Chapter Text
As soon as Ed woke up and heard sheets of rain pattering against the window, he groaned.
When he shifted to sit himself up in his cocoon of sheets and blankets and his ports pulsed with pain, he scowled.
And when, after an agonizingly long moment of breathing through the pain, he sat up and his stomach lurched, he swore.
He briefly wondered how much trouble he would get in if he laid back down and slept for the rest of the day.
Probably a lot, if he had to guess. Bastard wanted him in this morning and he was already in hot water because of how “disrespectfully inadequate” his last attempt at his report had been.
He rubbed his eyes with his flesh hand to not further disturb his automail and yawned loudly.
Fuckin’ Mustang.
He always seemed to have an issue with everything Ed did. It seemed like every report he wrote or military event he was forced to attend became a problem that would explode in his face later, as if Ed wasn’t trying. He was but he didn’t know what he was doing.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he was out of his element. Being away from Resembool and thrust into the hustle and bustle of a city was, in itself, a culture shock, but paired with military formalities and official reports, it was just…a lot.
He could- would – do it; he’d stumble along confused and uncertain but driven any day if it meant Al’s body would be restored. He was doing this for Al. His own selfish desires weren’t important.
He shuffled into the kitchen and saw Al seated in the armchair reading, as he was most mornings when Ed got out of bed. Today he was re-reading one of the Fundamentals of Alchemy books that he’d probably read over a hundred times already, and Ed felt a surge of guilt. He wished Al could sleep. Or he could be awake so Al wouldn’t have to be alone all night, re-reading the most elementary of alchemy books he had.
He should get him some new books. Maybe something more exciting. Al loved alchemy – of course he did – but Ed knew he enjoyed fiction too. It would probably be appreciated if he found one of those adventure books he’d talked about a while ago.
“Morning, brother,” his brother greeted. Edward just grunted in response. He loved his brother deeply, but he was still waking himself up.
He was already not a morning person, but add feeling like shit to the mix, and he was decidedly not having a good time.
He wasn’t nauseous when it was raining most of the time, so he knew his pain today would be dialed up to 11.
Joy.
He made his way to the bathroom, doing his best not to hobble too obviously, and quickly brushed his teeth and braided his hair.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
He definitely looked...unwell.
His face was somehow simultaneously flushed and pallid at the same time, his eyes were rimmed in dark circles, and his hair seemed to lack its usual vibrance.
He had an insanely high pain tolerance, but that didn’t mean it didn’t show itself in other ways. Just because he didn’t necessarily notice the pain, didn’t mean his body didn’t.
And right now, his body very much did.
He gently peeled back the sleeve of his undershirt he wore to bed and surveyed the damage at his shoulder port. He grimaced despite himself. The skin surrounding his automail was an angry shade of red and the line where flesh met metal was puffy and swollen.
He sighed explosively.
He really didn’t even want to look at his leg, but he knew Winry would skin him alive if he somehow got an infection.
He rolled up his left pant leg and nearly crushed the porcelain sink with his automail hand when he lost his balance. He took a moment to steady himself and debated if sitting on the side of the bathtub would be easier. He decided that, no, sitting down and then having to fully stand back up sounded incredibly unpleasant.
He managed to prop himself up on the lip of the sink while bending down to get a better look at his leg.
To no surprise, his leg was also swollen and red. He was relieved that he didn’t feel any warmth at the port, though. At least there was one thing going right.
He slowly rolled his pant leg back down and took a few moments to even out his breathing.
Fuck all of this.
His stomach rolled with nausea again and he took a deep breath.
He only had one thing he absolutely had to do today, and that was to pay the Bastard Colonel a visit (and likely get royally bitched out).
Okay.
That was fine. He could do that one thing.
He just needed to get dressed, walk to Command, talk to Mustang, and walk back.
…Fuck.
--
He did in fact make it to Command without incident.
Was he late? Yes. Was he absolutely fucking shivering and doused in salty sweat with what was likely the beginning of a nasty fever? Also yes.
But he made it.
He decided not to further piss off his body today, and opened the door to the main office instead of kicking it in.
It took a few moments for those in the room to notice him given how unusually quietly he had come in, but he was greeted with enthusiasm, as he often was.
“Hey Chief!” Havoc greeted.
“Hello, Edward,” Hawkeye said politely from where she was sitting and filling out what was likely unbelievably boring paperwork the bastard had neglected to finish.
“Alphonse not with you today?” Havoc asked as he gnawed on a cigarette. Unlit, of course, as it always was unless he wanted to feel Hawkeye’s wrath. Which was zero percent of the time.
“Nah, he’s at the library.”
Ed did not mention that he had sent him to the library.
They had had a bit of an argument about it, mostly because his brother wasn’t stupid and could tell he was having another one of those days, but ultimately Alphonse knew which battles he would lose. He’d made him promise to sit down if he needed to, but Ed had no real intention of doing that. He was fine.
His brother didn’t need to worry about him, and he was already not in a stellar mood, which he knew would worsen as the day went on and his pain increased. He didn’t want to snap at Al- he’d much rather argue with the Colonel. It might take his mind off of the pain for a few minutes, if nothing else.
He forced his expression to remain neutral as a jolt of pain lanced through his stomach.
Better get this over with quick so he could go back to the dorm and sleep. Preferably for ten years.
“Where’s the bastard?” he asked.
“Edward,” Hawkeye admonished him sternly, but without surprise.
Havoc and Breda started giggling behind a pile of paperwork and files and Hawkeye did not hesitate to put a hand on the gun she had at her hip. They promptly got back to work.
“Where’s the Colonel?” Ed corrected himself quickly. He really didn’t want to feel the lieutenant’s wrath on top of everything else.
“He’s in his office.”
Of course he was. Dumb Colonel thought he was too good to be in the same office as everyone else. Pompous prick.
After briefly debating if he would rather piss off the Colonel or his already-inflamed ports, Ed opted to open the door like a civilized person.
He didn’t really have the energy for anything too incredibly obnoxious today, so he settled on slamming the door and calling Mustang a bastard as he walked towards the man’s desk.
Another stabbing sensation erupted in his stomach and he wasn’t quick enough to hide his grimace that time.
Luckily, Mustang had yet to look at him.
“Fullmetal,” the Colonel said smoothly as he finally looked up at Ed, and then at the clock. “I’m glad you could find the time to grace us with your presence.”
Edward scowled deeply and forced himself to ignore the churning in his stomach and throbbing in his ports.
“Whatever,” he grumbled, doing his best to stomp to the edge of Mustang’s desk and slap his report down hard. “Here’s your precious report.”
Mustang said nothing as he picked up the written report and began to read it over.
While the bastard was occupied, Ed did his best to distract himself from his growing nausea and pain. He was starting to feel more feverish, too.
He forced himself to look out the window behind Mustang, just to focus on something else.
Why the fuck did his stomach hurt so bad?
It wasn’t necessarily rare, per se, for him to feel nausea during storms or weather changes, but sharp, stabbing pain was a new one.
“Fullmetal!”
Ed startled and realized Mustang was looking at him expectantly. If he had to guess, he’d been trying to get his attention for a while and he had been standing there like a brainless moron.
Get it together.
He just needed to make it through this stupid report and get home.
“This report is abhorrent. It’s nearly illegible.”
Ed scowled again to push down the shame he felt at that. Writing with automail was hard.
“Write it again. If you’re truly taking this seriously, at least put in effort.”
Ouch.
He wouldn’t admit it, but hearing that stung. He was trying.
(Not hard enough. Clearly.)
To his dismay, he felt heat building behind his eyes and blinked to push that down. It had to be because he wasn’t feeling well. Mustang’s opinion didn’t matter. No one’s did, besides Al’s.
His stomach clenched and his arm and leg ached and he could feel bile swirling around in his stomach.
“Cat got your tongue, Fullmetal?”
God, he fucking hated that bastard’s voice. So smug all the time. It was exhausting.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth.
Mustang looked at him for a little too long. Ed felt like he was being scrutinized.
“Fuck’re you looking at?” he snapped.
“Are you unwell, Fullmetal?”
What.
He laughed and it lacked humor. What a fucking joke. Mustang didn’t give a shit if he was alive or dead unless it somehow benefitted him, let alone if he wasn’t feeling well.
“No,” he said flatly as he looked Mustang in the eyes.
Mustang continued to look at him, like he was contemplating something.
“Can I go now?”
Mustang finally broke his unnerving stare and waved his hand carelessly.
“I expect you back tomorrow at 0900 hours. Do not be late.”
--
Ed tried to make it back to the dorm, he really did, but he ended up not being able to even make it out of the building.
Almost immediately after closing the door to the outer office, the nausea became nearly unbearable. He walked quickly (he did not run) to the secluded men’s room that was always unoccupied and prompted vomited the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
His body begged him to just lay down and go to sleep, but there was no way in hell he was going to do that in a public bathroom while he was on the floor.
He grimaced when he realized he was half-seated on the grimy tile and forced himself not to think about how how rarely this particular men’s room was cleaned.
He groaned when he remembered that Alphonse was at the library waiting for him. Which, quite honestly, had been an idiotic idea considering how much walking that added up to be.
He barely restrained himself from retching again, knowing it would just be more acrid bile, and pushed himself up onto the edge of the toilet bowl. His flesh arm was shaking hard and he saw spots peppering his vision.
He felt a sudden park of fear as an inkling of doubt wormed it’s way into his thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t his automail. Maybe he was dying.
Maybe he was sick like mom.
He derailed that train of thought before it could gain momentum and took a breath. He forced himself to ignore how shaky the inhale was and how dizzy he felt.
His ports ached badly, like they usually did when it rained, but the pain in his stomach had become excruciating. And he was still so nauseous. He was used to automail pain, but this was different and he had to admit that it fucking hurt. Pain in his automail was more of a throb or an ache. It was constant. This pain- the pain in his stomach- was unpredictable and sharp, like he was being cut with razors from the inside.
Maybe he had the stomach flu. It had been going around, after all.
Yeah, that was probably it. He just needed to drink some water and lay down.
It’s fine.
But he needed to find Alphonse first. He didn’t want his brother worrying that he wasn’t at the library yet. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he left Mustang’s office, but it didn’t seem like it had been very long.
He groaned when he realized he would have to walk to the library.
Ed fucking hated Mondays.
--
Roy was aware that there was something wrong with Fullmetal.
It was painfully obvious in the way he had held himself in the office and walked stiffly over to the desk. He was clearly favoring his flesh leg and his posture was rigid as if he was trying to keep himself from moving and causing himself further discomfort. He also looked a bit flushed.
Roy knew that the rain and pressure changes were not good for automail.
He had taken it upon himself to speak to some automail engineers when Edward had first become certified because he knew the damn kid wouldn’t tell him himself if he was in pain.
Roy sighed.
Edward was certainly frustratingly prideful- or that was the front he put on, at least. He understood that the kid didn’t want to ask for help and seem weak or undeserving of his state title, but he was going to run himself into the ground (fast) if he didn’t start to take care of himself.
Roy understood guilt. He knew the suffocating, relentless shame of knowing you were breathing when someone else no longer had that luxury. That you were going along living while someone else was buried in the ground. That you weren’t deserving of being alive, for someone to please please take me away from here-
He wasn’t going to stand idly by while his Major kept his pain to himself and burnt himself until there wasn’t even a spark.
Not to mention that the boy seemed to have lost weight since he saw him last.
He was trying to toe the line of a commanding officer and someone Edward felt he could tell when he was injured or needed help. God knew the kid had gotten himself in enough perilous situations because he refused to ask for backup. Hiding potentially fatal injuries seemed like it was second nature to the kid.
Roy sighed again.
He glanced at the clock and watched the second hand tick painfully slowly. Maybe he could slip away for a short break without getting shot; he had been unusually productive so far this morning, after all.
He stood up from his desk chair and made a point to ignore the cracking in his back as he did. Fuck, he was getting old. 28-years-old and he felt like he had one foot in the grave.
Without further preamble, he exited his private inner office and joined the rest of the team, sans Edward, in the common space.
Havoc and Breda were clearly attempting to stifle their giggling about god-knows-what and Fuery and Falman- their direct antithesis- were diligently working on tuning radios and writing reports, respectively.
Hawkeye, ever observant, noticed Roy’s presence first.
“Sir,” she said simply, but Roy could tell it was a warning to get back to work.
“I’ll return shortly, Lieutenant.”
She gave him a level stare that clearly said if he wasn’t back in five minutes, she would come find him and drag him back to his desk.
“See ya, boss,” Havoc called as Roy closed the door behind him.
Roy wasn’t sure where exactly he was going, just that he needed to stretch his legs to a bit. He strode down the hallway, making sure that his walking seemed purposeful and not his way of avoiding paperwork, but stopped in his tracks near the end of the hall.
The only other thing in the hallway before it veered right was a lavatory. Nearly no one used it unless the poor fool had no other choice.
It sounded like someone was breathing laboriously inside, and he briefly considered walking away. The last thing he wanted to do was have an uncomfortable encounter with one of the Brass because he heard someone breathing heavily in a lavatory.
But something felt wrong, though he honestly couldn’t place what it was. Perhaps against his own judgement, he stepped forward and stood outside the door for a moment, as if he was in a trance.
The sharp breaths did not change and it sounded like someone was scrabbling around on the ground.
Once again, he thought about turning on his heel and going back the way he came. Once again, he stayed.
Well, he had already come this far, he might as well be sure no one was bleeding out on the men’s room floor or something to that effect.
The door creaked as he pushed it open and the sounds immediately stopped.
Odd.
Roy surveyed the room and a glimpse of red fabric caught his eye from underneath one of the stalls.
He would know that jacket anywhere.
“Fullmetal?” he asked authoritatively.
Was the kid injured? Was that why he had been acting so strangely earlier? Dread coiled in his gut for a reason he couldn’t place, but he forced it down with irritation. Why was the kid incapable of asking for help? Watching him suffer by himself was painful to watch.
“Fullmetal.”
There was no response, but the red bundle on the floor shifted. Was Edward sitting on the lavatory floor? What the hell had he gotten into now?
He was about to demand the kid respond before he heard a raspy, “Go ‘way”.
He felt a headache forming.
“Fullmetal,” he said again since he couldn’t seem to formulate any words of substance, “open the door”.
The red lump groaned, but it lacked it’s typical heat.
“Go. ‘Way.”
Clearly, that had meant to be intimidating, but he sounded small and weak. Roy tried to ignore how that made his heart clench.
“I will order you if I have to. Open the door.”
There was silence for another beat and Roy was becoming more irritated. Irritation was what he was feeling, surely, not building anxiety or concern.
“’S open,” the voice finally said.
Without waiting for another word, Roy swung the door open and found that he felt more resistance than usual.
He looked down and realized why.
As he had guessed, Edward was on the floor. His body- completely huddled in his jacket- was preventing the door from opening the rest of the way. His cheek, disgustingly enough, was pressed against the toilet seat and his face was slick with sweat and what was likely involuntary tears. The toilet bowl was filled with foamy bile and Roy felt a pang of sympathy for the kid.
“Alright, kid, on your feet,” he commanded. Maybe, for once, Ed would listen to him.
He did not.
Whether it was out of defiance or sheer exhaustion, Roy did not know.
He considered what he should do when the door to the hallway opened unexpectedly.
He met Hawkeye’s sherry eyes and realized that he must have been gone for more than five minutes.
Because either of them could say a word, Edward began to heave at his feet. The kid gagged for a moment before coughing harshly into the toilet.
What a day this was turning out to be.