and turns to leave, but Roy's voice stops him in his tracks.

"Just one thing before you go, if I may―the language Edward was speaking earlier―it wasn't German or Russian, as far as I could tell. What exactly was it?"

Alphonse purses his lips slightly, opening his mouth to speak but then seems to think better of whatever he was going to say, for he shuts it before he voices his thoughts. He glances at his brother, and then back at Roy, mouth twisting a little.

"I think that's a question you're better off asking Brother himself."

Disappointing, but not at all surprising.

Roy tilts his head in acknowledgement. "I'd expected you would say as much. Take care of yourself then, Alphonse."

"You too, General. I'll see you soon!"

And with a pivot on his heel, Alphonse is off to snag Edward, dragging him out into the cold winter night to go home.

Roy, still sitting at the bar, watches his team continue to drink and talk and laugh. A part of him―the youthful side of him, awakened by the shots he had downed earlier―wants to stay and join them, but another part of him―the more pragmatic side, the side that dragged him off to the north―is saying he should take his leave and crawl into his bed and sleep. Roy thinks the latter part of himself wins the argument tonight. Home and then bed it is then.

x

He knows now, what it is that Edward learned—what it is that has shaken Ed’s faith in the core principle of alchemy—the one thing that had seemed as unshakeable as his love and devotion for Alphonse, before—so thoroughly.

Human lives.

That is the cost of the alchemy of this world. The energy that fuels their transmutations comes from the souls of lives lost on the other side of the Gate.

It’s abominable.

Roy almost feels sick at the mere thought of it—but the pragmatist in him, the side that allowed him to survive Ishval without blowing his brains out— well, mostly—keeps the green at bay. After all, they were already dead, weren’t they? It’s not as if alchemy is what’s killing them. If the energy is there, why shouldn’t they be free to use it?

But then the part of him that felt sick during Ishval—felt so guilty over the lives he was just burning away so easily, for no damn reason—reminds him that despite what form it takes now, they were once human. And Roy isn’t God—he has no right to decide how their souls should be spent.

No wonder why Edward seems to speak of alchemy and its principles in such a bitter way, with pensive and mourning eyes―why he seems to avoid doing any actual alchemy unless it is strictly necessary.

Roy can't say that he entirely blames him, knowing what he does now.

But it makes Edward's continuation of being a state alchemist all the more mystifying. Why would he stay in a career that would require him to do alchemy? Unless he's as much of a masochist as Roy is and cannot let himself give it up entirely, as much as it aggrieves him.

Unless he stayed for an entirely different reason―unless he stayed for you, a traitorous whisper snakes through his head.

Roy stops that thought in its tracks—damn it all for this being the one question of his that Alphonse was willing to answer.

x

The journal is lying on his desk, unguarded.

Roy feels like it's taunting him.

For he is burning with curiosity to peek into it, to finally know what its pages contain, but Roy won't let himself touch it. He refuses to go near it even, just in case the temptation is too great to resist.

Not to mention, Roy is suspicious. Edward never leaves this journal anywhere―it's always on his person. The only times Roy knows of that Edward willingly leaves it behind is when he goes on a mission, and even then, he only leaves it in Alphonse's care.

So why did Edward―secretive, furtive Edward, who only seems to open up about his time away when he has more alcohol coursing through his veins than blood―leave it on his desk, in an office full of people he must know are dying to see its contents?

It must be a test.

That's the only logical explanation Roy can think of―because Edward wouldn't be so careless as to just leave the journal out in the open where anyone could read it if they wanted.

But a test―that is so unlike Edward, whom Roy knows to prefer to not beat around the bush and just ask straightforwardly instead, and Roy doesn't know why or whom he's testing.

Unless―unless, it's meant to be him.

Which―considering he's the only other person in the office right now, has been, for hours, besides Edward―who actually isn't even here right now, having stepped out to grab some files―it must be.

But Roy cannot even begin to fathom why.

Why him, why now?

Hasn’t Roy proven to Edward yet that he can be trusted—that he won’t pry about Edward’s time, his experiences on the other side of the Gate unless Edward indicates that it’s okay to do so? Roy thinks for a moment that he should be hurt—stung, by the fact that Edward apparently doesn’t trust him and feels the need to test him, despite all the time they’ve spent together, despite how much closer they’ve grown. But Roy supposes it’s only recompense for all of his manipulation of the Elric brothers when they were younger—equivalent exchange and all.

Equivalent exchange—hah.

As if anything about life is equivalent. Alchemists really are despicable creatures, Roy thinks.

But Roy isn’t hurt, or at least he just can’t find it within himself to be so at the moment—he’s more so confused, than anything.

Ed’s voice heralds his return and startles Roy out of his thoughts.

“You can look, if you want. I won’t hide it from you.”

"...Pardon?" Roy manages to force out, not quite managing to quash the feeling of being like a child caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Ed snorts. "It's not like you to play dumb, Mustang. I know your nosey ass is curious about what's in it. 'Sides, I wouldn't have left it here if I cared about you looking through it." He tosses the files in his hands onto his desk and grabs the journal, shoving it at Roy. "Go on, look already, so you can get your damn questions out of the way and I can eventually go home tonight."

And oh―it wasn't a test at all. It's not that Edward doesn't trust Roy―it's that he does.

And although he tries, Roy can't stop the warmth from blooming through him at the notion.

Gently, Roy takes the journal from Ed, who leans back against his desk and crosses his arms. He flicks his gaze up from the journal to Ed's face, checking for any sign that Roy shouldn't do this―shouldn't open what's obviously dear to Edward―but there's none, just a quiet, not quite-expectant stare.

Hesitantly, and ever so softly, Roy opens the journal to the first page.

It's not what he was expecting.

There's no notes, no alchemical theories or arrays drawn on the pages, nothing written in code. Instead, it's drawings. And as Roy slowly turns the pages, he finds out that the entire journal is filled with them―with sketches, with paintings, watercolors and oil, charcoal and ink.

They're beautiful, really. Obviously done by a deft hand, by someone with not only skill but passion as well.

Roy has to pause though, when he reaches a page that's not filled with similar subject matter as the previous had been. This isn't a landscape, it's not nature portraiture, there's no flowers or trees in sight. It's of a person. Rather―it's of Edward, specifically. It has to be. Even though Roy can't see the subject's face, he knows it's Edward. No one else has that same golden hair, that right shoulder crafted out of steel and wire that in any situation would seem like nothing less than a weapon―but in this image, it seems almost―delicate. And Roy has never really been able to think of it solely as a weapon anyway—not with the way Ed touches things so gently and moves so seamlessly with it, as if he was born with automail and didn’t have to go through extensive, excruciating surgery and a year—what would’ve been years, if Ed were anyone else—of rehab, to learn how to use his metal limbs. Edward—that is, the Ed in the painting on the page—is sitting up in a bed, sheets wrapped around his hips and pooled in his lap. His hair is down for once, falling down his back in tousled waves, covering up most of the scarring Roy would imagine is there.

He turns the page again, carefully, making sure not to crease or otherwise bend the pages in any way. The next image is of Edward as well, in charcoal this time. He’s lying on what looks to be the same bed, facing away from the artist still. He’s on his side, sheets tangled in his legs, and hair spilling out behind him across the pillows. He looks like he’s asleep. And Roy was right; there’s a fair amount of scarring sprawling across his back—most appears to be from where the automail port is attached, but there are others as well. Smaller cicatrices that are probably merely hazards of Ed being in the military and then one—one giant mark that spreads out from in-between his shoulder blades, a starburst of warped skin. That… how in the world did Edward get that, much less survive that?

Another turn of a page and another image of Edward. He’s facing the artist this time, though, lying on his stomach with his arms shoved under a pillow, propping his head up. His head is tilted, a single eyebrow raised, and smirking, in what Roy would describe as fond exasperation—he should know, it’s a feeling he himself is all too familiar with.

But who exactly was the artist—who could be the recipient of such a look from Ed? Who could be allowed to be so close to him, to see him in such a vulnerable state?

Edward's gaze is heavy on him, with the weight of something and Roy looks up at him, not knowing what he's going to find.

"They're beautiful, Fullmetal―" shit, Roy hasn't called Edward by his state alchemist title in months unless it's during a mission debriefing or report―it's a slip of the tongue, a way for Roy to try to save face and mask the tumultuous feelings inside of him, and by the way Ed frowns a bit, brows furrowing together almost imperceptibly, he notices Roy's mistake. Or maybe Ed's just frowning at Roy calling them―really, calling him beautiful. He clears his throat, "really Edward, they are. If you're truly this skilled at art, I don't quite see why you would go to such lengths to hide it―though I am grateful you deigned to share it with me."

If anything, Ed frowns further, but the look in his eyes is almost wistful.

"Hah―as if. You think I have the dexterity required for that with automail? You've seen―you've complained about my 'illegible chicken scratch' enough times that you shouldn't make such a stupid guess." He shakes his head in amusement. "I didn't draw those. How the fuck would I’ve been able’ta see those angles anyway? ‘Sides, what'd'ya think I am, some type of narcissist?" A wry smirk unfurls over his face. "I'm not you, you know."

And Roy knows he means it in jest, a callback to the days when he was known more for his womanizing and being an 'upstart Colonel Bastard' than anything else. But still, his voice is too subdued when he replies, "I am well aware of that fact, Edward." He leaves unsaid just how much he knows that, how aware he is that Edward is everything good in the universe, that he isn't a sinner like Roy, doesn't have his hands stained so deeply and for so long that he cannot tell where the blood comes from anymore.

The frown is back on Ed's face then, but in typical Elric fashion, he switches topics, jumping on and following a tangent line only he can see.

"So you know how I've talked about the doubles on Earth before?―and don't pretend you don't, you have ears fucking everywhere. You've never asked about it―not a single damn time have you asked if I met another you."

Now it's Roy's turn to frown. "I really don't see how this is related."

Ed rolls his eyes, muttering something about "of course you don't see, you only have one eye―practically half-blind at this point, bastard", and takes the journal from Roy's hands. He flips through it for a few moments, and when he's seemingly found what he was looking for, sticks it back into Roy's grasp.

Roy looks down.

And―

It's him. Or at least, a version of him. One with messier, almost artfully tousled hair, one with less lines around his eyes from stress and the weight of all the guilt, one with both eyes.

An automail finger taps the page next to it, and Roy shifts his eye to it, to what Edward is drawing his attention towards.

There’s a picture—it’s in black and white, though some details—details like the gold of Edward’s hair, the amber of his eyes, the deep midnight blue of the person who wears Roy’s face but isn’t Roy—appear to have been coloured in by hand, painstakingly careful in their work. Edward is mid-laugh in the photo, grinning brighter―than the flames of Roy's alchemy, than the sun itself―than Roy has seen from him in years . It's an expression Roy has only ever seen directed towards Alphonse, and his heart stutters and clenches at the implication of what this other-him must mean to Edward. The other-him―and isn't that a bizarre way to refer to someone, a sardonic voice remarks in his head―isn't looking at the camera, but at Edward, and the expression on his face―it's one that Roy can only imagine his looks like when he's alone and allows his thoughts to stray towards the man standing before him. It's one of such love and devotion that it's heartbreaking.

Roy has to close his eye and take a deep shuddering breath, for he's not sure if he can continue to stare at the picture―to look upon the fact that only in another reality is Roy able to have one of his heart's greatest desires. For a brief moment, Roy allows himself to feel a hot flash of anger, the sharpest stab of jealousy―not at Edward, for he could never begrudge the other trying to find happiness―and the logical part of him supposes he can't really begrudge the other-him either―but at the version of himself in another world. Why should he be the one―what did this other-him ever do to deserve what Roy so obviously does not? It feels almost cruel, that Edward would shove this knowledge in his face, would rub salt in one of the deepest of wounds, but the knowledge that Edward would not―could not―ever intend be cruel acts as a balm to soothe the ache. There must be a point to all this―Edward wouldn't share this with Roy unless he had a point to make. But what is it?

Roy opens his eye and stares at Edward, who takes this as his cue to start speaking.

"His name was Rêve Mered. He was an artist, from a country called France. Al 'n' I met him when we were in Paris, the summer of 1924―1918 here. We were at Notre Dame―which, French people really have taste. There were gargoyles, so many damn gargoyles, Mustang. Al had to physically stop me from trying to move in. The only reason he won was because I lost my concentration. Because I heard you laughing―not your smug bastard one that you used when you'd make fun of my height, but a real one. And the first thing the bastard said to me when I looked at him was that he wanted to paint me. I would've decked him―I wanted to deck him, straight in his smarmy face, but I was too thrown by seeing your face again. I don't remember exactly what happened after that; I think I probably cursed him out because I remember Al apologizing to him and yelling at me. He was there the next day too, and the day after that, and every day for the next two weeks, asking the same stupid question every fucking time. Eventually I gave in, on the condition that he at least tell me why he was so annoyingly persistent about it. Bastard just looked at me and said it was because I looked like an angel." Ed scoffs softly. "An angel, can you believe it? What a shitty fucking bullshit excuse."

But the thing is, Roy can believe it. It's a thought he himself has had before. The key difference is, though, that unlike the other-him―unlike Rêve―Roy's never dared to voice the idea.

"Why are you telling me all of this, Edward?" Roy asks quietly.

Ed sighs, and raises an eyebrow questioningly. "You really haven't put it together yet?"

A fleeting spark of irritation courses through him, his temper spiking in a way it hasn't in years, and his voice is clipped when he says "no, I haven't. Forgive me, Fullmetal, for not being able to understand why you're giving me puzzle pieces that don't fit together and just cut my hands until they bleed when I try to put them into place―unless the other side changed you more than I thought and you've discovered that you enjoy kicking a man when he's down. If that's the case, I must ask that you refrain." Roy isn't trembling―he's not, he's not.

The expression on Edward's face… Roy's not sure what to make of it. He can detect hints of anger, of frustration, but shockingly also hurt, if the way his mouth twists is any indication. What in the hell does he have to be hurt about? Roy thinks, more than a touch bitterly.

"You're really gonna make me spell it out for you? Typical Colonel Bastard," he mutters, crossing his arms defensively. "He was that world's version of you, or you're this world's version of him, howthefuckever you wanna put it. But despite all your similarities, you're two different people. Roy Mustang isn't Rêve Mered. You're both crafty, manipulative bastards who don't know how to mind their own damn business but where he was an artist, you're a fighter. He wasn't." He pauses, and takes a breath, slowing himself down. "There was a war―they called it a world war, the 'war to end all wars', which was complete bullshit―that ended a few years before I got stuck there the first time. Rêve was just old enough the year it began, for France to draft him into their army. He wasn't even on the frontlines for two weeks after he got done with basic before he provoked someone to shoot him. He was injured enough that they discharged him and he was able to go home. You would never have done that―you'd've sacrificed yourself for a country that didn't deserve you, because you're good and honourable and all that shit. Rêve was a good man too, but he didn't take the weight of the world on his shoulders―didn't believe that he wasn't free to do anything but atone for his sins. He wouldn't have risked his career―his life―to kill a homunculus in order to protect a country that had only ever fucked him over." Ed steps forward, pulling the journal from Roy's hands and setting it on his desk. Roy feels his hands be enveloped in the gentle grasp of warm flesh and cool steel. He continues quietly, but firmly, amber eyes refusing to look away from Roy's own. His gaze is unwavering and fierce, like that of a wolf stalking its prey, of someone who refuses to ever back down. "There are parts of you that are similar, yeah―and I'd be lying if I said you never remind me of each other sometimes. But at the end of the day, you're two different people. And I fell in love with both of you for different reasons. He made me feel safe and warm, like maybe there was a place in that world where I could belong. But you make me feel like I'm home, like I'm on fire and don't ever want to stop burning. Neither of you are a replacement for the other. I was in love with you and your bastard face before I even met him. But even if I wasn't, I still would have fallen for him. And I'd still love you if I hadn't been with Rêve. So you can stop your damn worrying about you being a stand-in for him. You're not―you never fucking could be. And so help me God, Mustang, if you don't get over here and kiss me―"

Before Roy knows he’s doing it himself, he’s pulling his hands from Edward’s grasp and cupping the golden man’s face, pulling him forward until their lips meet.

It’s everything Roy never let himself hope it would be―never let himself dream of―yet it’s not, at the same time.

It’s so much better, so much more than anything he could have ever dreamed of.

Edward’s lips are so much softer than he had expected they would be; Roy’s seen him chewing on his bottom lip before, a habit, when he’s lost in thought. He would’ve expected his lips to be rough from the abuse, but they’re not even chapped. They move against Roy’s gently at first, until he, or maybe it’s Roy, or more likely even it’s the both of them, is struck by a frenzy, and then they’re kissing, open-mouthed and desperate, frantically grabbing at the other, unable to get close enough. Even pressed completely against the other’s body―and Edward’s lithe form fits so wonderfully against Roy, he never wants to let go―it’ll never be close enough.

Ed makes a needy noise, a high-pitched keen, in the back of his throat, when Roy clutches his face even tighter, and then there are mismatched fingers threading themselves through and tangling into his hair, holding on so tight it almost hurts―but Roy would never dare ask him to let go.

It will never be enough and yet it’s entirely too much.

Roy pulls back with a gasp―“Edward” ―to allow himself to breathe. For although he wouldn’t mind dying while kissing Edward―it’s surely one of the better ways to go, that Roy can think of, and Roy’s thought of death more than his fair share of times―he doesn’t want to die and miss out on the opportunity to kiss Ed again.

He lets out a shuddering breath and Ed’s automail hand comes down to rest gently on his face, the cool kiss of steel helping to ground him. Ed must move his other hand―Roy feels his flesh thumb swipe ever so softly―the lightest of feather-light touches―under his right eye.

“Roy―hey―Roy, you’re crying,” Ed states faintly, bewilderment obvious in his voice.

Roy opens his eye and blinks a few times. And then he blinks a few times more. His vision is blurry from the tears―and now that Ed’s mentioned it, he feels the tell-tale wetness of tears slowly trailing down the side of his face. It’s a tad difficult to get his vision to focus, but when Edward’s face finally sharpens into view, he can make out the concern on Edward’s face.

“Oh. I suppose that I am. Imagine that.”

He laughs quietly in disbelief―since when does Roy Mustang cry? The only time in the past decade that Roy's allowed himself to shed a tear was Maes's funeral, years ago. And then he’s choking on a sob, trying to swallow it down, to smother it so it won’t escape, but he fails. The noise that comes out of his mouth is a harsh, wet, broken sound.

“I―I apologize for losing my composure like this. I don’t know what’s come over me―it’s most unlike me, I assure you. How dreadfully unbecoming.”

“What? Oh, hey, Roy no. You have nothing to apologize for, dumbass."

The fondness in his voice on the last note only sets Roy off even further and now Roy is clutching Edward's hands so tightly he fear they will break, will be crushed in his―but some part of Roy's brain dimly recognises that one hand is metal and that the other has withstood far worse than this.

"I have everything to apologize for, Edward, but thank you for trying, really. Though I ought to advise you not to waste the effort." Not on a ruined man like me, he leaves unsaid. A weak chuckle escapes his mouth, and combined with his poorly stifled sobs, it sounds more like the sound of a man dying―taking his last, gurgling breath―than anything.

The pain in the hand of Roy's that's grasping automail faintly registers in the back of his mind, shooting off the idea that maybe Roy should loosen his grip before he hurts himself, but the pain helps remind him that this is real, that Ed's really here, and Roy scarcely dares to let himself believe it―believe what Ed is saying―but Edward is so warm and Roy has been cold for so long.

And Roy… Roy has no shame left, really. He left his dignity behind him when he went and hid in the frozen tundra of the northern outpost for nearly three years, though he tries to act otherwise when around anyone other than Riza, and now Edward, really. But Roy is tired and desperate and confused and so he allows himself to bend, but not break, his head hanging low enough to rest on Edward's shoulder. One of Edward's hands frees itself and slowly raises up, coming to cover the back of Roy's head. Roy inhales deeply ―and the scent of Edward, of the metallic tang of automail, the faint hint of ozone and sulfur of alchemy, fills his lungs.

It takes a while―far longer than Roy would like to admit―but he eventually manages to regain his composure, breath calming and tears drying.

God, Roy can’t believe he reacted like that. What Ed must think of him now, he doesn’t even want to begin imagining.

He doesn’t want to move, feels far too tranquil resting upon Edward like this, but that is precisely the reason that Roy cannot allow himself to remain like this. He pulls back, spine straightening as Ed’s hand falls away, and he takes a step back—an attempt to gain a modicum of control over the situation—over himself—back.

“So the language you spoke at the bar, on your birthday—that was French, I presume?” There isn’t even a detectable trace of a quaver in Roy’s voice, good.

“What?” Ed questions, thrown. “Oh, that, yeah. It was. Don’t try and change the fucking subject, though, Mustang. What the hell was that?”

Roy refuses to flinch, spine ramrod straight. “Surely you’ve experienced an emotional outburst or two, Edward, or at least know what they are.”

The corners of Ed’s mouth twitches down. “Fucking course I know what they are, you shit. But dammit—Roy, that’s not a normal reaction to someone telling you they’re in love with you.”

“My apologies, then, for not meeting your expectations.” Retreat, regroup, reveal nothing. Offense is the best defense.

The frown deepens further. “That’s—augh, that’s not what I fucking meant and you know it. Can you not be a stubborn bastard about this? I’m trying to ask if you’re fucking okay.” Ed steps forward and Roy steps back. And then Ed steps forward again, and again, and Roy has nowhere left to run—he’s leaning back against the edge of Edward’s desk, fingers gripping the edge of the dark cherry wood.

A part of him is screaming for him to lie, to save face and get out of there, but Roy ignores it. He sighs, resigning himself to his fate. Let Edward be a merciful executioner, at least.

“I’m… holding up as well as can be expected, given everything. You try being told by the person you’ve been in love with for years that they were lovers with someone who shares your face, but apparently they’re in love with you as well. But you, you had given up hope of reciprocation long ago, because even if they weren’t worlds away, they’re far too young—too good for your sinner’s hands, not to mention, your fucking subordinate. So really, considering the circumstances, I think I’m doing quite alright.” And oh god, Mustang just shut up already, would you? What the hell was Roy thinking, dumping all of that on Ed. He wasn’t, he wasn’t thinking.

If Roy isn’t allowed to hide in the north any longer, perhaps he should consider taking a vow of silence.

“That’s… a lot to unpack, Jesus Christ”—okay, who? —“but you do realize most of your reasons for giving up are bullshit, right? Or at least can be fucking dealt with? I can transfer to Investigations or quit the military at any time. Boom, not your subordinate. ‘Worlds away’? Not fucking anymore. ‘Too young’? Since when the hell’ve I ever gotten along with people my age anyway? And I’m not a fucking kid anymore, Mustang. ‘Too good for your sinner’s hands’—fucking Christ, that is such bullshit. Roy, I created a goddamn homunculus when I attempted human transmutation. I got my brother stuck as a suit of armour for five years. I’ve killed people too. Don’t fucking try and hold me up as some paradigm of ‘goodness’ or whatever when I’m just as guilty as you. The Roy Mustang I know and love isn’t a coward—so stop making excuses and just let yourself have this.”

Ed is chest to chest with him now, gold eyes boring into Roy with the intensity of a thousand suns. Roy’s mouth has gone dry, and he finds himself scrambling for a response, but he finds none. Nothing about this evening has gone how he expected—this is all so unprecedented and how was Roy supposed to plan for this?

When Roy can finally speak again, the first words that pop out of his mouth aren’t—as par for the course, at this point, really—what he was planning to say. “Who is Jesus Christ and what’s fucking him?” The words tumble out of his mouth, uncontrolled.

Ed reacts appropriately—he stares at Roy like Roy’s grown a second head. But then he’s bursting into laughter, doubling over with it, but finding his way blocked by Roy’s chest, head thumping into it as he bends. “Shit. Of course that’s the first thing you ask, you goddamn dork.” The laughter trails off after a few moments, and Ed straightens, wiping his eyes. “Oh man. I wasn’t fucking expecting that, god. Hah. Jesus Christ is the son of God and God himself. The guy that Christians worship.”

Wait.

What?

Roy voices his confusion, and Ed barks out a laugh.

“HAH. Hell if I know how he’s both at once—religion’s all bullshit anyway, and they’ve got even more of it over there than we do.”

He nods, slowly turning over everything that’s happened in his head, processing it.

“You’re not—toying with me, are you?”

Ed seems to know what Roy is really asking about without him having to say so, sobering instantly. “No, of course not. Do I really seem like the type that would fucking joke about something like this?” He softens his voice and continues. “I love you, Roy. And I’m pretty damn sure that you love me too.” He lays his automail hand on Roy’s chest, right over his heart.

“I do,” Roy says, quietly, “I truly do—love you, that is. I suppose that I’ve just been so used to the idea of not having you—of never seeing you again, really, that this is all a bit… surreal. But I suppose that I should just be used to you defying reality and expectations by now.” He laughs weakly, but covers Ed’s metal hand with his own. “I take it then, that this is your way of telling me that you’re tired of waiting for me to remove my head from my ass and get my shit together?”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” Ed teases. “But basically, yeah. Though it wasn’t entirely my choice—I had to get some of my own shit together. Al was threatening to talk to you if I wouldn’t. But it didn’t feel right, keeping this from you. Not any longer, at least. Coming back to Amestris, after being away for so long, and seeing your face, when I hadn’t seen his face in almost a year, it messed me with me, more than I thought it would. I missed him and I missed you—but you were right in front of me. And I just… had to adjust. Rêve woulda thrown a paintbrush at me for how long it took—he was convinced that if I ever got to come back home, the first thing I should do was run into your arms and kiss you.” The blond laughs, once, a short, harsh sound. “Maybe part of the reason I waited so long was to defy him, I don’t know. Probably wasn’t fair to you though, so, sorry.”

“Well, I can’t say I understand what you went through, but I can imagine it must’ve been difficult. And thank god for Alphonse, at least.” Wait a second. “Rêve… knew about me? About Amestris?”

Ed grimaces. “Yeah. I never really planned on telling him but… Al ‘n’ I could never really come up with a believable excuse for my automail and it’s not like it’s easy to hide it when you’re—fuck, nevermind. I kinda had to tell him in the end. He believed me faster than I thought he would.”

Ah. What goes unsaid doesn’t escape Roy.

“But that’s not important right now. What’s important is you, us. If there’s gonna be an us.”

And there lies the crux of the matter.

“… I’d like there to be. It will take some time, and some adjustments, but… I think we could make it—make us work. But I feel as if I should warn you—it won’t always be pretty, a life with me. Are you absolutely sure you want to saddle yourself down with someone like me?”

It feels as if they’re going in circles, but Roy has to be sure that this is what Ed wants.

“Fuck, how many times am I going to have to nail this into your thick skull? I want you, you bastard. All of you.” Ed uses his free hand to jab at Roy’s chest, emphasizing his words.

“As many times as it takes,” Roy murmurs, taking the offending hand in his own. “So please be patient with this old dog.” And really, there’s no more words that can be said tonight that wouldn’t just be the two of them rehashing the same issues over and over. He’ll just have to take Edward at his word for now—and Roy’s never known Edward to be dishonest, anyway. That discussion can wait for another night, when they’re more coherent, more aware and sangfroid.

But this?

This cannot.

And so Roy leans down, just barely, the slightest hunch to his spine, and kisses Edward. Again. And again, and again, and again. There’s no military regulations against fraternization, no years apart, no insecurities or challenges and trauma to overcome between them. It’s just Roy and Ed and the press of their lips against the other’s, their heartbeats rattling in their chests, trying to break free from the captivity of their bones and join as one. There’s no stopping, no ending—just a moment of serenity in their togetherness, after disintegration. For the first time in years, Roy feels warm—not the temporal warmth he has known since his return from the north, but the warmth of slowly waking up on a Sunday morning, entangled under the covers with the one you love, content and safe and secure and blissfully warm.

Roy doesn’t ever want this moment—this feeling—to end.

He thinks that, maybe, with Ed by his side, everything might be more than just alright.

x

In 1915, a boy disappears to save his brother, unknowingly taking a man’s heart with him.

In 1917, the boy comes back, older, tired, a man in his own right now, but restoring some of the spark and hope in the man’s life. He leaves again, with his brother this time, that same day.

In 1921, the brothers come back, this time for good. And it seems all will be right with the world. But both the boy and the man’s equilibrium has been thrown off. Neither are the same as they were.

But in 1922, they finally talk, and the boy confesses that the man has his heart as well—that when he left the last time, he had left part of his heart behind. It’s not a fairytale ending—but it’s pretty damn close to it.