Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1 Different

The front door to the upstairs apartment clicks shut, and the pattering of tiny footsteps echo on the uneven hardwood floors. “Roy, is that you? How was your day?” She calls from her place in the kitchen, looking over the most recent bills for the building, as well as her most recent paycheck from her other employer.

“Fine.” The little voice comes bouncing back to her, barely audible.

Chris suppresses a sigh. Her Roy has always been a solemn child.

Her Roy. It’s only natural for her to refer to him as her own, because ever since the day he showed up on her doorstep, three years old with his father’s straight back and stiff upper lip, two policemen flanking him as if he was their general and they his soldiers, he has been hers.

She’s never been very familiar with children, but she thinks that they should smile more than this. She remembers even her brother giving more emotion than this kid does, and to say that her childhood had been happy would be an overstatement. Instead, Roy floats through the upstairs apartment and the bar like a ghost, face drawn and solemn. What she wouldn’t give to see her Roy smile.

She can’t say she isn’t a little relieved when he walks into the kitchen, four years old and so, so tiny, with a pinched expression of annoyance on his face. It’s one of the first emotions she’s seen past indifference, hesitance, and sadness, and fills her with hope: though annoyance isn’t much of an upgrade.

“What’s wrong, Roy-boy?” She bends down to reach something remotely resembling his height. If there’s one thing she’s learned about Roy, it’s that he hates being talked down to. It isn’t good on her knees, but it makes his shoulders relax the tiniest bit.

Roy resolutely doesn’t look at her, which raises a few red flags. He’s usually a little too eager on the eye contact. He mumbles something incoherent. “Speak up.” She commands. Another thing she’s learned: he responds well to spoken commands.

“The other kids won’t let me play with them,” he says, a little bashfully.

“Why not?” She asks. She asks, but she already knows the answer, and the anger and frustration is already bubbling inside of her.

Roy’s brow furrows, and he now looks more confused than anything else. “They said I looked too different. Why does no one ever want me around?”

Chris feels devastated and righteous in equal parts. There’s nothing she wants more than to call his school and demand that they reprimand the other children. But that isn’t a long-term solution. Unfortunately, this will be far from the last time Roy is ridiculed.

Because the problem is, while Roy has his father’s mannerisms - his lips pressed thin when he thinks too hard, his hands twisted behind his back as he stands primly in wait, his feet held close together almost like a soldier’s - he has his mother’s features.

There is no hint of Amestrian in Roy’s sharp gaze. Chris never met her sister-in-law, didn’t even know she had one until Roy appeared, but she thinks that if she suddenly showed up on the doorstep Chris would immediately be able to recognize her through Roy’s characteristics. His smooth black hair. His eyes, darker than onyx and deeper than any ocean. His skin, pale and fair and easily burnt under the hot sun. He’s beautiful, Chris thinks, but his beauty makes him too unique.

He’s still looking up at her, expecting some kind of answer, and she sighs deeply. She doesn’t know how to explain racism and prejudice to a four-year-old.

She abruptly stands. “Come, Roy,” she says, already heading towards the stairs that lead to the bar. He silently follows, his little shoes making quiet sounds compared to her heels as they descend the stairs together. It’s late midday, so the bar is near empty save for a few regulars. Chirs nods to Gina, who is currently behind the bar, and Gina shoots her a grin and Roy a mildly tender look before going back to work. All of the girls are quite taken with Roy, from his extreme politeness to his tiny mouth that’s often pressed in a thin line. He’s cute, that much is true, and it makes him popular with the girls, some of whom dream of one day having children of their own.

“Here, Roy.” Chris finally makes it to the corner of the bar, where an old polished piano sits, waiting to be played. She sets her hand on top of the lid, then lifts it, watching Roy’s eyes widen with curiosity as he gazes upon the black and white keys. “Sit,” she nods to the bench. He complies.

He’s so short that his feet can’t reach the floor when he’s on the bench, but she doesn’t stop him as he leans forward and tentatively touches a key, not pressing hard enough to elicit a sound from it but watching carefully as it bounces back into place when he relieves the small amount of pressure. She walks around the bench and sits on Roy’s side, near the lower scales. She rests her hands on the keys, near middle C, and plays a few simple chords to test it. Then, once she’s oriented, Chris plays out a song that she’s played so many times before that it takes her no time at all to remember, and barely any thought as she keeps playing through the piece.

Roy, for his part, looks mystified. His wide eyes haven’t left her hands as she plays. When she finally ends the song, a bit prematurely, he blinks before settling his gaze on her. “Again?”

It’s the most childish display from him she’s since he came into her care.

“How about this. I’ll teach you to play piano, and you’ll play for me when there’s patrons here. That way you can be with me and the girls when we’re working. How does that sound?”

Roy nods eagerly, reaching out a hand as if to touch the keys again before withdrawing it. “Well go on,” she urges. “You won’t be able to learn if you don’t touch it.” She shows him where to settle his hands and begins teaching him easy scales. He’s clever, and she watches with pride as he plays the scales, calling out the names of the notes as he goes, a quick memory game.

After their first lesson, Roy blinks up at her again, then stares at the now-silent keys. “Why are you teaching me?”

“What do you mean?” Chris looks sharply at him.

He looks down at his hands and she immediately regrets being short with him. “Why are you staying here with me?” He asks. She doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking, but he looks fairly bothered by it.

“Because I like staying here with you,” she says slowly.

If anything, he looks more troubled. She curses herself for saying the wrong thing. “But...no one likes staying with me.” Oh. He’s talking about the kids at school again. Maybe his parents. Maybe all of the people who have ever left him. Chris wonders if Roy can even remember all of the people who have ever let him down. She prays to whatever higher power there may be that she does not become one of them.

“Roy-boy, let me tell you something. There are things in life we can’t control. Things like other people’s thoughts or the color of the sky. But there are things we can control. We can choose to make art, and make friends, and be kind.” She ruffles his hair a little, smiling at the way his hands immediately fly to his head to fix whatever damage she’s done. “You have control over who you are and what you create, Roy. Those kids can never take that away from you.”

“Oh,” is all Roy says, his brow scrunched up as he contemplates this. He looks back up at her after a moment. “Can you teach me more?”

She chuckles, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair again. “Tomorrow, Roy. Let your fingers rest for now.”

He still looks a bit hesitant. “Will I ever be as good as you are?”

Nothing stops her now as she reaches forward and cards her fingers through his thick, dark hair. He scowls slightly but lets her. “Roy-boy, you’ll be so much better. All you have to do is practice. If you want something badly enough, you can work to get it. Any goal is achievable.”

“Any goal?”

Chris smiles at this boy, her brother’s son, now such an integral part of herself and her world. “You can even become the Fuhrer, if you willed it hard enough. That’s what can happen if other people believe in you enough, and you want it enough.”

Roy scrunches his nose at that. “Why would I want to be Fuhrer?”

She stands, extracting her hand from her nephew’s hair and closing the lid on the piano. “I don’t know, it does seem quite tiresome. But anything’s possible.”

2 Sisters

“Do you want me to poke your eye out? Hold still!” Bethany says gently, and Vanessa lets out a high-pitched trill of laughter, one that makes little Roy pout.

“Now Vanessa, don’t tease the poor boy too much,” Madeline takes pity on the kid, ruffling his hair, much to his dismay. “He’s been very good for Bethany.”

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m dumb,” Roy mutters, petulant in all of his six-year-old glory. Madeline resists the urge to ruffle his hair again. He’s just so adorable when he pouts, his bottom lip sticking out and his eyebrows furrowed in a far-too-serious expression.

“You know if you stick your lip out like that a little birdie might come and sit on it!” Bethany teases lightly, and the girls all laugh when Roy quickly sucks his lip into his mouth, eyes wide.

“Will it really?” He asks worriedly.

“Shh, stop moving! I’m almost done,” Bethany soothes. “Then you have to help the rest of us get ready, since you’ll be all done.” The rest of the girls bustle around, getting into their work outfits and curling or teasing their hair as Bethany puts the finishing touches on Roy’s eyes.

“Done!” She says, pulling away. “Oh Roy, you have such beautiful features. If you weren’t six I might be jealous.”

Roy furrows his brow at that too, but doesn’t say anything despite his puzzlement. Madeline admires Bethany’s handiwork: the girl has gotten so much better at makeup in the past few years. “Bethany made you look beautiful, Roy. What do you say?” Daniela, the oldest of them, says with a hand on her hip.

Roy obediently turns to Bethany, eyes wide and earnest. “Thank you, Bethany.”

“Anything for you, Roy,” she pinches his cheek. He rubs at it with an annoyed expression on his face.

“Come Roy, Neriah needs her hair braided. I want to see what you remember,” Madeline holds out her hand to the boy, and he takes it, hopping off of the makeup chair and letting her lead him over to Neriah’s mirror. She’s working on her eyelashes, but she looks at them in the mirror as they approach.

“Do you mind if Roy practices his braids on your hair tonight?” Madeline asks.

“Of course not,” Neriah says kindly. She leans in towards Roy, and he instinctively leans towards her too. He’s always had an affinity for secrets. It’s why he fits in so well here. “Last time you did my braid, I got a lot of tips.”

Roy looks delighted (or well, as delighted as he can look: some might call it ‘mildly pleased’ if they weren’t familiar with his usual demeanor) and clamors up on the chair behind Neriah, standing on it so he can reach her hair while she keeps applying her makeup.

His hands are small but sure as he starts with small braids along the side of Neriah’s head that weave into a bigger braid in the back. Madeline turns away, confident that Roy can handle things on his own, with Neriah watching over him.

The revolving door to the back of the bar swings open and Abigail pokes her head into the dressing room. “It’s picking up, anyone ready?”

“Me, love!” Madeline shoots a glance back at the rest of the dressing room. “Everyone else good in here?”

A chorus of affirmatives meet her and she goes to follow Abigail. “Madeline,” a hand grabs her arm. She turns to see Vanessa. “Can I come out too? I’m ready!”

“Vanessa.” She has big eyes, blue-gray and too large for her face, which is rounded and bright with youth. “You’re too young. You know the rules, no working the floor until you’re sixteen.”

“That’s three years!” Vanessa whines.

“You’ll get your chance, girlie.” Miriam comes up behind her and starts brushing her fingers through Vanessa’s thin blonde hair. “We all pull our weight somehow. Don’t worry about it.”

Vanessa is still pouting when Madeline squeezes her arm in reassurance. “Do what you can where you are. Just because you don’t contribute on the floor doesn’t mean you don’t contribute in other ways.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vanessa mumbles, turning away. “Fine.”

Madeline leaves out the revolving door, a small smile on her face. She gets where Vanessa is coming from: many of the current girls were in a similar place as Vanessa three, five, seven years ago. When you come from a background like many of them have, the only thing on your mind becomes repayment. Wanting to give her everything in the hopes that one day you’ll feel like it’s enough.

The floor is picking up, like Abigail said. She counts five patrons, four of which are regulars. The Madame is entertaining the newcomer at one side of the bar while the regulars flock to the other side, catching up on the woes of the week. Once Abigail sits next to the newcomer and engages him in conversation, the Madame turns to Madeline.

“Where’s Roy-boy? The track ends in less than ten minutes.” There’s a low music track playing in the bar, the record player filtering through a rudimentary sound system. It doesn’t sound a quarter as good as a live player does, and Roy is one of the best players they’ve had in years, mostly because none of the girls had taken a liking to piano, much to the Madame’s chagrin.

“He’s helping the girls with their hair. I’m sure he’ll be out soon.”

Sure enough, Roy emerges from the dressing room with a few minutes of the record track to spare, his makeup toned down from Bethany’s earlier experimentation. He’s dressed in his little black trousers and a Russian blouse, dressed down slightly with suspenders to keep his too-big pants from falling down to his knees. His trousers are bunched at the ankle due to their larger size as well, covering his worn shoes that he’ll likely outgrow within the year.

He sits at the piano with an air of importance and lifts the lid, waiting patiently for the music track to run out. Once it does, he barely takes a breath before beginning a tune on the piano, nothing too jaunty yet since it’s still early in the night. His feet still don’t quite reach the pedals, but she knows that the Madame is excited for the day they do so she can teach him even more.

One of the newer girls, Paula, sidles up next to Madeline and smiles at Roy. “He’s getting good at that one,” she remarks. Roy has a tendency to play his newer pieces earlier in the evening so that not as many people hear him, and so he can get the reaction of the small audience to gauge if they enjoy his new tune. “How old is he again?”

“Just turned six,” Madeline winces slightly when Roy hits a wrong note, but he’s back on track immediately, his shoulders stiff as he carefully plunks out the rest of the song. He’s always been his own worst critic, and she knows he’ll play over that part in the song repeatedly in the morning until he’s sure that he won’t mess it up again.

“I forget he’s so young.” Paula regards him with a steady gaze. “He’s a serious child, isn’t he?”

Madeline watches their littlest sibling and only brother, protective and sentry-like in her vigil. “He’s had to grow up sooner than other children, just like most of us.”

He’s happy, though, or as happy as a kid in his situation could be. It’s true that he rarely smiles, but he’s active and inquisitive. Those two traits will aid him well, especially in this life. She can foresee his quick mind and hardheadedness getting him into a bit of trouble (she recognizes the glint of mischief in his eyes every time he steals sweets from the kitchens and feigns ignorance when the Madame asks him about it later), but it will likely get him far as well.

Madeline’s excited to watch how Roy grows, until he can sit comfortably at the piano and braid hair without having to focus so hard that the tip of his tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth. She’ll be here through it all: through the puberty and the heartaches and - though she doesn’t know it yet - through his bid for Fuhrer. Madeline will watch him grow until her heart bursts with pride, and even then she’ll still find ways to be proud of him: her little brother.

3 Chess

"Pay attention," Chris snaps. Roy immediately straightens up, looking sheepish. "I know you were up all night reading boy, but that's no one's fault but your own. Now it's time to learn."

"Yes Ma'am." He fidgets in his wooden chair, absentmindedly pushing his breakfast plate closer to the edge of the table. They're sitting at a diner near the bar, where Chris likes to conduct her business meetings. Today, though, is reserved for teaching Roy. At ten years old he's starting to poke his nose into more trouble, and she knows that she's going to have to prepare him for the unsteadiness of the world when his ambitions eventually take him away from under the safety of her wing.

"Now let's see what you remember. Which piece has the most power?"

Roy stares at the board, as focused as he can be. "The king," he finally says.

"No. The king represents the highest level of power. If the king falls, so do the rest of the pieces. You should protect your king at all costs. But the piece with the most power," she moves her hand and grabs one of Roy's white pieces and moves it closer to him, "is the queen. She holds the true strength. Without her, the king would surely fall."

Roy reaches out and grabs the queen, turning the piece around in his hands as he listens.

"Her strength is her weakness, though. Be sure to use her sparingly. Although the queen is your strongest piece, once she is gone she leaves the rest of the players vulnerable."

Chris looks at him sharply. "Tell me, who is the king?"

Roy squints at her. "What?"

"Who would be the king, if one were to exist, in Amestris?”

Roy blinks at her. “Fuhrer Bradley,” he says.

“Yes. Do you know who his queen would be?”

Roy looks more unsure before shaking his head. He’s always been one to play his cards close to his chest, and he hates saying the wrong answer.

“Guess,” Chris commands. She needs to know where his train of thought is so she can teach him what he needs to know at the correct pace.

“His wife?”

“Not quite. A queen doesn’t have to actually be a woman, Roy. His queen or queens would be the commanders of his army. Those in the military who are in charge of many others.” She points to the rook. “What is this piece?”

“Rook,” he says obediently.

“The rook is here for protection. What’s this?” She points to another piece.

“A knight.”

“Good. The knights have unique abilities that allow them to specialize in specific moves. This one.”

“Bishop. Auntie Chris, why do we have to keep going over this?” Roy whines. He only calls her Auntie Chris when he wants something, and when she looks up from the chess board she seems him squirming in his seat even more. “I know them all.”

“This one?” She points to a pawn. He puts his chin in his hand and sighs.

“Pawn.”

“Pawn,” she reiterates. “Roy, look at me.” His eyes slide up slowly to meet hers. Something about their intensity makes Roy sit up straighter, traces of boredom melting away when he sees her expression.

“Life is going to be unfair to you, Roy. It already has been, and it won’t let up just because you’ve already suffered. So you need to equip yourself with the knowledge and skills necessary to survive.”

She grabs a pawn and places it down firmly in front of him. “You are a pawn. There are thousands of people just like you, and this gives you both a weakness and a strength. Some pawns see this and decide to live in their normalcy. Other pawns use this mundanity to take this and make it into an opportunity. Like a pawn, you must take every day one step at a time. You must continue on, despite the obstacles.”

His eyes are wide as she leans in towards him. “But don’t forget your role as a pawn, Roy-boy. To keep moving forward through the challenges you’ll face. Many see the pawn as the most ordinary, but that’s what makes it so amazing. A simple pawn can be the difference between triumph and failure.”

She takes the pawn back and places it onto the board. “But lastly, Roy-boy, don’t forget. Even if you become a rook or a king, at the end of the day we’re all just game pieces. Smaller parts of a bigger picture. Do you understand?”

He blinks up at her, so small, so young. The same age she was when she realized how cruel life truly is. “Yes, Madame.”

He doesn’t. Not really. But now he knows, and he can heed her warning.

She's never thought of herself as maternal. Since she was young, she never wanted children due to the lack of any sort of role model for herself. She knew that the life she built would not allow room for children in it, and she's never regretted that. And yet Roy had wiggled himself into her life, taking her lessons and her prickly love and making it his own. She knows that he'll be fine. Right no she'll give him the strongest foundation she can.

But from there, he has to figure it out on his own. It’s the greatest gift she can give him as a mother.

Chapter Text

4 Language

The new boy is weird. There are lots of things he doesn’t really know how to do, and her father said that she had to teach him. The new boy can cook, but he doesn’t know how to descale a fish. And when Riza had skinned a rabbit that she caught in her trap, he had keeled over and puked at the stench of the blood. That had been kind of funny, but he had cried a little bit because puking made him feel bad so she had stopped teasing him for it (Riza can sympathize, she doesn’t like puking either). She had also looked away while he wiped his mouth and eyes with his shirt sleeve. She’s nice like that.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that he isn’t here to make friends. City boy’s goal is to learn alchemy from her father and then one day become like him: obsessed with research and fire until it consumes him and nothing remains. She hates it, watching her father and now this boy burn away from the heat of the words they read and write.

She also hates that while she’s forced to read the books her father gives her and listen to his lessons, the city boy is allowed to go to school and learn things that her father refuses her. She hates him a little, for holding the attention of her father. It feels wrong. So she approaches him in the hopes that maybe the city boy has changed her father’s heart, even if only a little.

“Can I go to school soon? Like the other boys and girls?”

Her father looks at her sternly. “You’re getting an education here, aren’t you girl? Why do you need some fancy school to get what I’m already giving you?”

“I want to make friends,” Riza admits. “And the teachers could show me lots of new and exciting things!”

“You have everything you need to learn here. You’re not smart enough to go to the school in town. All of the other children will ridicule you. You have no other job than to stay here and learn what you can. Do the work around the house. Do you understand?”

“But Father, I read a lot,” Riza insists, “and I think I can learn--”

“Learn to be grateful for what you have, you brat! Ever since your mother died, you’ve become insolent! Need I remind you how to behave?”

Riza shrinks away from her father’s raised hand, more an empty threat than anything else, but still scary nevertheless. “No, Father. I’ll behave. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Her father eyes her. “Now off to bed.”

“Yes, sir.” She hurriedly runs up the stairs as fast as she can, imagining his eyes following her as she does to spur her legs to move faster.

She doesn’t know what leads her to do it, but she’s standing in front of the door to the city boy’s attic bedroom, her hand hovering over the knob. She hears her father walking around downstairs and her mind is made up for her as she pushes open the door as quickly and quietly as she can. It makes a squeaking noise due to the age and lack of oil, and she realizes that city slickers don’t sleep as heavily as she had hoped.

“Hello?” In the faint moonlight she can tell that the new boy is sitting up in bed, apparently having heard his door opening. “Who’s there?” It sounds like he might be fumbling for a lantern or light.

“I am,” she says softly, and the new boy - Roy, that’s his name - stops moving around as much.

“Oh. What’s wrong?”

She blinks, unsure of what to think of the fact that he seems to know that something is wrong just from the fact of her presence, or maybe the slight shake in her voice. “Nothing,” she says intelligently.

“Oh. Okay.” They stare towards each other in silence before Roy finally leans over and grabs the lamp at his bedside, flicking it up so he can light the wick. Once it’s lit and he’s adjusted the flame so that it’s low, he levels his gaze onto her. “Do you want to come sit?”

Right. She’s still standing in his doorway. She pulls the door shut behind her and makes her way over to the small desk chair near his bed, pulling it out from the messy desk and positioning it so that she can look at him while she sits. She pulls her feet up onto the chair and hugs her knees to her chest, watching him warily. He watches her back, expressionless. It’s much better than her father’s angry stare, though. She feels almost safe in the new boy’s attic bedroom, knowing that her father likely won’t enter here.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

She finally breaks their unsaid staring contest, unable to bear the liquid fire in his eyes that reminds her so much of her father. She wishes she were stronger. Maybe then she wouldn’t be here, trying to find comfort in a stranger that she thinks she hates. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, and the new boy just nods.

“Okay.”

Something hot spikes up in her. “Okay? Is that all you’re gonna say!?” She glares at him for his lukewarm response, but he just meets her gaze calmly.

“Sometimes, my sisters would be sad, but they didn’t want to talk about it really either. I think it’s because they thought I was too young. But they liked it when I sat with them, so we’d do that instead of talking about it. Or we’d talk about other things. My sister Madeline likes to read fairytales to me. You like reading, right?” She looks at him cautiously, but nods. He seems completely non judgemental, just a passerby on the street. “What do you like to read?”

“I like stories about spies,” she says reluctantly.

Roy grins. “I love spies! They always have cool underground networks and cool weapons!”

“And secret codes!” Riza finds herself putting in before withdrawing again, afraid that she’s embarrassed herself.

“The secret codes are definitely cool,” Roy says instead of ridiculing her. “You know, I always kinda wanted my own secret code,” he says bashfully, with an embarrassed laugh. She looks at him with surprise.

“Really?” She squints suspiciously at him, wondering if this is some kind of elaborate plan to make fun of her.

Roy nods. “Do you think...do you wanna make a secret code with me? We can practice it and leave coded letters for each other. Your father wouldn’t know what they meant.”

She cautiously unfurls her legs, leaning towards him. “It’d have to be a hard code. He likes things like that, and he’s good at them.”

Roy taps his mouth in thought. “Well we don’t need to send each other really long messages, right? Grab a paper and pen from the desk behind you.” As she does, he pulls back the blankets on his bed and leans forward, putting the notebook that she grabs on his knees between them. “So how about this: we write full letters to each other, but they have secrets in them. We can do it by words? Maybe misspell them?”

Riza shakes her head. “Too obvious. We should do something with letters.”

Roy lights up. “Okay, so what if we have each paragraph represent a word in the code? So you’d write a whole paragraph just for one word.” He starts scribbling on the paper. “But how do we indicate the number of letters?”

Riza hums. “What if the first sentence of each paragraph tells you how many words there are? If you have a sentence like, “I love cats,” then the word would be three letters long.”

Roy grins. “That’s genius. But how do we decide what letters to use?”

Riza shrugs. “We can just use the first or last letter of each word?”

“Hmm,” Roy hums. “I think your dad would catch onto that, don’t you think?” She sighs. He’s probably right. “How about…” Roy scratches a few illegible things on the paper, “We can use an alphabet cipher. What’s your favorite number?”

“Thirteen.”

“Okay.” He writes out the alphabet, then under it shifts every letter by 13 so she can see what the cipher looks like. “Do you think it’s complicated enough if we just shift the first letter of each word in the first sentence by 13 letters? Because we can always add another cipher, too.”

“I think that’s good enough,” Riza says shyly.

It isn’t. Her father decodes their cipher within a few days of them leaving coded messages throughout the house, and they tweak and tweak until, almost a year later, they’ve finally come up with a code that they can flawlessly use and is near impossible to crack without strong concentration and patience.

It works like this: the number of paragraphs in each letter indicates how many words there will be in the code. If there are five paragraphs, there will be four words because the last paragraph holds the main cipher. Each sentence in the last paragraph represents a word in the code: so if there are four words in the code, there will be four sentences in the last paragraph. And then the code only increases in difficulty from there.

Riza finds that she loves stumbling upon Roy’s coded messages throughout the house, working hard to decode them until she can do it in minutes rather than hours. Their most recent correspondence is sitting at her desk as she hunches over it, decoding the letter in the dark of night under the light of her oil lamp.

I should write goodbye. Roy writes as the first sentence of the last paragraph. Riza goes back up to the first paragraph and circles the number of ‘i’s in it. 16, which corresponds to the letter P. Then, using a ROT-13 cipher, P equates to C. She repeats the process with the letter ‘s.’ 14. N. Which means that the second letter of the first word is A.

The first word of Roy’s message is C-A-K-E, which makes her smile. Roy has a bit of a sweet tooth, and his messages often center around treats that he longs to bring back to the Hawkeye house and share with Riza.

She works quickly with the rest of the code: This has gone on far too long. See you. Please remember: read your lessons!

Roy’s wording could definitely use some work: he still hasn’t really gotten the hang of casual code-writing, but Riza figures that that’s something that improves with practice. Besides, he’s already improved from his first few letters, when he wrote things like: Did you know? There are five yellow ducks. You know, in the pond.

Yeah, he’s definitely improved a bit since then.

She eagerly reads the decoded message:

CAKE LOCATED IN BOOKS

Eyes alight with curiosity and mischief, Riza creeps downstairs to the library to find one of her favorite spy books hanging out the bookshelf a little more than usual. She scurries over to it and pulls it out, delighted to find a small parcel-wrapped package behind it. The parcel contains a bit of chocolate cake, still moist from whatever baker Roy had purchased it from on his trip to the store today. She bites into it, savoring the sweet flavor on her tongue.

She thinks that she and this city boy might get along very well after all.

5 Infatuated

Riza turns the page of her book, lightly tapping the edge of the hardcover with her finger as she reads. It’s an old adventure novel, one that Roy insisted he purchase her with the funds that her father gave him for writing supplies. It’s supposed to be their secret, so Riza waited until her father had drunk himself to sleep in the armchair on the other side of the room before pulling it out, eager to read about whatever trouble the protagonists have found themselves in.

Roy’s soft humming floats in from the library room next to the sitting room that she and her father are in, and it makes her smile. Ever since he had gotten there, he had been unnerved by the silence that she had grown so used to. Growing up as he did, surrounded by people and lights and music, he took it upon himself to fill the silence with his own chatter and light and music.

Riza isn’t looking forward to the day he leaves, someday soon she knows, and takes his music with him.

“Riza!” Roy’s hushed whisper comes from the doorway as he beckons her to him. She notes the page number she’s on before carefully closing the book and setting it on the chair she was sitting on, then quietly making her way over to her friend to see what he wants. She can never be sure what he’s going to do next, but it usually ends up anywhere between fun and dangerous, and usually always interesting in some regard.

Roy’s eyes are bright, like they always are, drawing her in with their shine. “I have something to tell you,” he says, and she shoots him an amused look.

“Well then tell me, dummy.”

Roy rolls his eyes, the shine never fading. “Not here,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come upstairs.” She shoots a look towards where her father is passed out on his chair and then turns back to Roy, a smile on her lips as she nods.

He’s quick to seize her hand and pull her up the stairs, both of them quick and careful on the squeaky stairs, their feet only stepping on the quiet parts of the steps from years of practice.

“What is it?” She’s laughing as Roy pulls her into the attic bedroom, lit by a fire in the fireplace, a warm glow permeating the room.

“Riza,” he leads her to the carpet, where they sit like they often do, their stack of books lying next to them. He’s still holding her hands, and his hair falls into his eyes as he looks at her like she’s something worth looking at.

“Hmm?” She asks, tilting her head. She’s not sure what to say.

“Riza.” His voice is soft. It’s taken a few years for his puberty-rough voice to soften to where it is now. A few years ago, it was constantly cracking from the strain of going from so high to so deep, but now he has more control and it’s surprisingly soft where it sits in his chest. “I think I love you.”

Oh. His declaration is startling. “You think?” She asks, because her mind has decided to abandon her. Words aren’t something she can form for herself, so she only echoes him.

He nods, his eyes liquid and expression impossibly soft. His grip on her fingers tightens slightly. “I’ve been looking for a word to describe it to you, because I tell you everything. And I didn’t want to keep this inside any longer. I love you, Riza Hawkeye.”

“Roy…” she says, studying his face. His expression is open and vulnerable, not even falling when she hesitates.

“It’s okay. If you don’t feel the same, I mean.” He’s still looking at her with the same intensity. “I just needed you to know.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nervous?” She blurts, because it’s the first thing that comes to her mind. Roy’s expression stutters for a moment before he breaks out in a grin. He’s usually so unpredictable, like this. He smiles when he should frown, laughs when he should cry. It’s something that Riza admires about him, and usually something she doesn’t remember to expect.

“I suppose,” he says with his lips twisted upwards. “But I guess I just know what I want to say. I haven’t been nervous around you in years, Riza.”

She bites her lip, finally breaking eye contact. She lets go of one of his hands to tuck her hair behind her ear, but keeps her right hand firmly in his left. “What does it feel like?” She asks finally.

“Love?”

She nods.

Now it’s Roy’s turn to look bashful. His eyes leave her face, and she breathes without the weight of his knowing gaze. His eyebrows furrow in that way they do when he’s trying to puzzle out a specifically hard alchemical equation. “I know that everyone says it’s fireworks,” he starts, “or something loud and overwhelming. The Madame said that love will tilt the world and send the room spinning.” He looks back at her. “But when I’m with you, the world is quiet. I feel safe.”

“I feel safe with you, too,” Riza says softly. “Do you think that’s love? Even if it’s different than it’s supposed to be?”

She's heard it too. Love is supposed to be explosions, choirs singing. Her heart should be beating out of its chest, Roy should be sweating. They should have hearts in their eyes and love on their lips.

But isn’t love also supposed to be patient and kind? She thinks of Roy’s patient friendship, of the way he waits for her every morning and lets her sort out her words before she says them and holds out his hand without demanding that she take it, just waiting quietly for her to do so. She thinks of his deep kindness when he makes dinner even when he’s exhausted from lessons, when he hides his tears from her anytime Berthold hurts him so she won’t worry, when he cuts her hair so she can keep it short, just as she likes it.

But...in that case, what is love?

Roy hums. “I think we can make love whatever we want it to be.”

She blinks. Oh. She’d never considered that before. “Do we kiss now?” She asks, feeling confused. That’s usually what happens after a love confession.

Roy rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not actually sure,” he says. “I...wouldn’t mind if we did? But also...I wouldn’t mind if we didn't.” He sighs, squeezing her hand. “This is harder than I thought. I thought if I told you, then everything would make sense.”

She squeezes back, and when he looks up at her she smiles reassuringly. “It all doesn’t have to make sense,” she says. “Maybe we can try?”

Roy nods, steeling himself before leaning in towards her. His eyelids are almost closed, his lips parted, and she leans in, too. Their lips meet in silence, unaccompanied by fireworks or life-altering bells ringing in the distance. It’s a little uncomfortable, and they pull away after a moment. Roy’s face is apathetic. Riza thinks she could probably go the rest of her life without doing that again, and by the contemplative look taking over Roy’s face, he feels similarly.

“Hmm.” He says.

“Yeah,” she responds.

“I didn’t hate it. But I think….”

“Yeah.”

Roy smiles gently at her. “Glad we’re on the same page.” He reaches out with his right hand and brushes his hand along her cheek, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

“You’re mine too,” she says.

He pauses, trying to find words. “Is it okay if I love you? But, in a way that leaves us right where we are?”

She brings their interlocked hands up to her face and kisses his knuckles gently. “I think that sounds lovely.”

A shuddering breath leaves his mouth, ghosting along their hands as he pulls them to his lips now. “Good. I meant it, you know? I really do feel safe with you.”

“I know.”

He lets both of his hands drop, and their intertwined fingers rest on his knee.

“You always do.”

6 Reunion

Maes quite likes his prickly friend, if only because they are such perfect foils. He likes Roy’s no-nonsense attitude because it balances out his own proclivity for nonsense. He likes his friend’s hot anger, which directly contradicts his own cool fury. He likes the Flame Alchemist’s cold friendship compared to his own sunny demeanor.

He also likes Roy for all the reasons they’re similar: the unyielding loyalty, the clear distaste hidden underneath winning smiles, the personas that they create and carefully display so no one can begin to try and understand the depth of their intelligence.

Roy is a good person to have by your side in the battlefield, he decides. This is something he finds out quickly on their first day on the front lines, when a rogue Ishvalan sprints at them from out of nowhere, not even giving Maes time to pull his gun. Roy, who’s standing beside him, snaps his fingers and quickly sets the man ablaze. Maes is so relieved he barely hears the man’s dying screams.

So when a sniper with a sharp eye and quick trigger finger saves Roy from becoming another desert casualty, he knows he has to thank them in person.

It doesn’t take him long to finagle the information out of his subordinates. They point him towards a woman sitting alone, cleaning her sniping rifle.

“Hello,” he approaches her, and she immediately sets down her gun and snaps to attention.

“Sir!”

“At ease. What’s your name, Private?” He asks the young blonde-haired soldier standing in front of him. She has wide brown eyes, and looks much too small to be on a battlefield.

“Private Hawkeye, sir!” She gives him a crisp salute, perfect in every way. It makes his heart ache.

“Thank you, Hawkeye, for saving Captain Mustang earlier. He means a lot to me.”

Hawkeye stands a little straighter. “It’s my job to protect the men and women of Amestris! Sir! I gladly do my duty.”

“Well, you do it well. Will you-”

“Hughes, have you seen my canteen?” Roy appears from behind the sand dune without warning, and Maes shoots him a glare. He raises his hands in surrender. “What?”

“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of thanking someone for saving your life?”

Roy has the sense to look sheepish. “Heh. Sorry about that. Thank you.” He turns to Private Hawkeye and immediately freezes.

Maes is watching his friend fall apart and put himself back together again in the span of one blink. “Riza,” he croaks, back stiff and eyes wide.

“Captain,” she nods to him, seemingly unaffected. But Maes can see the way her eyes bounce all over him, as if checking him over for bodily harm.

“How...why…?” Roy’s voice is suddenly hoarse, and he clears it painfully. “You’re supposed to be in Amestris.”

“My country needed me, sir. So I came.” It’s the way she says my country that makes Maes pause, and when he looks at Roy, falling apart all over again, he can’t help but feel he’s missing something vital.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Riza,” he says in a horrified whisper. He looks haunted in a way Maes hasn’t seen before.

She hardens her expression. “I made this choice myself. It was my decision, and I still decided to come here. I would make the same decision again.”

“I wish it was a decision you didn’t have to make,” Roy says.

She spares a wary glance at him. “Well. Maybe I’m just as naive as you were, all those years ago.”

“Riza, why are you here?” Roy asks again, voice a little stronger.

She glares at him. “Because you spoke of a better future, of one that I wanted to be a part of.”

“Wanted?” Maes’s heart breaks a little more at how unsure his best friend sounds.

“Want,” Hawkeye amends. “Why else would I be here, Captain Mustang?”

Roy is quiet for a moment, and Maes wonders what he’s thinking. He’s obviously upset, maybe a bit disappointed, and very, very guilty. Maes is intimately familiar with the guilt in Roy’s eyes. He sees it in his own when he reads Gracia’s letters or silences himself during debriefings where they tell him to kill more Ishvalans or when there’s nothing he can say to erase the haunted look in Roy’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Roy whispers again.

He wonders what Roy has to be guilty about. Lord knows that boy would blame himself for everything if he could. But despite all of the people he’s killed, the innumerable amount of Ishvalans burnt by the snap of his fingers, he’s never looked as guilty as he does now. Maes wonders if it’s because he’s facing the object of his guilt directly.

This is likely the first time he’s ever been able to do so: the rest of them are already dead.

It’s so unexpected, and maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

Roy had killed so many on the battlefield. He looks into Riza’s jaded eyes and thinks, Did I kill her too?

Riza. His Riza. He’s fourteen when he first meets her, and she’s wild and free. She calls him “idiot City Boy” and is missing a canine when she smiles and it reminds him so much of Madame Christmas and her overly-fond “Roy-boy” that he almost breaks down right then and there. She’s teasing and brash and shy and bright, and he thinks she’s simultaneously the most annoying and fascinating person he’s ever met. She and him are a lot alike, he finds, both of them wild and free. She makes fun of him for not knowing how to skin a rabbit.

He’s fifteen when her father takes them both on a fishing trip to remind Roy that there’s more to life than alchemy. It’s the last time Berthold says something like that, the last time Roy sees his master without his unhealthy obsession with perfecting his flame alchemy. Riza catches three times as many fish as him and he watches in disgust as she guts them all.

Roy is fifteen and a half when Master Berthold burns him after he mouths off. He was getting cocky with his alchemy, not practicing his arrays like he should have been and it had angered his master. He’s more than a little drunk as he rants about respect and responsibility and sets fire to Roy’s pant legs. The flames lick their way up his pants as he frantically scurries to get them off, screaming in pain and terror.

Roy is fifteen and a half when Riza holds lukewarm towels to his calves, murmuring soothing words as he whimpers in pain. His legs blister and ache and she fetches him quiet meals and soft bandages. He heals under her watchful eye, herself barely a teenager and already having to learn the consequences that one must face. She’s furious with her father for what he’s done. “It’s my fault,” Roy is quick to say between pained gasps as she spreads a salve onto the burns. “Don’t be angry with him.” His pleas don’t work. Riza doesn’t speak to Berthold for weeks. Berthold doesn’t notice.

He’s sixteen when he goes back to visit Madame Christmas and his sisters for the first time since his apprenticeship, and Riza latches onto his arm and begs him to take her along. Berthold is more drunk than not at this point, sleep-deprived and obsessed with his manuscripts and research. So Roy brings Riza back home to meet his family. His sisters adore her, trimming her hair when she asks and dressing her up like they used to do to Roy. His aunt seems dead set on embarrassing him, making him play a piano piece and cutting him down to size when his fingers stumble slightly. After a few hours he has the music down again (muscle memory is an amazing thing) and he performs for all of their guests during the winter celebrations. It’s the happiest he remembers being.

He’s seventeen when Berthold first falls ill, and he and Riza grow closer and further from each other as Roy tries to learn as much as he can and Riza tries to help her ailing father. He and Riza watch the fireflies at night from the roof of her house and whisper about their futures and the stars. There’s so many more here in the country than there ever were in Central where he grew up. It reminds him of his childhood before Madame Christmas took him in, when his mother would gaze up at the starry sky with him all the way across the desert in Xing. He doesn’t remember much from those times, but he remembers them feeling a lot like he does when he sits next to Riza, looking at the same sky.

Roy is eighteen when he leaves for the military academy, telling his childhood best friend stories of the good the military can do, and how he's going to help as many people as he can. Riza doesn’t cry, but she stands stoically at the front door as she bids him farewell. He apologizes for leaving her alone with her father. Even though there should be, there’s no blame in her eyes. He leaves. He only looks back once, he can’t help himself. She stands on the front porch, tears running down her face. He regrets looking.

Roy is twenty when he comes back to visit the Hawkeye residence during the holiday break following a concerning letter from Riza. He finds Berthold, near dead, spouting nonsense and cursing Roy for joining the military and setting his sights on becoming a state alchemist. He collapses, blood on his lips, and Roy screams for help. Riza comes to his aid, because she always does, and they rush her father, his mentor, to the hospital. It’s not enough.

Roy is almost twenty-one when they bury Berthold Hawkeye. Riza shakes her head when he asks her what she’ll do now. “Can I trust you?” She asks during a conversation about using his military status to better the country, and then leads him from the graveyard back to the house they grew up in together, one person short. She takes him up to the study and sheds her shirt, and Roy gazes upon the tattoos mutilating her back. He hates Berthold, in that moment, for forcing her to carry such a burden. “I trust you,” she whispers, and he spends hours tracing the notes on her back and learning more about flame alchemy than he thought existed.

Roy is twenty-two when he stops receiving letters from Riza. He tries not to worry: she told him that she was planning on pursuing some type of higher education to get a good job, so he figures that she’s busy. He only spares her a thought when he’s alone in his bunk or when Maes says something so Riza-like that he can’t help but think of his childhood best friend with her amber eyes and corn yellow hair.

And now, Roy is newly twenty-three, a few weeks after Executive Order #3066 is issued, looking Riza Hawkeye in the eye and wondering if his naïve idealism of his youth has effectively killed the bright young girl she used to be.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” this twenty-year-old Riza says as she meets his gaze unflinchingly. “This is my burden to bear.”

“This is our burden to bear,” Roy amends, death reflected in their eyes.

And bear it they do.

Chapter Text

7 Burn

He thinks that Riza is probably the strongest person he’s ever met.

“I can feel him here,” is what she whispers fearfully to him as they approach the house. He hasn’t seen her scared in a long time, long before Ishval and the awful terrors they inflicted.

“I’m sorry,” he says brokenly. He always seems to be apologizing to her these days. He’s always hurting her. Just like Berthold. “If we could have done it anywhere else, we would have.” He would have taken Riza back to his little apartment in a heartbeat if he didn’t know that her screams would attract unwanted attention from the neighbors. The Hawkeye house is far enough away that no one will hear as he burns off her father’s memory from her back.

She inhales shakily. “You have everything, right?”

He nods solemnly. She had told him what to gather and he had done it while she visited her father’s grave and disinfected the room.

They now stand at the threshold of the house, in the weeks between the end of the war (massacre, something whispers in his mind) and the beginning of their new military jobs in Eastern Command. Roy desperately hopes that they can use their new positions to help and to begin to atone for their misdoings in Ishval.

But now isn’t the time for hopes and dreams. Now is the time for history and old promises. Riza had approached him first.

“You promised.”

“Riza, I can’t--”

“You promised.”

Her expression had been unwavering, and he had felt a darkness curl in his chest at the thought of what he had promised to do, back when he thought he’d die before he got the chance. He regrets his promise, but he will never go back on it. He owes Riza more than that. He owes Riza everything.

Roy unlocks and opens the door for her, and Riza takes hesitant steps into the house. It’s one of the first times Roy has seen her hesitant since the time he took her to meet his mother and his sisters.

“What if they...what if we don’t get along?” Riza asked, twisting her fingers in an unfamiliar sign of anxiousness.

Roy smiled. “They’ll love you. Don’t worry about it.” Before Riza could stop him, he knocked on the door, the patterned knock that Madame Christmas had taught them all so that he and Riza would be greeted as friends.

It didn’t matter anyways, since Madeline was the one who opened the door.

“Roy!” She threw herself at him, and he only stumbled a little. She pulled back. “Oh my, you’re so big! Last I saw you, you only made it up to my br--”

“This is Riza!” Roy threw his new friend in front of his sister in the hopes that she would stop embarrassing him in the first few seconds of their reunion.

“Riza Hawkeye,” Riza curtseyed shallowly, just as she always did when meeting new people. It was odd, to see someone usually so wild and free be so prim and proper.

Madeline squealed, making Roy close his eyes and wish he was a million miles away from the Madame’s bar, where he could burrow under a rock and never appear again to humans. Why did he miss his sisters, again? “So cute!!!” She took Riza in her arms and squeezed, making Riza flail and look at Roy with alarm. Roy merely laughed at the baffled expression on her face.

“Come on in, everyone’s so excited to see you two!” Madeline finally let Riza go and ushered them inside, a crazed smile on her face betraying how happy she was to see him again. It made warmth spread all the way from Roy’s head to his toes: he had missed her, too.

Inside, Riza was already being interrogated by his sisters, but everyone quieted as Madame Christmas approached the small blonde girl.

“Are you the Riza that our Roy-boy has taken such a liking to?” She asked, kindness in her tone.

Riza curtseyed again, making Roy stifle a chuckle behind his hand. “I’m Riza, ma’am.” She wasn’t looking at Aunt Chris at all, eyes burning holes into the wooden floor of the bar.

“Thank you, Riza.” Madame Christmas’s words made Riza look up in surprise. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

They slowly make their way up the stairs, Roy’s hands shaking more with every step they take.

Once they make it to the bathroom that had been prepared, he lets out a loud breath and one last plea. “Please, Riza. Please don’t make me do this.”

Riza turns to him, regarding him silently. “This is our burden. That’s what you said. The deaths we’ve caused, the eyes that went dim due to our actions. They are our burden. The teachings etched into my back? They are a burden that we bear together as well.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and Roy’s mouth goes dry. “Please. Remove this burden from me. I can’t do it without you.”

He swallows thickly, watching as she blinks the tears back and her gaze hardens. He watches in agonizing silence as she slides her shirt over her head, folding it carefully in a very Riza-like motion before setting it on a chair in the bathroom. Then she removes her bra, folding it neatly on top of the shirt. Riza meets his eyes, her gaze holding every promise he’s ever made her.

“It’s time, Roy.”

How can it be time when they just got here? When there’s so many things unsaid? When they’re finally reunited in the place that brought them together for the first time, except now they limp when they walk and they cry when they’re happy?

She kneels in front of the bathtub, bracing her hands on the sides. Underneath her are towels that will be used to catch any of the waste that sludges off when you burn human flesh. Balanced on the sink are sterilized towels and water, for after.

Roy grabs a towel and wipes her back, removing any sweat or fibers. Riza is shaking beneath him. His hands are still shaking. Bile rises in his throat, he swallows it. He can do this. He’s done this many times before. But it’s different when it’s someone you know. When it’s Riza, sitting here and giving him all of her trust. Sitting here, hoping he’ll mutilate her.

Oh god, he has to mutilate her.

The scars will be there forever. Roy swallows thickly, wondering if she could ever forgive him for what he was about to do. He wonders if he could ever forgive himself.

He tosses the towel aside and peers down at his shaking hands before thrusting them violently into his pockets, his fingers catching on rough material. He pulls out two gloves, white and pristine, both inked with the transmutation circle for flame alchemy. He stares at them, empty inside and fear rising with more bile.

It’s not the gloves he’s afraid of. If you face a mugger in the streets, are you terrified of the gun? At first, maybe. But then it becomes clear that it’s not the gun that you should be afraid of. It’s the person holding the gun. They’re the real danger. Roy hates his hands. He hates looking at them, hates holding the gloves, hates remembering the deaths that they’ve caused.

He shoves them onto his hands, breathing deeply so he doesn’t pass out.

Riza probably won’t pass out. Despite the pain and the smell and the terror, she’ll stay awake to make sure that he’s okay. She’s always been strong like that. Stronger than he’s ever been. Stronger than her father ever gave her credit for. Anyone would be lucky to be gazed upon by Riza Hawkeye and her steadiness.

“Roy,” is all she says.

He reaches out one trembling arm. She inhales.

He promised himself to never burn her. He promised her that he would. Roy has never hated himself as much as he does in this moment.

Together, with Riza’s strength and Roy’s hands, they remove the secrets of Flame Alchemy from this world.

8 Sleepy

As much as others might think it, Jean isn’t an idiot. Simple, yes. He grew up in the country: there isn’t room for complications when life is simple. Fortunately, military city folk don’t understand this, and it means that Jean is able to gather more information in plain sight. He thinks it might be one of the reasons he was recruited for Mustang’s team.

Roy Mustang is an arrogant bastard, with a penchant for leaving work early to go on dates with pretty women and skirting out of as much paperwork as he possibly can before Hawkeye catches him and makes him stay later.

Or at least, that’s what he wants people to think.

Jean is one of the few who knew Mustang before the end of the war. Himself, along with Breda, were under the command of the Flame Alchemist for at least a few months during the civil war, and it’s the reason why he wasn’t surprised when he got a summons to Eastern Command telling him that his new assignment was to Major Roy Mustang. Mustang keeps his pawns close to his chest. Not that Jean’s complaining: he appreciates the promotion and the cushy position in Eastern Command with his friend Breda.

Growing up as a kid in the country, Jean is used to Amestrians. He’s used to fair skin and light eyes and friendly smiles. And when Jean had first set eyes on Roy Mustang, he knew that the man’s skin was too fair, his hair too dark, his eyes too intense.

And Jean isn’t an idiot.

He hears the whispers about Mustang, his own tongue bitter from others’ spat insults.

“Wonder how his kind was allowed to fight for Amestris.”

“Is he even smart enough to be a state alchemist?”

“Barely a man.”

He always balls his hands into fists, clenching them as close to his body as possible to stop himself from lashing out. They don’t know what it’s like to be in the middle of hell, minutes away from death, only to be offered a gloved hand, attached to obsidian eyes that crinkle with something between amusement and exhaustion. They don’t know what it feels like when a voice that cuts through the panic in your mind says, “Don’t worry, I won’t let you die.” They don’t understand the weight of guilt and responsibility that follows, of having that same voice and those same gloves reach out to you after the war and offer a chance at absolution.

There’s a loyalty in their devotion to their commanding officer, one brought on by the need for a light at the end of the tunnel and Mustang offering it to them.

The goodness of a man is not dependent on his race or his status. Neither is the guilt of a man. Roy Mustang is proof of these.

Jean isn’t an idiot. The soldiers aren’t quiet, and he knows that Mustang hears them all. Every rumor, every insult, every jab at his loyalty and integrity. And yet, Mustang bears it. He throws back his shoulders and swaggers around Eastern Command with that infuriatingly confident smirk on his lips, maddeningly polite to the same soldiers who slander him without any doors to hide behind.

Jean isn’t an idiot. He knows that that sort of thing can get to a man.

An odd heaviness hangs over the office when he gets back from lunch, and he shoots Breda a questioning look. Breda presses his lips into a thin line: something is up with the boss.

Jean looks at Hawkeye, who’s sitting at her desk as if nothing is amiss, her pen scratching away at whatever paperwork she had settled down with. If any random stranger were to walk in, they would think that nothing was amiss. But Jean isn’t a random stranger.

Hawkeye’s shoulders hold a tightness, her brow scrunched just a bit too much, her jaw clenching and unclenching where her head met her neck. Something was definitely up with the boss.

He hates it when this happens, mostly because he can’t do anything about it when it does. Hawkeye is the only person who could read Mustang like a children’s book, and if she doesn’t have a solution to the current problem (whatever it is), then the rest of them have no chance. While Jean and Breda have known Mustang longer than Falman, they’re still hopelessly in the dark when it comes to Mustang’s bad days and personal issues.

He’s the Flame Alchemist, impenetrable, stone-faced, easygoing. Every contradiction hidden behind a curtain of masks. But he’s also a man.

Jean raps on Mustang’s office door, the eyes of the rest of the office on him, letting himself in when he hears no response. He has paperwork that needs to be turned in before the end of the day and he’s going to chance getting his head bitten off by a grumpy superior officer in order to get it done.

His body involuntarily freezes at the scene in the office. Everything is pristine, as it always is, but Mustang is slumped over the front of his desk, looking pale and dead if not for the steady rising and falling of his shoulders. The bastard’s fallen asleep at his desk, and if the scattered papers on the floor are any indication, he nearly passed out from exhaustion and took out half his workload in the process.

Jean hears footsteps behind him and turns to see Hawkeye slipping through the office doors, then closing them gently behind her to effectively shut herself and Jean in with their sleeping superior.

“Lieutenant,” Jean starts, but Hawkeye gives him a gentle but stern look, shutting him up.

“I estimate that he hasn’t slept in a few days,” she says softly, moving to gather the fallen paperwork. “I’ll let him sleep for a few hours more.”

Jean casts a look at Mustang, taking in the pinched expression on his face and dark circles that underline his eyes, even in sleep. Now that he thinks about it, Mustang has been more irritable lately. Not sleeping does that to people. He joins Hawkeye, kneeling on the floor and straightening out strewn files and papers, hoping that when they fell they maintained some sort of order. Otherwise Mustang will have his work cut out for him when he wakes up.

“Why hasn’t he been sleeping?” He chances the question. Usually he wouldn’t ask Hawkeye anything so personal, but she looks unnaturally soft right now, if maybe a little concerned.

Hawkeye presses her lips together, expression shuttering. “The war hit us all differently, Havoc.” She says quietly. Havoc grimaces. He definitely knows that. Some soldiers were able to shrug it off like it was nothing, like the lives they took were meaningless. But he’s seen Mustang flinch at loud noises. He’s listened to Hawkeye’s hitched breaths at a barking command. He’s grounded Breda when a bright flash takes him right back to the battlefield. He’s heard Mustang’s strangled, cut off yells when he wakes himself up from nightmares.

“Thank you Havoc,” Hawkeye says as Mustang’s breathing picks up. He’s having a nightmare. “You’re free to go now. I’ll make sure your paperwork is taken care of.”

Jean mumbles his thanks and hurries out of the room, desperately trying to maintain Mustang’s dignity. As he leaves, he sees Hawkeye stand by his side, rubbing his back as she tries to wake him. He closes the door behind him and walks as calmly as he can back to his desk.

The entire office freezes when they hear a muffled wail, then some low tones, and then silence. It lingers.

His gaze finds the office door. How bad must it be for the Flame Alchemist to find meaning in each new day, knowing that he was the direct cause of so many deaths?

He doesn’t think he wants to know.

9 Visit

“Roy Mustang, open this door right this fucking minute or I’m kicking it down.”

Maes’s voice shocks him from his distracted stupor and Roy quickly stands, loses his balance, and trips onto the floor. The loud thump he makes when he hits the ground makes Maes pause, then resume his banging on the door with renewed vigor.

“You have until the count of three! One.” Roy pushes himself back into a standing position. “Two.” He stumbles unsteadily to the door, wrapping his hand around the knob. “Three!” He fumbles with the lock and throws the door open, then is promptly greeted by Maes’s too-pale, half-terrified face. He studies Roy for a few seconds before his expression hardens.

“You fucking bastard.”

Roy sighs and turns around, tripping towards the kitchen so he can take a seat at the table. There’s an empty glass and a bottle of scotch waiting for him there, and he stares at them so he doesn’t have to face his best friend who’s currently letting himself in and standing in the entryway, looking at Roy. God, can Maes please just stop looking at him like that?

He already feels bad enough, knowing that he put that expression on Maes’s face by drunk dialling him and likely scaring him out of his wits. It looks like he’s dressed in pajamas, probably having jumped in his car and driven as fast as he could to Roy’s apartment. Roy feels even more guilt. He’s the worst friend in the history of friends.

“Roy,” is all Maes says, and Roy has to look away. He hates it when his best friend looks at him like that. He knows it’s his own damn fault, and that always makes it even harder. They marinate in the silence, Maes’s disappointment and Roy’s pain and guilt the only witnesses.

Maes finally sighs, and Roy can feel the tension in the room increase. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Maes places a firm hand on Roy’s shoulder.

Roy tightens his grip on the bottle of scotch, his other hand curling into a fist on the table top. He shakes his head, throat too constricted to speak.

“Roy,” Maes says again, his voice warning. Roy feels bad: he knows that Maes has a beautiful wife waiting for him at home; he shouldn’t be here looking after his stupid, drunk friend. He shakes his head again.

“Go home,” he grounds out, the words more costly than he expected.

“Not until I know you’re going to be okay.”

Roy almost laughs, then surprises himself when he actually does. Must be the alcohol.

“I’m fine.”

Maes huffs, obviously exasperated. He seems to be like this a lot, recently. “Roy, you called me in the middle of the night and you said…you said….” Maes can’t finish, his voice choked, and Roy squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t remember everything he said, but he thinks he gets the picture. It wasn’t anything good.

“Never okay,” he murmurs, the true response instead of his usual, ‘I’m fine,’ his lips only inches away from the rim of the bottle. He can still feel the sting of the alcohol on his gums from his last sip, taken only a minute before Maes had knocked frantically on his door.

Maes tugs at his arm lightly. “Come on, you’ll feel better when you’re in bed.”

Roy shakes his head. The room spins. He swallows down sick. “Can’t go to bed,” he says stubbornly.

“And why not?” Maes sounds tired. Roy feels bad.

“I see them when I close my eyes,” he mutters darkly to the label of the bottle, the words slipping out before he can take them back.

Maes stills, eyes flashing behind his glasses before Roy can’t look at him anymore. He laughs again, if only to fill the silence.

“Roy…” Maes starts.

“Do you see them too?” He interrupts. He doesn’t want to know what kind of consolation Maes was going to say. Hopefully he never hears it. “Do you see them when you sleep? When you’re awake? Sometimes they look at me in broad daylight,” Roy goes back to his staring contest with the bottle.

“I did right after,” Maes admits, and Roy looks up at him in surprise. He wasn’t expecting an actual answer, just another insistence to go to bed. “But not anymore. Roy, it’s been almost a year. It’s time to move on.”

Riza’s had gone away, too. She and Roy had spent their first few months after the war together on leave as he burned her father’s secrets from her back and helped her recover. In those months, she woke up screaming more often than not. She swore that her father was watching them from his spot in his bedroom window, where he used to stand and supervise them when they were in the backyard skipping stones or reading in companionable silence.

But she had calmed down. And long after her nightmares stopped, Roy’s continued on. He was glad to bear the burden instead of her, but he wondered if this was somehow his punishment, eternally haunted by the same red eyes that he dimmed forever. If so, he would bear it. And even if not, he deserved it; hell, he deserved ten times worse.

“How?” He whispers. How can he move on when those red eyes follow him wherever he goes? When he knows that his hands, his alchemy, caused the death of so many?

“It’s just shell shock,” Maes says. His hand comes down comfortingly on his shoulder. “It will get better. You have us to talk to, okay? We’re here for you. You’re not alone.”

Roy turns around to look up at Maes, and whatever his friend sees on his face makes him lean down, squeeze his eyes shut in pain, and press their foreheads together. “It’s gonna be okay, Roy. Please believe me.”

Roy really, really wants to. “Okay,” he whispers, and his forehead is sticky against Maes from his overheated, drunk body.

Maes has always been his home, in a way. They didn’t know each other before the military, but from their first meeting at the academy, he had known that Maes would be a pain in his side.

“A royal fork?” Roy looked up to see a tall dark-haired man with rectangular glasses and an infuriatingly easy smile on his face leaning over his makeshift chess game. Roy didn’t grace the fellow soldier with an answer, merely returning his attention to the board.

He tried a few more times, moving the queen (but then the king was captured), moving the king (but then he was sacrificing the queen), and trying to swoop in with another pawn or knight or anything, really.

“What is it that you’re trying to do?” He had been so absorbed trying to get himself out of the tight spot that he hadn’t realized that the other soldier was still standing over him, interest piqued.

He huffed in annoyance. “I’m trying to find my way out of this without sacrificing the queen,” he grumbled. “Now if you could leave me to it, I’d appreciate it.”

The man didn’t leave. Instead, he hummed in thought. “Impossible, unless you want to immediately get your king captured and end the game.”

“I know that,” Roy grit out, turning away from the other soldier in hopes that he would take it as dismissal. Instead, he took the seat across the makeshift board from Roy and studied the board with greater intensity. He had intelligent eyes, ones that Roy wouldn’t want trained on himself. He suddenly felt a little bad for their hypothetical enemy.

“What if you positioned the rook here so that it could take care of that pesky knight?” The other man pointed to a square.

Roy barely refrained from an eye roll. “Assume that my opponent has eyes. What’s a move that might blindside them?”

Roy raised an eyebrow when he saw the look that flashed in the other man’s eyes. “What if,” he said, conspiratorial, “you put the rook here as an obvious distraction, then sneak up with the knight here? You can even disguise it as if the knight is going for this rook here,” he pointed to the white ‘opponent’ pieces, and Roy blinked at the board. It...could work. Theoretically.

Instead of telling the nosy soldier that, he instead leaned back and crossed his arms. “Obviously, you don’t know the calibre of chess player I’m up against.”

The soldier rose to the challenge, mimicking his pose and smirking at him. “Don’t say that you weren’t considering it!”

“Maybe,” Roy admitted. “But then I realized it was a stupid idea.”

Rather than make the soldier upset at his callousness, the soldier instead threw back his head and laughed, loud enough to draw attention to them. The other man didn’t seem too worried about it, though.

“Maes Hughes,” he leaned forward and offered his hand to Roy.

Roy stared at it for a few seconds, but when Maes didn’t waver, he reached forward and shook it. “Roy Mustang.”

“Alchemist?” Maes raised a single eyebrow. It seemed they both possessed that particularly sarcastic skill. Roy couldn’t decide if he hated or liked this guy.

“How’d you know?”

Maes smirked. “I make it my business to know things around here. Information is a sort of power, is it not? Especially for a pipsqueak like me who doesn’t have any alchemical knowledge. That shit can get you a lot around here.”

“It can, can’t it?” Roy teased. Maes smiled right back.

“But not the location of the cake cabinet,” Maes said, and Roy perked up.

“Cake cabinet?”

Maes put a finger to his grinning lips, looking around suspiciously before leaning in over the chess board. Roy just gave him an unimpressed look, but realized that unless he mimicked the overeager man, he wouldn’t get the information he so desperately wanted. Hmm. Maybe Maes was onto something with his statement about the power of information.

“If you play chess with me, I’ll get you in and out, no witnesses, all the cake you can take without being caught. I know you alchemists are all about equivalent exchange, so what do you say?”

“Cake for chess?” Roy wrinkled his nose.

“And, of course, your sunny company.” Maes grinned at him. Roy really wanted to punch that grin. But...cake. He hadn’t had sweets in such a long time.

“You’ve got a deal.”

From there, Maes only grew into a more painful and stubborn thorn in his side. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t grateful for it. Maes’s smile holds the comforts of home, his sparkling eyes reminding him of the twinkle of mischief in his sisters’ eyes. His hugs feel so different from Madame Christmas’s that they remind Roy of her. Even his teasing tone is comforting, and paired with his fierce determination and smug smile Maes could even be a Mustang.

“Come on, up!” Maes wedges himself under Roy’s shoulder, helping him up from the table. Together, they stagger to Roy’s bedroom. The stairs take a few minutes, but Maes is a military expert, able to pull off even the most impossible of maneuvers. Getting Roy up to his bedroom is cake (ha!) compared to their elaborate plans to steal dessert from the kitchens or dye their asshole superior’s undergarments the purple of the wild berries that grew outside of the mess hall.

“You have to sleep in your pants as punishment for scaring the shit out of me earlier,” Maes grumbles, and Roy grunts in acknowledgement. He’s currently facedown in his pillows, but he can hear Maes’s hesitation in his doorway. “Call me tomorrow, you hear, Roy? Gracia’s been bothering me to have you over for dinner, so you’d better be sober by then.”

“Yessir,” Roy mumbles into his pillow. Maes must be able to understand him though, because he finally leaves, just in time for Roy to pass out.

But not before a voice, one from long ago and far away, greets him. “Hello, Hero of Ishval.”

Roy screams, but no one hears him.

Chapter Text

10 Bar Nights

“Roy you bastard,” Maes giggles, leaning against his friend at the bar so he won’t slide out of his seat and onto the floor, “you got me drunk!”

Roy chuckles too, just as far gone as Maes if not a little more so. “Whaaat? I’wasn’t me,” he whines. “It was you!”

“Me!?” Maes gasps dramatically. “You’re the one who called me here!”

Roy grins lazily at him. It’s a grin Maes is intimately familiar with, one that breaks hearts wherever he goes. “You’re th’one who ordered shots, asshole,” he slurs.

“Fine,” Maes concedes. “My fault.”

“So you have to walk me home!” Roy crows victoriously, pointing a finger at Maes before sliding out of his chair and slamming his ass onto the ground. The look of shock gracing his face is priceless.

“Pffffft,” Maes lets out before dissolving into a loud fit of laughter. The bar they’re currently in is a military bar, so everyone is pretty sloshed as well and doesn’t even pay attention to the lieutenant colonel on the ground, giggling to himself.

“Come on, buddy,” Maes hoists his friend up and they both wave to the amused-looking bartender as they leave, leaning heavily on each other.

Roy had….Roy had called him to the bar for something. Some kind of reason. Maes doesn’t really remember. He does remember how sad Roy had looked, though, and how content he looks now, and pats himself on the back for helping his friend not be sad. Roy is sad too often, and it breaks his heart to see his best friend trapped in a cycle of pain that he can’t take him out of.

Naively, secretly, he hopes that Roy is starting to get better.

Deep down, he knows it can’t be that easy. He hates himself for wishing it was.

They stumble up to Roy’s apartment, Maes’s too far and himself too far gone to call a cab or Gracia to come and get him. Besides, Gracia knew when he went out drinking that he likely wouldn’t be home tonight. God knows that he’s stayed at Roy’s place enough times over the past few months that she understands. She’s amazing like that.

“Maes,” Roy whispers loudly after they take off their shoes. “It’s dark in here.”

“Turn on a light!” Maes suggests, and Roy looks at him like he’s a genius before fumbling blindly for a light switch. He finally finds one to the kitchen, bathing the entire apartment in a dim fluorescence.

“Maes,” Roy says again, and he turns from struggling with his coat to his drunk friend, who’s watching him and swaying slightly.

“What?” Maes peers up at him from his own slightly bent position, still wrestling with the coat.

“You look ridiculous.”

Maes snorts. “You’re not gonna help me?”

Roy hums, then smiles crookedly at him. “No. I like it when you look up at me like that.”

Maes jerks with shock and falls into a heap on the floor. “Jesus fuck Roy!” Roy doesn’t apologize, just looks ridiculously smug with himself.

He finally wins his fight with his coat and throws it to the floor, straightening with whatever nonexistent dignity he might still possess. Roy is looking at him with a strange expression, like he just realized that Maes is in his apartment.

“Roy?”

“Kiss me,” Roy slurs, taking a few steps towards him, and Maes is just drunk enough to forget that it’s a bad idea. Roy’s eyes are captivating and his skin is smooth and he wants nothing more than to touch him. Roy’s lips are hot and slippery, wet and soft and thin. Perfect. And when Roy’s tongue eagerly slips into his mouth, Maes gasps and pushes back with his own. He vaguely feels Roy’s erection pressing against his own inner thigh, but for now the most overwhelming sensation is Roy’s hands in his hair, his tongue in his mouth, his lips on Maes’s.

Roy feels incredible, right here in his arms, and when they pull away slightly, Roy’s eyes glitter drunkenly in the dim lights of his kitchen. A small string of spit trails between them before breaking, and Roy wipes absently at his mouth with the back of his hand. Maes’s eyes follow the motion and it makes Roy sweep back in for another deep kiss.

“Maes,” he gasps as they pull back slightly, “do you want this?” He shouldn’t.

“Yes,” Maes chokes out, and that’s all Roy needs to lead them over to the couch, where they gently fall into it. Roy flips himself so that Maes is on top of him, and Maes straddles Roy’s hips without breaking their kiss. Roy feels so warm, so alive beneath him, his body rolling and his chest heaving with breaths as his fingers fumble clumsily (drunkenly, something in his mind reminds him) with the buttons of Maes’s shirt. Maes gently slides his hand underneath Roy’s own button-up and the other man does a whole body shiver, his breath catching in both of their throats.

At first, Maes thinks that he’s done something wrong, but Roy only starts unbuttoning with a renewed fervor, taking Maes’s lips between his teeth.

“Roy,” Maes pants, starting to work at Roy’s shirt himself.

“Off,” Roy commands, and he helps Maes shove his shirt off, then does the same to his own. The only thing separating them now are their pants, both of their warm chests pressed flush against each other.

“So beautiful,” Roy murmurs, removing his mouth from Maes’s and pressing kisses down his jaw, then neck, then chest and stomach. When he reaches the middle of Maes’s stomach, Roy reaches to undo his pants, and Maes’s cock hardens even more at the promise that follows. He shivers with anticipation. No one had ever called him beautiful before, and here Roy was, saying it as if it was just a fact of life.

He thinks, suddenly and completely, that he’s always loved this man, from the moment he saw Roy puzzling over a chess board all alone and stole the last piece of quiche from him in the boot camp lunch line. Being together is an impossibility, but indulging in one night is worth it. It might be all they ever get, and Maes isn’t about to waste it.

Roy somehow manages to get Maes’s pants off, and he suddenly pauses. “Roy Mustang I swear to god,” Maes starts, mumbling against his lips, but Roy pulls away with a gasp on his lips, moving himself down so he can tease Maes’s cock with his mouth. He too seems to know that this is temporary, that this is the only moment they’ll have with each other like this.

They don’t say “I love you.”

Instead, they fill the night with blow jobs and kisses and Maes tastes himself on Roy’s whiskey-flavored lips and it makes him hard all over again.

“You make my world spin,” Roy cries as he comes, and it’s the most romantic thing Maes thinks he’s ever heard.

They take turns fucking each other, quick and slow and over too soon.

Roy whispers unintelligible words into his skin, his hot breath sending shivers tingling up and down Maes’s back.

They call each other beautiful, they worship every part of the other’s body, they let years of longing get pushed behind them for the first and only time.

As the night comes to an end, both of them sobering up, Maes can catch glimpses of the grief in Roy’s eyes.

It can’t last. As much as they want it to, this moment will dissolve in the morning. So Maes makes the most of his time right now, whispering to Roy what he means to him, saying too much without saying anything. Roy clings to him so tightly that Maes almost doesn’t feel the shaking sobs that wrack his best friend’s body.

When they wake up in the morning, heads pounding and fingers intertwined, they don’t mention what they did. They take separate showers and Maes dresses and bids his friend goodbye before returning to the place that he and his fiancee share.

They don’t say “I love you” because they’ve never had to before.

They know. They always will.

11 Premature

“Roy, no!” The words are ripped from his throat without his permission, tearing their way through the silence in the air. It’s terrible, the silence. Meas had never thought that before. Usually the silence that he and Roy shared was worth cherishing, something familiar and soft and kind.

This silence is not any of those things.

“You bastard!” Maes kneels down to where Roy is lying on his bathroom floor, prone and breathing too fast and too shallow. A stream of white foam bubbles from his mouth and his eyes are unseeing but flicking back and forth, as if trying to make sense of this current reality. Clutched white-knuckled in his right hand is the standard gun given to all military personnel. His finger rests on the trigger, and the safety is off.

“Oh god, oh god,” Maes is saying, though he barely registers it, as he slowly eases Roy’s finger from the trigger. His warm hands wrap around Roy’s cool one, and he can feel the muscles in Roy’s hand twitch near-imperceptibly as Maes uncurls his friend’s grip from the gun, quickly flipping the safety back on and sliding the gun across the bathroom floor, as far away as he can get it from them.

He slaps Roy’s face. “Roy? I need you to look at me, buddy.” He knows his voice is shaking uncontrollably, it matches his trembling hands and heart, and the tone of his voice is in the higher octaves. Roy blinks slowly, obviously not comprehending. “Roy, look at me.” Maes scoops Roy onto his lap and takes Roy’s chin roughly between his fingers to jerk his friend’s face so it’s staring at his. Roy’s eyes are lidded and sleepy (drunk, they’re drunk and Roy’s lips are on his and-), and it scares him to see his friend so incoherent.

“What did you take?” He demands. Roy opens his mouth, but only more spittle and foam burble out, a choked little gurgle the only noise in the bathroom. “Roy! What did you take?” He frantically looks around the bathroom and spots a bottle on the sink counter. Roy suddenly goes limp in his arms and Maes only has time to look down before his best friend is convulsing violently. He chokes back a sob of pure terror, watching Roy’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he seizes over and over again, body held prisoner to his stuttering mind.

It ends, thank fuck, it ends, and Maes slips Roy off of his lap and lunges for the bottle. It’s Roy’s antidepressants, the ones that the military psychologist insisted that he take. Lying in the sink is a bottle of vodka, one that’s over half empty. Oh god. Roy.

A groan sounds from the floor and Maes watches his friend vomit onto the bathroom tiles. Luckily, he’s lying on his side from where Maes left him, and it dribbles out of his mouth like a small flood. Maes can see some undigested pills among the sick.

“Fuck fuck fuck. Stay here, Roy, okay? Don’t go anywhere!”

Maes sprints out to the kitchen, where Roy’s phone is, and dials the medical emergency number. He remembers enough from his academy training that when someone overdoses, you’re not always supposed to force them to purge it all. Based on Roy’s condition and the amount of time that went by between his last phone call to Maes and now, it’s likely that the pills haven’t been in his stomach too long.

“What is your medical emergency?” The voice on the other end of the line asks.

“My friend! He took a lot of pills. I, uh, they’re...they’re antidepressants. Um. The name. The name is…” he somehow gives her the information between heavy breaths, waiting for her recommendation.

“How long has it been since he’s swallowed the pills?”

Maes paces as far as the phone cord will let him. “Um, maybe ten minutes? Yeah, ten minutes.”

“Is there any activated charcoal in the house, sir?”

Activated charcoal. Roy uses that for his hangovers. Maes spits out a, “One sec,” before leaving the phone on the counter and running back to the bathroom. Roy is still halfheartedly puking on the floor, his entire body shaking with the effort or the overdose, Maes isn’t sure which. In the medicine cabinet is a container of the dry powder, activated charcoal.

He runs back to the phone. “Yes, yes there is!”

“Mix it with water. Get him to take as much of that as you can. It will absorb the medication. Then you need to get him to a hospital. Please give me your location and I’ll have the hospital bring an ambulance.”

Maes pauses. No, he can’t send for an ambulance. That would taint Roy’s reputation too much. Without his reputation, Roy might feel he has nothing. He might do this again. But without a hospital….

“We have transportation,” Maes says into the receiver. “Thank you.” Then he hangs up and runs to the sink, filling the container of powder with water and mixing it with his finger as he makes his way back to the bathroom.

No, he’ll have to do this himself. He believes he can. He can save Roy. He’s done it more than enough in the past. Now is no different.

Except he walks into the bathroom, and it is different. This is far from the first time he’s saved Roy from himself, but this time...he doesn’t know if there’s any going back.

“Roy?” He kneels down next to him. Roy is shaking uncontrollably, a tremble that has a hold over his entire body, and Maes gently pulls him away from his puddle of vomit. Roy’s eyes are still glassy, his chest moving up and down still much too fast. “Up we go,” he hoists Roy up into a sitting position, or as close as he can get with a limp Roy in his arms.

“Open up, you stubborn asshole,” he lifts the container to Roy’s lips, trying to stifle his own hysteria. He has to stay calm. He can freak out later, but right now he has to stay calm. He has to stay calm. He has to-

Roy’s lips open around the container and Maes pinches his nose, trying to tilt Roy’s head upwards to encourage him to swallow the liquid. He does, and Maes almost cries with relief. “Good. Good, Roy. Now again,” he holds the container again to Roy’s mouth, and Roy slowly opens his mouth again, swallowing as Maes chokes on a sob. “You’re doing so well, Roy. Keep going.”

Roy has to pause to gag unproductively before letting Maes give him more of the charcoal mix. Eventually it’s all gone, and Roy falls heavily against Maes’ chest, completely exhausted. He’s still breathing, though, and Maes holds his friend tightly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he whispers mindlessly to himself. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay-” his voice shatters on the last word, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stop the scream trying to escape. He sobs against one hand, holding Roy close with his other, his glasses fogging from his messy breaths and snot and tears dripping down his face.

“It’s going to” - he interrupts himself with a choked sob before gasping on the inhale - “to be okay,” he says unconvincingly.

Because that’s just it. He can tell himself that it’s going to be okay, like he always does. He can repeat those words over and over, but they won’t change what’s happening. They won’t change the look in Roy’s eyes as his life fades, they won’t change the terror that grips Maes so completely, so overwhelmingly.

“Maes?” Roy’s voice croaks after an indeterminate amount of time. Maybe two minutes. Maybe twenty. Maybe two hours. Maybe two days.

“Roy,” Maes whispers, eyes immediately on Roy’s. Roy looks...okay. He looks pale, and tired as hell, and a lot confused, but he looks okay. Black charcoal is smeared on his cheek and mouth. Anger bubbles up in him, hot and fast and strong.

“What the actual hell, Roy!? What the fuck were you trying to pull?”

Roy averts his eyes, swallowing thickly. “Maes. I-”

“Stop giving me bullshit, Roy! You tried to...you tried to…” Maes can’t even bring himself to say it.

“Kill myself?” Roy says with an unaffected air, like one might suggest a meal to eat. Roy is looking up at the ceiling, still cradled in Maes’s lap, like he’s something precious. Absently, Maes thinks that he is. “I did.”

“I can’t...Roy. Why would you do that? How can you think...you know we’re here for you, right? Please, please tell me you know that.” Maes can feel his eyes fill with tears again, just looking at Roy’s apathetic expression enough to make him feel unstable.

“I’m sorry, Maes.” Roy says gently. “I can’t. I can’t do it anymore.”

Maes grips his friend tighter. “You’re not a fucking coward, Roy Mustang.”

Roy huffs out a laugh. “I am. I always have been.”

“No you’re not.” Maes’s voice rises in his anger and frustration and hurt. “You have so many people who need you. They wouldn’t follow a coward. They need you. They need their leader, the future Fuhrer of Amestris, the man who will end the violence. You fucker, they need you, and you just gave up!”

Roy closes his eyes. The words are obviously hitting something. “There will be more,” he finally says. “More people who will carry on the mission. That’s the way of war.”

“Shut up.” Roy opens his eyes in mild surprise at Maes’s tone. “Shut up. You don’t know anything, if you think there’s anyone else who can take your place. You’re the one who gathered us all. And now you’re just going to, what? Give up? Lie down and end your life? Take the easy way out?”

“I’m haunted, Maes!” Roy yells. “I’m losing my fucking mind! I almost convinced myself to try human transmutation, to try and bring those I killed back. I hear their voices. I see their eyes. I hate myself. I don’t deserve any chance at life, Maes, I only deserve an end to all things, good and bad.”

“No,” Maes looks strongly at his best friend. “You can’t stop without trying.”

“Can’t you see!?” Roy’s voice is turning hoarse already. “I tried! I tried so damn hard and everything is still falling apart! There’s no point!” He deflates completely, closing his eyes. Tears stream down his face and run down into his hair. “I want it to stop hurting,” he whispers. “When will it stop hurting?”

He sounds so small. So hurt. Maes takes a deep breath.

“It won’t,” he says quietly, trying to match Roy’s level. “You’re too good of a person to forget or let it stop bothering you. That’s why you have to keep trying, Roy. There are hundreds just like you, maybe thousands, hoping for anything better. And you can give it to them. You can be the hope of this country. You just have to fight a little longer.”

Roy opens his eyes. They’re red and exhausted and dead. “And if I don’t want to?”

Maes bites back a sigh. He’s too tired. “Ultimately, that’s a choice you have to make. But Roy Mustang isn’t a quitter. He cares too much, and his sense of duty is too strong. I know he’ll make the right decision.”

They sit together in the vomit-splattered bathroom, dried tears on their cheeks, for a long time.

Maes knows that this isn't the end: just a few encouraging words from him won't stop Roy's demons from haunting him, and likely won't stop him from attempting something like this again. Recovery isn't linear. It isn't quick. It takes time, which is something they're short on right now. There may never be time for Roy to heal, and the thought sickens him to his core.

But when Maes walks out, Roy follows him.

12 Roy Watch

The dark circles under Roy’s eyes make them look bruised. Riza watches as he holds in another yawn, eyes fixed out the car window. The Resembool countryside flies by as they journey to meet the talented alchemists that reside here. They’ve recently learned that they’re only children, an oversight by Central that Riza will be checking on when they get back, but they’re close enough that the Elric brothers are still worth the time it will take to check them out.

The rumors of the Elric brothers and their talent was the first thing in a long time to make Roy perk up in interest, a fact that made Riza immediately decide to take the assignment. Ever since his attempt to end his life, Roy has been more reserved than usual. He still struts around Eastern Command with his cocky attitude and easy smirk, but his quiet moments are more quiet and a heavy fog seems to exist around him.

Riza and Maes are worried. They created a schedule in the month since it happened to visit him on the weekends when there’s no one else to keep an eye on him. Maes is terrified of leaving Roy alone for more than an evening; Riza considers installing audio bugs in Roy’s apartment just so that she can always be with him in a sense.

She misses his music. These past few months remind her of the years following Roy’s recruitment to the military, when the Hawkeye house that had been so permeated with his presence and his music was once again silent. And now, his humming is glaringly absent from the office. When she visits his home, the radio and record player are both sitting unused. It’s unnerving, as if the music left his soul when the light left his eyes.

The car pulls to a stop near a hill. Not much is around, just endless fields of green grass and an impossibly blue sky dotted with swirling white clouds. “This is the Elric house,” the driver says. “Take your time.”

Riza is the first to get out, Roy following after her. What faces them is literal ruins, the burned remnants of a great house. Roy stares at it for a moment, eyes locked with the charred wood and piles of ashes, before he jolts into action and starts walking towards the ruins.

Riza follows him quietly. This place demands silence, sitting as still and untouched as a graveyard. Roy crouches next to part of the house.

“It hasn’t even been rained on. This is recent,” He says as he squints at the wood. He stands again, scanning the ashes, before his sharp eyes halt on something deeper into the ruined house. “What?” He murmurs, then starts walking towards whatever caught his eye with purpose.

Riza follows, knowing that he’ll share whatever he’s found without her having to ask.

Roy is pale as he drops slowly to his knees, his fingers brushing the charred concrete ground. Likely the old basement. Riza analyzes the scene. It looks like there’s a transmutation circle, one that she doesn’t recognize (not that that means anything - she doesn’t know much about alchemy outside of what she garnered from her father and Roy’s lessons). It’s large, spanning the whole block of concrete, and in the middle of it is a splatter of darkened liquid. Dried blood.

Roy’s hands are shaking. Riza steps closer. “Sir?” She inquires as she couches next to him, and he breaks out of whatever place his mind went to as he snaps his head up to look at her.

“A human transmutation was performed here,” he can’t hide the unsteadiness of his voice. Riza’s hand flies to her mouth, as if trying to hold back a gasp of horror or the bile creeping up her throat. There aren’t many conclusions that can be reached when it comes to talented children and a bloody transmutation circle, and the final one is a conclusion that she’s determined to keep out of mind as long as possible.

Roy abruptly stands, stalking towards the waiting car with purpose. “Sir!” Riza hurriedly gets up to follow him, jumping back into the car.

“Where are the Elrics now?” Roy asks the driver.

“Last I heard they were with Pinako Rockbell,” the driver drawls.

“Take us there.”

“Please,” Riza tacks on once it’s clear that Roy’s retreated into his head again.

“No problem,” the driver says as he starts up the car again. He pulls around the hill and they start again on their journey.

The Rockbell’s house is large, two-storied with a large porch on both the first and second floors. When Riza knocks firmly on the door, a tiny woman with a face made of stone greets them with hostility, and it’s only Roy’s absolute righteous fury that gets them through the threshold. Riza watches with a numbness she’s rarely known as Roy flies through the house, picking up an incredibly small child with two less limbs than the average one and yelling at them. Roy’s tone is hurt, and furious, and terrified. The child’s eyes are as blank as his own.

Riza places a hand on Roy’s shoulder and he drops the child back into the wheelchair they’re slumped in, and he sinks to his knees beside them. “Why?” He asks softly. “What could have possibly possessed you to do that?”

Riza backs away, knowing that this is not her place. She has to satiate Pinako, who looks equal measures upset and resigned that Roy is speaking with the child.

“He hasn’t said a word. It’s only been a few days, though.” Pinako says.

Riza learns a lot of things that day. She learns of the love of a grandmother. Of the pain that follows hearing a child’s lost voice sound hollowly in a suit of armor. Of the resilience of children. Of the emotional intelligence of a small girl with too much hurt in her eyes. Of loss, loss that hurts so deeply that it justifies the unthinkable.

“Lieutenant,” Roy says firmly as he finally exits the bedroom. It’s a clear command that it’s time to leave. She stands and bids goodbye to Winry, the small child whose eyes she won’t forget. Riza catches a glimpse of Edward Elric, still slumped in his wheelchair in the bedroom. He’s looking down at his lap, seemingly defeated, but Riza can see the set of his shoulders. She can see the determined tic in his jaw. She’s well-acquainted with the expression on his face, equal parts stubborn and furious.

She turns towards the front door to hide the beginning of her smile. The child will be alright.

“What did you say to him?” She asks Roy once they’re in the car, headed back towards their office. The day hasn’t been long but it’s been emotionally taxing. She’s looking forward to making a cup of tea at home.

Roy shrugs, eyeing her as he still faces the window. “I reminded him that even if you fail, there’s no reason you shouldn’t fight.”

Even though he turns away quickly, she sees it. A spark in his eyes, brought on by these two little boys who keep fighting. If she sits silently enough, she can hear it, too. Humming. Music.

Riza smiles.

Chapter Text

13 Happy

“I wish there were better ice cream places around here,” Roy remarks, the pastry in his hand doing nothing to offset the blazing heat of the day. Maes hums, noncommittal, as he inhales his own croissant. That man would be happy to eat out of the trash, as long as someone else was paying for it. Roy doesn’t take his lack of opinion personally.

They have to stop their stroll as two children cross their path, their squeals of excitement piercing through the quiet of the early afternoon. Roy thinks he’s been doing well today when it comes to the war; his thoughts are usually prone to wandering, but today has been so picturesque, it’s not until the kids run by that Roy blinks and suddenly the kids are running across a landscape of sand, their little legs pumping to get them up the endless sandhills.Roy can see his own hand, fisted, poised to snap at a simple command and create nothing but more ashes to join the desert.

Maes’s shoulder bumps into his, and Roy is back in the city, his pastry held out in front of him, the sand replaced with cobblestones, the children still shrieking as they try to decide which lolly to use their allowance on. The children are blonde-haired and pale-skinned, their eyes brown instead of red, their expressions locked with joy instead of suffering.

Roy breathes a small sigh of relief, taking another bite of his pastry before bumping Maes back to show that he’s present. Maes grins at him, but he busies himself with finishing his own confection, already licking his sticky fingers while Roy still has over half of his own dessert left. He holds in a sigh. He’s been hoping that the low pressure hours they’ve spent together would get Maes to speak up, but apparently he’s going to have to push it.

“So what is it?” Roy asks. Maes cocks his head, feigning confusion.

“What is what?”

Roy snorts. “You’ve been trying to tell me something all day. What is it?”

Maes ducks his head, bashful and caught red-handed. They’ve been having what Roy can describe as nothing but a lovely day, both of them free from work obligations, enjoying the city and a new restaurant within walking distance of the office. Roy missed days like this, where he and his best friend could just exist. He feels like he hasn’t done much in the way of existing since the war, though the last few weeks have been helpful.

“Yeah, alright. I wanted to wait until…well, okay, maybe I was just holding it off.”

Roy bumps his shoulder into Maes’, enjoying the sun on his skin, the blue sky, the good company. “Well? You gonna tell me now that I caught you? I’m not very patient.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” Roy bumps him again, a little harder this time, and Maes laughs, then sobers slightly.

“I. I was approached by management. I’ve been promoted, and my transfer to Central will be effective as of next week.”

The birds don’t stop chirping, the cars still roll past, Roy can still hear children yelling in the background. The world continues. He doesn’t stop walking either, though Maes has slowed down considerably.

“Ah, so it’s finally time for you to fly the coop,” Roy smiles wryly at his best friend.

Maes’ expression is filled with resignation and regret, but the excitement is palpable, as well. It fills Roy with relief, to know that Maes is moving forward - moving up, even - and is happy with this new development. It’s what they’ve been trying for, right? Moving up, getting promotions, and eventually making it all the way to the top. It’s been the plan since they left the military, and it’s incredible that Mares is getting this opportunity so soon. He deserves it anyways, to be the first of them to move up to better things.

But through all of their ambitions, Roy has realized one thing. Home is not a place. Home is crushing hugs and flashing glasses and whiskey breath. Home is quiet in loud places and blonde hair and a sharp click of heels followed by a, “Yes, sir!” Home is no longer Eastern Command, without both Riza and Maes, Eastern is just a place to be until he can be reunited with both of them at the same time.

“You’ll be alright?” Maes places a hand on Roy’s forearm, squeezing. It’s not his place anymore, but Roy’s brain sticks to the contact, remembering the way it felt for Maes’ hands to drag their way across Roy’s skin, sweat sticking them together and heat breaking them apart. Roy lets the contact linger, smiling warmly at his best friend.

“Of course. I have Riza to keep me in line, don’t I? I’m more worried about you, without anyone to tell you when you’re getting in over your head.”

Maes throws his head back and laughs, gripping Roy’s arm for another moment before sliding it up to his shoulder, pulling Roy in for a hug.

“I’ll be working to join you soon,” Roy says, then pulls away from the hug so they can continue walking without blocking foot traffic. “Now. Is Elicia excited?”

Maes’ grin widens.

14 Rain

Colonel.

Roy makes his way down the hallway of Eastern Command, brushing past MPs that are standing in the hall in his haste to make it to the door. The door makes a loud click as he pushes it open. It also makes another sound.

Colonel.

His shoulders relax the second the first drop of rain hits them. The pat pat pat pit pit pit of rain against the cobblestones fills his ears, a rushing like the roaring of a river, a ringing that he hasn’t been able to rid since being on the front lines in Ishvala. Together, they all make one sound.

Colonel.

The promotion isn’t a surprise. He planned for this. Truly, no one else was more deserving, they had said. So why does he have a sick feeling in his stomach? His fingers itch. His head feels thick.

Maybe it’s because they called him “Hero of Ishvala.” That phrase is enough to sour even the most delightful of drinks. Murderer at 18, Colonel at 26. By the time he’s 30, maybe he’ll start a revolution. A bitterness churns in his gut. That’s the hope, anyway.

The rain drenches (cleanses) him. He wonders what it would have been like if it had ever rained in Ishvala. But the desert had been his ally (his co-conspirator, his enabler), and had allowed his destruction to touch every village he came across. But the rain. Today, the Amestrian rain blocks the smell of burning flesh from reaching his nose.

For the first year after leaving Ishvala, Roy couldn’t eat meat. Weak. He had burned all of those people and had still been too weak to stand trial for his sins. Too weak to remove himself from this earth. Too cowardly to do anything about the fallout of his deeds.

The rain dulls his hearing so much that the ringing in his ears is nearly gone. The screams are drowned out. The sinister laugh of Kimblee, the orders from their commander, Maes whispering happy thoughts into his head: all of it is lost in the downpour.

The rain takes away his sight. Nothing but gray and haze, too similar to the smoke in Ishval for him to be comfortable with. It’s well-deserved. His taste is gone too, the taste of ash replaced with the cool freshness of the air when it rains.

The rain removes his sense of touch. Even when he presses his fingers against each other, as if to snap, the action is rendered impossible by the wetness of the water. He grins down at his hand, unable to destroy when it’s in the rain like this. Some Colonel he is, huh? Maybe now they’ll take away his shiny new rank, since he’s so useless in the rain.

“Colonel!”

That word. It brings all of his senses back.

He feels the pounding of the rain on his back, the wetness of his clothes, drenched and heavy. He tastes the ozone in the air, heavy and thick on his tongue like ash. He can see the familiar shape of his subordinate as she rushes towards him. He can’t see it yet, but he bets that she has concern written across her expression. He hears tires screeching in the rain, the footsteps of Riza as she runs to him. He smells her fresh scent as she grabs ahold of his shoulders, suddenly close and in front of him until she’s all he can see (smell, taste, hear, feel).

“Colonel Mustang,” she says, voice hard. “What are you doing out here? You’ll catch your death.”

He smiles faintly at her, which does nothing to ease her concern. “Just out for a stroll, Lieutenant.” With his promotion came hers, and he likes the way the title rolls off of his tongue. It fits her. Lieutenant. “Needed to clear my head.”

She scowls. “There are better ways to do that than walking around in the rain. You know how useless you are in the rain, Sir. You need to be more careful, you’re an important man around here now, Colonel.”

He barely manages to suppress his wince at that. He is, isn’t he? Important. But not irreplaceable. The government had made sure to tell him of that, of how proud they were of him and his nationalism. How much they're looking forward to keeping an eye on him, to watching him serve their country. It’ll be interesting, trying to rebel from the inside. He looks forward to the challenge.

“Perhaps I’ve forgotten where our new office is, Lieutenant. Do you mind accompanying me back?”

Riza gives him a look, unimpressed and able to see right through him. He expected nothing less.

She heaves a sigh. “Come on, Colonel. You’re hopeless.” He steps under the shelter of her umbrella, letting her take his arm.

“Where would I be without you?” He murmurs, the words still part of their bit but his tone far past it.

“Follow me, Colonel. The office is right this way.”

"Right away, Lieutenant."

She barely manages to hide her smile at the use of her new title, and why wouldn't she? Riza has the same guilt as he does, which also means that they share the same dream. Atonement and justice don't feel like enough, but it's the least they can do to make up for the lives they took.

The rain feels like atonement, but her shelter is like a promise. They can do better than their past selves did. They will.

15 Confession

The whispers on the train are impossible to ignore, even for a brooding teenager.

Ed is quick to follow Mustang, who seems preoccupied with gathering their luggage and deboarding the train as quickly as possible.

“Why do they look at you like that?”

Mustang is still holding himself stiff from the uncomfortable ride, which is probably the only reason why Ed decides to say anything about it. He’s never seen his commanding officer so quiet, or look so uncomfortable. Even at Command, he’s always so cocky and sure, no matter who he’s talking to or what their rank is.

“Let’s check in with the local command, and then we can discuss it.” Mustang wastes no time gathering their meager belongings, leaving Ed feeling off-kilter as he follows his supervisor through the throng of people at the station.

Check-in goes as it always does, with Ed biting back snarky comments as Mustang kiss-asses his way through their new instructions. The job they’ve been brought here for is damage control, to put it in its most simple terms, and it’s definitely a punishment for Liore, which Ed still refuses to feel bad about. And he definitely doesn’t feel bad about making Mustang go on a trip to this podunk town, though it is pretty annoying that he got dragged along too.

As usual, it takes about twenty minutes too long, and Ed isn’t in the best mood as they walk to the hotel. Mustang goes to give them his name at the front desk to get their keys, but the face he makes as he walks back to Ed tells him that it won’t be that easy.

“They don’t have our room ready, but we can relax in their more private lobby. This way, Fullmetal.” The only thing that keeps Ed from complaining is how high Mustang’s shoulders are raised, his discomfort so obvious that it’s making Ed uncomfortable too. He follows obediently, though he kicks his feet around a bit to show his annoyance.

Even when they’re alone, Mustang doesn’t relax. His fingers tap impatiently at the manilla folder of paperwork that he opens almost immediately once they’re settled in the body-engulfing furniture that adorns the private lobby, and it looks like he’s holding almost every muscle taut, fight or flight ready to be activated.

“Can we discuss it now, old man?” Ed says sharply, silence broken along with whatever silent pact they had made not to bring up the entourage of people who had been pointing and talking about Mustang all day. “I figure a lot of people know you because you’re the Flame Alchemist, but it’s weird to see so many civilians recognize you.” Especially out of uniform. They hadn’t been wearing their uniforms since arriving at the hotel, and yet the other lobby had still been filled with whispers and stares. Ed was used to it because of his metal limbs, but this time they weren’t looking at him. The change was almost unsettling.

Mustang freezes, only slightly, but enough that Ed clocks his lack of movement as discomfort. He flips one more page in his reports before closing it with an exhale, the breath visibly leaving his chest. “This is a border town.”

“Right. So?” Ed already knows that Command had thrown them as far into the middle of nowhere as they could.

“These people are intimately familiar with the Ishvalan War. They’re also the people who were most closely acquainted with Ishvalans before the fighting broke out. These are the Amestrians least likely to forget.”

“Forget what?”

Mustang closes his eyes briefly, finally closing the file folder on his lap. Somewhere, many miles away, Ed can imagine Lieutenant Hawkeye glaring at them all the way from Command. “The atrocities we committed. The neighbors and friends of theirs that we killed.”

Ed chews on that for a moment, Mustang’s careful words not lost on him. This is obviously a delicate topic, and careful conversations aren’t something he’s used to having with his superior. Usually there was a lot of shouting and offhand remarks. “But weren’t you a war hero?”

Immediately, Ed can tell that he’s made a misstep, but he isn’t sure how. Mustang’s already tense body goes corpse-like, and Ed worries that rigor mortis is something that living people can suffer from as well as dead ones. He almost says something else, but he can see in Mustang's eyes that he’s far away, and anything that Ed says right now probably won’t be heard.

“The war…it was hardly that.”

Mustang’s tone is bitter. Harsh. Ed tries not to flinch away. “What do you mean?”

Mustang isn’t looking at him, turned away, so Ed can only imagine the look on his face. He’s not sure he wants to know. ”It was a massacre.”

“What?”

“There aren’t heroes in war, Fullmetal. The people in this town know that better than most. To them, I’m just another government-sanctioned excuse.” He shakes his head, finally looking at Ed. “I don’t know if this is appropriate to speak about. But wars are felt by both the victors and the defeated, and that’s something you shouldn’t forget.”

“So the people here….” They knew the Ishvalans as something other than just the enemy. They saw them as their friends. “They don’t agree with what you did during the war?”

“To understate it,” Mustang says, his fingers worrying at the corner of the file folder. It’s fraying already, and if the wear gets down to the papers within it, Ed knows that Hawkeye will give Mustang a verbal lashing. “They’ll tell you that we did what we had to. The government will say that it was for national security. The military will say that it was us or them. The world will say that it was necessary for advancement. We’ll always have excuses, especially as the winning side.”

Ed considers that, worrying at his bottom lip. Obviously the people here think differently, and although they won’t approach a State Alchemist who can blow them away with one quick movement of his fingers, they make their disapproval known in other ways. And Mustang doesn’t do anything to refute them or their feelings. The colonel is being unusually candid, especially considering how careful he usually is around Al. He might actually give Ed an answer. “And what’s the truth?”

Truth. Isn’t that what this entire journey has been about? Ed would laugh, if he could. The truth meant nothing to the dying or the dead. Truth didn’t bring back Al’s body, or their mother’s laugh, or the feeling of being a kid again. The truth only made you have to stiffen your jaw as you waited for its blow.

“There’s no justice in the world to make up for what we did, Fullmetal. That’s the truth.”

Chapter Text

16 Scars

Something’s different. Ever since Mustang told him about Ishval, Ed can feel it crackle in the air between them. Even now, when it's just the two of them scoping out yet another (let’s face it - probably dead end) lead on the philosopher’s stone, there’s a charged energy that’s full of things unspoken. He wishes Al were here. Instead, his younger brother is with Mustang’s number two back in the East, working out a different lead at the same time. Ed hates splitting up.

He’s always had a problem with the colonel. Always felt disgust when he saw the older man with yet another piece of arm candy, always scoffed at any false worry Mustang gave him when he was upset, always felt contempt watching the colonel order his men around like they were nothing but pawns on a chess board, placed there for his own use and amusement.

Ed lets out a silent sigh as Mustang checks them into their hotel room.

“I’m still not sure why we couldn’t get two rooms,” he complains loudly and with as much petulance as he can muster despite his exhaustion. He tries not to admit it to himself, but he also might be trying to alleviate some of the discomfort that comes with him being alone with Mustang. He’s come to realize in the half day that they’ve been on this trip that he’s never...been alone with Mustang. Usually Al or Hawkeye or even Havoc is there as a buffer, but today...no one.

And it’s fucking awkward as hell.

Mustang is much quieter when he has no one to show off to like the peacock he is. Even now, he merely hums at Ed’s whining. “Contrary to popular belief, the military does not have infinite funds, Fullmetal. And every time you destroy another town, the costs for the repairs come out of those funds.”

Ed feels bad for half a second before pushing the emotion away. “We’re alchemists!” He says indignantly. “We can just fix it without having to pay for labor!”

Mustang turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you fix things when you break them? It would save me a lot of paperwork.”

Ed grumbles as he follows Mustang up the stairs of the inn and over to their room. The inn isn’t very big since they’re not in a large city, but it’s still a nice enough size that Ed isn’t reminded of Resembool.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Ed says once he realizes he doesn't have a good answer to Mustang's question. He's pretty sure it was rhetorical, anyways.

"We'll case the town tomorrow," Mustang says as he unlocks the door to their room. "I'm sure someone has heard of this alchemical researcher and the red river."

"I hope so," Ed mutters as he follows Mustang into the room. It's cozy but clean, with two beds on either side of the room and a big window with heavy curtains. A door leading to a small bathroom is to their right when they walk in. Mustang sets his suitcase on the bed closest to the door and starts unpacking. Ed will never say anything, but he's relieved that Mustang takes the bed that Al usually would.

Ed stomps over to the other bed and starts throwing his clothes out of his bag.

“It's late. Get ready for bed, Fullmetal. How do you expect to grow if you don’t sleep the proper amount every night?”

Ed whirls around, ready to tear into the bastard because really? LOW (fuck) BLOW and--

His undeniably witty but probably snarky response dies in his throat as he stares unapologetically at his superior.

The bastard colonel’s shirt is off, he’s standing on his side of the room in nothing but his loose underwear, and while Ed usually wouldn’t be caught dead looking, it really is impossible to look away. Mustang has more scars than he thinks he’s ever seen on one person, himself included. Granted, his are more as a result of getting his limbs fucking looted by Truth, the asshole, and the resulting automail surgeries that followed. The ones on the colonel are much more...rugged. Violent. Prolonged.

The biggest eyesore is the star of the show, a series of puncture wounds on the left side of his torso that are still marked by pink, bubbled skin. There’s some scabbing and the whole thing looks rather painful.

Mustang catches him looking and raises one infuriating eyebrow at him. “Yes, Fullmetal?” He asks. Ed would normally be embarrassed at being caught or chastised by Colonel Bastard, but Mustang doesn’t tease him. Mustang’s just wondering what he’s looking at.

“Your wound. Is it healed?” He finds himself asking.

Mustang looks down at it contemplatively. “Mostly.”

Ed licks his lips. Maybe he doesn’t have a right to ask, but he really wants to know. He blames the academic in him and not the gossip (shut up Al, I don’t have a gabbing problem, stop acting like I’m one of the old ladies at the brunch place we go to) when he opens his mouth. “Is that from…?”

Mustang nods, though Ed didn’t finish his question. “Lust. Got me pretty good.” He looks back down at the wound, unbothered by its current state. Ed has a horrifying realization why Al’s always saying that he and the colonel are so much alike.

Ed wasn’t there under the labs with Al and Hawkeye and Mustang and Havoc, but he’d heard about it from Al. The terrifying minutes when they thought Mustang was dead and Hawkeye broke down (Ed doesn’t think he ever wants to see that. Hawkeye is always strong and steady to keep the bastard in his place. To see her so lost...yeah, no thanks). The joy of hearing the colonel’s voice, back from the grave. The look in Mustang’s eyes as he burned Lust to death. “I finally saw it, Brother,” Al had said. “I saw the Hero of Ishval.”

The colonel doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to cover up his scars, and he’s in a weirdly docile mood, so Ed decides to keep pressing. “What about the one on your neck?” He asks.

Mustang’s hand lifts to touch the burn scars, almost absentmindedly, before he remembers himself and lowers his arm. “Also Lust. When I was...battling her, I stood too close.” Ed tries to keep his eyes from widening, but he’s never been good at masking his expressions, not like Al. Even before the suit of armor, that kid could lie like no one else thanks to his poker face. The colonel...did that to himself? Based on the angry red color of the scars, it probably hurt like hell. Mustang turns away in embarrassment from whatever Ed’s face is doing.

The colonel has scars all over his legs too, but they’re much more faded, pink and wispy as if a fire gently licked its way up his calves. Ed suppresses a shiver at the visual. Mustang catches him looking, and there’s an odd emotion in his eyes that Ed can’t read.

“When I was first learning flame alchemy from my master, I was overeager,” he starts, looking down at his suitcase on the hotel bed as he rifles through it. “Arrogant, maybe. My teacher wasn’t having it. He told me that in order to study flame alchemy, I had to learn humility. So he taught me what it meant to burn, so I would understand the weight of the power he was going to teach me.”

A wry smile makes its way onto Mustang’s face. He turns around to place his ignition gloves on the side table, and Ed feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees the lashing-like burn marks winding up Mustang’s back.

And oh. Oh god. Teacher had been tough on him and Al, but she had never hurt them when they were defenseless. She had never left any scars.

“Now don’t look at me like that, Fullmetal,” Mustang gives him a smile that’s half infuriating, half teasing. “Most of them are self-inflicted, brought on by a young boy’s arrogance and trouble with authority.” Mustang’s quirked eyebrow asks, “Sound familiar?”

Ed frowns. He’s not sure what Mustang’s getting at, exactly. Don’t play with fire?

“We all have to learn from our mistakes and keep moving forward.” Oh, so this is going to be one of those talks. “You’ll find what you’re looking for, Fullmetal. Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

“What, so you can use us to our full potential, then?” Ed sasses. He knows where he and the bastard Colonel stand. At least...he did, until Mustang had told him about Ishval. Since then, something seems to have changed, and he’s not exactly sure what that means for him.

Mustang doesn’t answer, his gaze still on his suitcase that’s splayed out on the bed. There’s an expression on his face that Ed doesn’t know how to decipher. It’s unexpected, but he looks...young, like this. At fifteen, everyone looks at least a bit older than they probably are to Ed and Al, but thinking of Mustang as young is never something he considered.

He sees it now, a younger officer with an arrogant smile and burns hidden under his pant legs. He doesn’t like what he sees, and Ed turns away.

They all have their scars. Even bastards. The thought makes him feel uncomfortable. Mustang was supposed to be untouchable. The bastard to end all bastards. But he, too, bears more than he was ever meant to carry.

“Go to sleep, Fullmetal. How are you supposed to grow if you don’t get any sleep?”

“I SLEEP PLENTY FINE, BASTARD! WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO GROW YOU FRACTION OF A MAN--”

Mustang turns away with a smile. It isn’t as smug as usual but it’s enough. Ed’s glad to get back to treating him like the bastard he is.

17 Xing Boy

Ed shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to be outwardly impatient. Al stands behind him, as stoic and still as ever, and it makes him feel a little juvenile to be so fidgety. In front of them, Mustang stands at the door of the elevator, his posture perfect and his stance still. They have a meeting on one of the lower floors of East command today, and while they would usually just take the stairs, Al insisted that they use the elevator (no, it has nothing to do with how it's been raining the past few days and how that makes Ed's leg start aching. Nothing even remotely close to that), so here they are, standing awkwardly as it makes the most painstakingly slow trip down the four floors they need to travel.

It doesn't help that the elevator seems much smaller than it actually is, with Al's comically large armor taking over about half of the normally spacious area. There was also another guy who decided he needed to ride at the same time as him, a stone-faced Xingese man who has a stack of files in his arms and a nice-looking suit. Ed's just kind of over today (and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that he gets whiny when his leg hurts). Ed really hates how his internal nagging voice sounds like Al.

Mustang's also been in rare form today, all taunts and jeers and "You need to take this more seriously, Fullmetal." Ed will take seriously whatever he damn well pleases, thank you very much. It just so happens that this meeting might allow him a slightly longer leash, so he's not going to complain too much about it. Too much being the keys words here.

"How much slower does this thing--" The tracks of the elevator hit a rough spot and Ed finds himself pitching backwards into Al, his flesh elbow smacking painfully against his brother's armor.

"Are you okay!?" Al immediately asks, but the elevator has other plans than soothing his brother's worry, and it screeches to an abrupt and ridiculously loud halt, the lights flickering once before dimming considerably.

Mustang, who was already in the process of turning around to respond to Ed's unfinished question, holds his hands out to the walls of the elevator, eyes on the rigging above. "Is everyone alright?"

Ed rubs at his elbow, but nothing else really hurts. "Other than being stuck in an elevator? Sure, I'm great."

"The sarcasm isn't appreciated nor is it necessary, Fullmetal," Mustang sighs. His attention seems to be caught by something to the side, and Ed follows his gaze to see the other man in the elevator sinking to the floor, papers falling around their feet. Al makes an aborted move to stoop and pick them up, but it's obvious that he's too big for the space to do so. Ed does it in his stead, keeping his eyes on the other man.

Mustang is quick to take a knee down in front of the man, his posture hunching a little, and it makes him look smaller.

“Are you alright? Sir, can you hear me?”

The man seems to be muttering something, but it isn’t anything Ed can make out. He exchanges an uneasy glance with Al when the man lets out a subdued shriek, his hands ripping at the frazzled hair on his head.

“Sir, please!” Mustang’s hands are hovering around the other man’s hands, but he doesn’t touch. He looks -- well, he looks young like this, uncertain and concerned in a way Ed isn’t used to.

Then the man shouts something in a language Ed doesn’t recognize, but immediately makes Mustang grab at his wrists and pull them to his sides, moving his face closer to the man’s. Mustang says something back, and for a moment Ed thinks that his brain is scrambling everything, but then he realizes that Mustang is talking in a whole different language, which. Huh?

The two converse for a moment before the man freaks out again, making an aborted move to stand before curling back into himself even further. “It’s okay,” Al holds out a hand to him, an aborted movement of help, and the man curls into himself further, making Al recoil in a movement that causes him to slam his body into the wall of the elevator, which makes the entire lift move, which is definitely not what they need right now. The man sobs, a panicked cry leaving his shaking body, and Ed can feel Al’s mortification. He makes a distressed sort of whine, and not for the first time Ed wishes he could put a hand on his brother’s arm to soothe him. As it is, he murmurs, “It’s alright,” though the lights are flickering again and the man is still freaking out and he isn’t sure how to get them out of here. Alchemy? Can he even do anything?

Mustang is back to talking to the man (in Xingese…?), his hands on the man’s shoulders, his tone low, the soothing cadence bobbing up and down as he tries to calm the man down. Mustang’s words are almost rhythmic, and Ed realizes that he’s repeating the same sentences over and over, his eyes never leaving the other man. He takes a break every minute or so to breathe deeply and encourages the other man to do it with him, which the guy isn’t doing so great at.

Ed isn’t sure how long they’re all like that, himself and Al trying not to stare while Mustang tries to calm the stranger and the elevator hangs in limbo between two floors. Ed really wishes they had taken the stairs, even with his aching leg. But finally, a voice calls up at them.

“Everyone okay up there? We’ve almost got it working again!”

“Fine!” Mustang yells back. “Any idea of when you’ll get us out of here?”

“Stand by!”

Mustang sighs, a long and loud breath, and then turns back to the man and begins his soft words again. When they finally get the elevator working again, ten or so minutes after calling up to them, Mustang helps the man to his feet and stands arm-in-arm with him, and then helps him off the elevator once it opens on the first floor. “He needs medical care,” Mustang informs the utility workers, and passes the man off to them without another word. Then he orients himself and steps in the direction of the office they’re meeting at.

“Come along, Fullmetal. We’re already twenty minutes late. Al, will I see you tomorrow?”

“Sure, sir. Bye, Ed.” Al walks off, but his gaze lingers on the two of them.

Ed falls in step right behind Mustang, thoughts churning but none fully developed enough to make it out of his mouth. What can he say? I didn’t know you spoke Xingese? I didn’t know your voice could be so soft? I didn’t realize how young you were for your rank? The questions all seem naive, like a child learning something about the world that was considered mundane to the rest of the population. So instead he scoffs, a familiar noise from his throat.

“Not like he hasn’t kept us waiting before,” he grumbles, and he notices the slight upward curve to Mustang’s mouth, levity restored after so many minutes trapped in an uncomfortable situation. Ed’s just now realizing how uncomfortable it was for Mustang, too.

“Manners, Fullmetal. We’re trying to make a good impression.”

18 Reversal

Maes once told him that he was the ice to Roy’s fire, the cool to the Flame’s hot. Standing here, at his grave, Roy feels ice run in his veins, his grief cold and overwhelming. While fire drowns you in its scalding flames, ice halts your motions, slowing your entire world until nothing remains but the gentle acceptance of an end.

Maes’s death was an end.

“I have a plan,” Roy said.

“A plan?” Maes looked just the appropriate amount of curious and wary at his words. It was fair: last time Roy said those words, they had been a few words and an insult away from matching court martials.

“Do you trust me?” Roy asked.

Maes smiled. “About as far as I can carry you. Lucky for you, that’s pretty damn far.” Roy grinned back. He knew he could count on Maes. “What’s your plan, Roy?”

Roy’s grin turned grim. “There’s no way for me to atone for the things I’ve done. For the things I was made to do.”

“Roy-”

He shook his head. “I’m not looking for your pity, Maes, or your comfort. It’s true. And there are many things I know I’ll still be forced to do as a dog of the military.”

Buckets of blood, blood as red as the eyes of the people of the sand.

“I have to live with that. But we can be better than the higher ups that started and maintained the war. We don’t have to keep Amestris a military state. We can make sure what we did in Ishval never happens again, at least in our lifetime.”

Maes was looking at him with an odd little grin on his face. Roy would almost call it pride, if he was that full of himself. “And how do you expect to do that?”

“I can make things right,” he said confidently. “All I have to do is make it high enough.”

“How high, Mr. Bureaucrat?” Maes asked it like a challenge.

Knees stained, the buckets of blood, transmutation circles on the ground. Sand in his uniform. The white of the sun in the blazing sky as white as their hair. Sand digging into his knees.

“As high as I need to go.”

Maes cocked an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t Fuhrer a little ambitious, Roy?”

Roy smothered a smile. Maes had always been able to read him like a book.

“Not when I want it badly enough, and I have enough people who believe in me.” He looked at Maes. “Do you believe in me?”

“Elicia sang in her school musical today,” he finally chokes out, his knees grass-stained from where he fell to them in front of the grave. There are no more tears left to shed; it’s been a few months. All of the tears he might’ve had have already been cried. “You would have been so proud. She’s as tone-deaf as you were,” he laughs suddenly, remembering Maes’s off-key warbles in the military showers, “but she shined up there.”

The sun is warm on his back where it seeps through his military coat. He wants to take it off, but it feels almost like a security blanket. If he takes it off, it would be too casual, too much like talking with Maes before he died, instead of talking at his grave.

“Afterwards we had cookies and drinks to celebrate with the rest of her school, and I pulled out a camera.” This part of the story is hard, but he knows Maes would want to hear every detail. “And Elicia’s immediate reaction was to tell me, “Daddy, no more!”” He hiccups on a tearless sob. “I brought a copy of it,” he says. “Stopped by the developer’s place before I came here so that you can see it.” He holds out the printed picture carefully in his hand, facing it towards the sky. The sun’s rays shine down on it, kissing it with its warmth.

“I know you were there,” Roy says. “I could feel you. Are you as proud of her as I am? Is this what it means to be a parent?”

He inhales shakily. “I’m not ready. Promised Day is coming, and I’ve tried to tell Gracia to take Elicia and go, but she won’t leave you here.” He laughs bitterly. “You’re dead, you bastard, and she still won’t leave. She knows how lonely you get. She loves you just as much as you love her. Loved her.” He pauses. “I’m worried. Not just for your family, but for mine. I’m worried for Ed and Al. God knows they deserve peace. I wonder if they’ll ever find it.

“Am I doing enough for them?” Silence answers. “You’d laugh, if I could ask you this when you were alive. You’d mock me and call me out for acting as if I were their father.” He chuckles bitterly. “I suppose I am sort of acting that way. Don’t tell Ed,” he adds. “I think he’d only be angrier with me.”

He sighs heavily. “You’d tell me that I’m doing all I can for them. But really...I don’t think it’s enough. They need something I cannot give.” The wind picks up a little. Dark clouds will roll in soon to obscure the hot sun; he’s grown accustomed to guessing at incoming storms. “I want nothing more than to see their original bodies restored. I think that will be the day you can truly rest, as well.”

The clouds cover the sun. “I’m almost jealous, you know,” he says lightly, his eyes burned on the etchings of Maes’s grave.

Maes Hughes
1885 - 1914
Loving husband, devoted father, beloved friend.
Brigadier General. In Amestris he lies.

“You can rest easy after this, while I still have to claw my way to the top. No rest for the wicked, eh old friend?” He smiles gently at his friend’s grave. “It’ll be harder, without you beneath me to push me upwards. Damn bastard. Always trying to slack off, even now. Except before it was usually so you could get home to your family earlier.”

He closes his eyes briefly, the first hints of rain misting down on him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Maes. I’m sorry you won’t ever be here to watch me become Fuhrer. I know it was our dream to fix the wrongs we did. But I promise,” -- emotion wells in his chest, but he forces it down. He has to get this out -- “I promise that I’ll make you proud. You’ll look at me and say, ‘That bastard did it.’ And it’ll be because of you. You fool.”

He wonders why everyone he’s ever loved gets hurt because of him. His parents, protecting him. His aunt, taking him in. His subordinates, for following his orders. Riza, for loving him. Maes, for trusting him. Ed and Al, for putting their faith in him. He wishes people would stop getting hurt. He hopes his parents and Maes have found peace. He hopes the rest will find it too, in time.

The rain dots his uniform, cleansing him, though he doesn’t deserve it. His knees are going to get muddy. “Next time I visit you, Ed and Al will have their bodies back. The Promised Day is almost here, and by its end I’ll either be standing here again telling you about it or lying next to you.” He stands.

His coat is near soaked. Riza will be getting worried: they have plans to make a dent in their paperwork tonight over sandwiches from their favorite local deli. “Either way, I’ll see you soon, Maes. Thank you for always believing in me.” His white pants are covered in mud and grass. He doesn't think the stains will come out. They're there forever.