Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rumbling of train tracks and the droning hum of passengers trying to keep their conversations quiet. The ambience of the car is still and comfortable. Achingly familiar. Nostalgia is not a feeling he wants to be acquainted with so soon. A feeling simmering right behind his ribs, that clenches at his heart in an unforgiving grip if he so much as glances its way. So, as often as he can, he avoids it entirely.

Edward spent the last year and a half studying and traveling throughout Creta, then down to Aerugo to do the same. A trip on his own was definitely something to get used to — especially when going so far out. He couldn’t make calls whenever he wanted, with only station lines crossing nation borders. No longer did he have the luxury of taking the next train to East City and going home. He’d sent some letters back home for special occasions (when he was aware of what date it was, since he had no calendars during his stints in total wilderness), and to let Winry and Granny know he was doing alright, but he couldn’t receive any in return with how much he was moving about.

As odd as the change of pace was at first, operating as a singular unit with nobody to have his back, it did also have its perks, few as they were. Sure, he had gone on missions without Alphonse before, but those were nothing like this. Never in his life had he gone so long without seeing his brother. Al was on the other side of Amestris entirely. The time to himself was nice, to a point. No one thing was good in excess.

The first couple of years after the Promised Day were largely spent looking after Al. Himself, as well, though only at the behest of Winry and his brother. He argued that Al had his whole body to recover, and Ed only had to worry about an arm. Nobody was hearing any of it.

Then, there soon came a point that Al didn’t need his constant watch and care anymore. Nor did he want it, because he was fully grown and could finally use the body that he — they — worked so hard for. He wanted to be on his own and Ed understood. Had to understand. They had their own paths to take now, and Al was no longer bound to him by their terminal objective. 

The power and privilege (arguably, in Ed’s opinion, at this point) of alchemy had been stripped from him. All he could do now was study it as much as he could, theorizing but never able to act. Never able to prove anything and progress on his own. 

Once, not long after the Promised Day, he’d tried to use it out of pure instinct.

Late at night, fueled only on a pot of coffee and a lethal amount of sugar — sleep wasn't something he had even brushed with in the past three days, as it had been since the events of that day. It was nearly impossible to close his eyes. Each time he did, the visions would be there, right behind his eyelids. Maybe he’d had a shower in that time, at least, even if only to make sure he stayed awake. The gas lamp he was using at his desk flickered, and he swore he saw movement in the shadows. Without thinking, he clapped his hands together and slammed them on the desk to draw up a dagger. The first thing he felt was fear — he’d have no weapon to defend himself.

The second left him curled up in the corner of his room, hands gripping at his hair and eyes darting around frantically until his body finally gave in to exhaustion.

He’s better these days, for the most part. He keeps busy.

Just over three and a half years since the Promised Day. When he stopped to think about it, it still felt like just yesterday. Simultaneously, it felt like a lifetime ago. It feels so far away now, but his body still aches from the fight.

He did his best not to think about it, was the thing. Even two years ago, it wasn’t something that he wanted to think about. One more year didn’t change anything. Him and Al spent a few late nights together, both too disturbed to be able to rest. They’d brush over some events, a couple of feelings. 

Truly, it wasn’t something that needed to be talked about between them. They both understood, without a word. They experienced it — all of it — together. There was nothing more to say, but the need for acknowledgement remained.

None of it ever would have happened if Ed just let them accept the loss of their mother. Alphonse never would have had to suffer, countless people never would have had to die for them, or worry for them. He wouldn’t dwell on that either — not in the light of day.

It was just about time for him and Al to meet up again. They decided to make it two years of research before returning home again to put together all that they had so far. Ed is meant to still be in Aerugo right now.

It wasn’t because there was any lack of material to study — very far from it, in fact. It was during one of his late nights, hunched over the desk at his shoddy lodging in Aerugo, that something ached in him too incessantly to ignore like everything else. It kept coming each night. Then he could no longer focus during the day, either. It felt like a ghost, a leech, draining him with nagging fears from the past.

His focus strayed. The historical texts and scriptures he was studying just weren’t sticking. His mind wandered off. To home. To his brother. To Mustang and the crew, who he had not made any contact with since that day. To everyone and everything lost along the way.

This wasn’t something entirely new. The thought was always in the back of his mind; the feeling was always hidden behind walls upon metal walls. He could usually just move on from it. That's what he's supposed to do. He still tried and tried, but eventually became so frustrated with it and himself that he wasn’t getting a damn thing done at all. Ed hated the things like this. The things that he could not control within himself. It was a unique feeling of helplessness — this fight against himself. One that he often won, or could ignore because there was always something more important to do than sit and feel. He didn’t get up for days and he had no choice but to think and to feel it all.

Edward finally gave in after a week. This unabating feeling kept pulling him back. There was nowhere to run and nobody to fight. This was the only monster left.

He picks Central, seeing Mustang and the old crew, because he’s well overdue a visit. Ed didn’t tell them where he was going or what he was doing next, because it took him a couple of years to figure it out himself, though they had probably heard of where he was. The moniker of Fullmetal Alchemist (as much as he did his best to insist that title wasn’t his anymore) had made it quite far. And that wasn’t mentioning that he still found ways to get himself mixed up in politics by trying to help the towns he passed through.

But none of that was keeping up with his old… friends? Acquaintances? They had been through hell together — he wasn’t sure if there were any words good enough for that. So perhaps there was a reason for this pull to go back. He was due a visit to check in on the people who got him here, and to see how far Mustang had come since then. Those were life changing relationships. He didn't want to let them go.

Ed expects he must be at least Major General by now, though he wouldn’t be too surprised if he’d made it to Lieutenant General already. There was a distinct lack of Mustang in the papers, so he must be keeping quite busy laying all of the quiet groundwork for when he’ll inevitably take the seat of Führer. 

When Ed made his decision to go back, however, it wasn't with such promising feelings. He made a call to Headquarters from one of the train station phones in Aerugo. He could say that he was formerly the Fullmetal Alchemist all he wanted, but they would only let him get as far as talking to Hawkeye after he persistently insisted to talk with her. It was close enough. She would definitely recognize his voice, at least. He hoped.

She sounded surprised to hear it really was him. Ed felt rather relieved to hear her voice after so long. When he asked if he could get an audience with Mustang, and also asked how far up he’d made it, she paused. And, for all of his years of strife (not to mention that it was just in his nature to tense at the first breath of trouble), he couldn’t stop the alarms in his head from immediately going off.

“Lieutenant?” He pushed — the title a force of habit, even after all these years.

Riza cleared her throat on the other end of the line. “I would like to meet you here in Central. I can get you at the station, if that’s alright with you, Edward.”

“Is everything alright?” Because he wasn’t going to not ask.

“Yes. Simply not matters that can be discussed over the phone.”

As confident as her reply was, Ed still wasn’t convinced. He took the earliest train to Central the next day.

That's where he finds himself now, making his way to Headquarters for the first time in years. There is some excitement to be felt in finally going, and (hopefully) being able to see everyone again. But the dread from Riza’s pause and sudden avoidance — which kept him up all through the night — eats away nearly all of his previous thrill about the trip back.

A grating whistle pulls Ed from his daze. For a moment, he entirely forgot he’s now twenty, making an unannounced return to the city, so used to the feeling of being but a boy — a child soldier — bitterly reporting for duty to his commanding officer. The seat across from him feels far too empty. He stands and stretches out his back, then grabs his suitcase before heading out. One thing that never changed is how uncomfortable the train seats are, though he is able to find solace in the familiarity they give him. He doubts it’d be as easy to pass out on them like he used to. Stepping off the train, he looks around the station, searching for the woman he had planned to meet halfway for his endeavor. 

There are no good feelings to be had at this point. The not knowing and the lack of an answer from Riza. His years had taught him that it’s better to be prepared for the worst, so that nothing could catch him off guard. It doesn’t take long for Ed to spot the bright blonde hair and familiar sharp features. He almost feels like a kid again just seeing her.

Riza looks nearly the same as before, young and beautiful, all the while still having a cold and hardened look in her eyes. A sad look in them, something hurting. The alarms are growing louder. She’s in her civvies, a nice button-up and light sweater. Her hair falls over her back, straight and tidy yet unfamiliar to the tight bun she was always required to have in uniform. Black Hayate is at her side, on a loose leash and obediently waiting for Riza’s next move.

This won’t be an official military meeting, is what he gathers.

Riza meets Ed's eyes with a small smile as they approach one another.

"Edward, it's good to see you," she greets in her kind tone, reserved solely for him back then. He had hated to be treated like a child, but the gentler voice Riza used with him wasn’t unwelcome. He’d have had a death wish to try and argue with the woman anyhow. The informality of it is comfortable. Something he knows how to deal with. He wouldn't be surprised if he’s called to Mustang’s office the next moment because of an emergency (so long as he ignores Riza’s previous hesitance and God he can barely hear himself think over the sirens now). He almost hopes for it.

Like an old habit, she extends her left hand to him. Ed can’t help his chuckle and offers her his right, which she adjusts for and shakes with a smile.

"Right back at you, Lieutenant. If that is still your position?”

“It’s Lieutenant Colonel now.” She hardly looks half proud. “But you don’t need to worry about that. Just Riza is fine.” She turns, gesturing out of the station. "Would you like to talk over some coffee? My treat. I apologize for not disclosing this initially, but there's quite a bit I need to discuss with you first."

There it is. Ed takes a short breath. He nods. "Sure thing,” he mumbles, not feeling all that much for jumping head first into… whatever it is that Riza could be holding back.

Riza leads the way out of the station. The walk to a nearby cafe is mostly quiet, aside from a few small-talk questions. The weather, the rebuilding of Central since the Promised Day. No Mustang. No Fuery or Havoc or Falman. Sure, it would have made sense to not talk about military affairs in public, but this is not that. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this deep pit of dread in his gut. A pit reserved only for the hardest things to deal with, that he pointedly does not think about. A pit that is regurgitating all of those awful things as of late.

It isn't until they’re seated and having their drinks that the real conversation finally starts. Even then, it’s delayed by the tension in the air and Riza’s hesitance to get it out. 

Edward doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, but if it were something as serious as Mustang dying, he definitely would have seen it in the paper. Mustang was— is too popular to not make headlines, even in a foreign country. He also doesn't think that Riza would be so roundabout regarding something as serious as that.

Ed hears a deep breath escape the woman's lips as he sips on his coffee across from her. The warmth helps somewhat to soothe him. Marginally. No, it actually isn’t helping anything. He's grasping at straws to remain composed. Not even the nice weather and their little outdoor table do anything to help. He nearly jumps when Riza finally speaks up.

"Roy resigned from his position.”

Ed actually almost laughs at the revelation. Because it’s just that ridiculous. Mustang giving up his position? Giving up on his one goal? It’s unthinkable— unfathomable. Roy Mustang, who had men die for him to become Führer, and dragged his squad through treason and hell. Ed has never been rendered so speechless.

Riza’s expression is tense, frown taut on her lips. In a move so unlike her, she avoids his eyes. Her gaze focuses on the cup in her hands. To see her shaken — the world may as well be ending again. Not even when it was, did she look so distressed. Seemingly intuitive to his guardian's distress, Black Hayate gently whines and curls around one of Riza's ankles. She softens ever so slightly. “You were already gone by the time Dr. Marcoh was able to cure his eyesight. However, it was only temporary. It quickly declined, and he didn’t want to keep using the stone over and over. His left eye remained blind, and his right wasn’t that much better. Everything seemed alright for a few months, though I could tell that something was bothering him. I didn’t push, knowing how stubborn he could be at times, but looking back on it now…” Riza takes a deep breath, wringing her hands together. “You knew that he was going to have the parliament reinstated, and have all state alchemists that killed in Ishval tried for murder. The cabinet is on the path to obtaining legislative power once more, with the military slowly backing away from control. It was on that path when Roy was still here, and he knew that.

“Führer Grumman pleaded that he stay, and they wanted to give him the chance to return, so he ended up becoming a watchman at a post up in Briggs. So that’s where he is. At least, that’s what I last heard.”

It’s a lot to take in; a shock to say the damn least. It still sounds like a really bad joke. He had been ready to meet with Führer Mustang, General Mustang, he isn't ready for just... Private Roy Mustang. If even that, from the sound of it. He can’t understand, or even comprehend it. Which only serves to frustrate him further. He hates to not understand — to not even know — and really, there is nothing to understand about this from his current point of view. “You haven’t seen him?”

“I haven't seen or heard from him in over three years. I did visit once right after he moved out there.” She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and sets it in the center of the table. “First Lieutenants Breda and Havoc visited at first, to try and bring him back. Officer Falman as well, I heard. At this point, there is only so much that I can do to not assume he’s dead. I only have yet to see his name in the military obituary.”

“...No letters?”

“He doesn't respond. When he was heading out, I almost didn’t say goodbye. I cannot bring myself to go. Considering the state he was in then… I certainly won’t be able to stand him now.” Finally, her gaze lifts back up to him from the paper she set between them. She meets his eyes. And Edward understands.

He swallows. “You want me to go.”

Riza nods.

This is the truly impossible scenario. But it’s real. Roy Mustang… quit. At first, he’s sad to hear it. Disappointed, is the better word for it. The longer he sits with the information, that dejection quickly turns sour. It begins to boil something putrid. Mustang didn’t just give up — he left everyone behind. He left them all high and dry with shattered promises of a country changed by his hands. He broke their promise. Is it childish of him to be so hurt by that?

He understands Riza not wanting to visit Mustang. He almost doesn’t want to do it himself. The bastard doesn’t deserve it. He should just go on back to Resembool right now, and see people that haven’t let him down. He’d feel sorry for Riza, but it isn’t either of their faults that they’re in this position to begin with.

However, his curiosity — a miracle in the fact that it has yet to kill him — demands that he finds out what Mustang is doing. He just has to know, if nothing else. And maybe punch the asshole for doing this to them. It also, somehow, through some retrospective mental gymnastics, makes sense that he would be brought here. He certainly didn’t imagine in this way, but something would have taken him back to Mustang sooner or later. He’s there, in nearly all of Ed’s memories of the past he dwells on. It feels like a long time coming. 

Ed finally sighs, and concedes, “Alright. I’ll go.” He lifts his mug with carefully controlled hands, so as not to crush it or let it shake. “Might as well, since I’m here,” he brushes off, like he isn’t deathly worried. He isn’t, because Mustang does not deserve it.

Riza’s shoulders drop, relieved, despite her clear bitterness for the whole situation. "Thank you, Edward. I just want to know that he's still alive. And maybe… to know that he’s still in there." Ed knows a veiled request when he hears one. She wants him to try to convince Mustang to return, or just… do anything. Respond to a damn letter, at least. Poor Riza, he thinks, and does not tell her, that he is the worst possible candidate right now to convince anyone of anything.

With that, Riza finishes her coffee and stands from her seat. Black Hayate is immediately at attention once again. She gives Edward a smile as she sets a few cens down on the table. "For the drinks, and your next train. I wish that we could have a better meeting. Perhaps when you return. I’m sure that the old unit would like a reason to get together again. Good luck, Edward.” She waves, and Ed merely nods. The shock is still settling, after all.

Edward stares at the folded paper in front of him, regarding it with the same apprehension he might regard a bomb. Possibly more, because he doesn't know how to diffuse this correctly. He doesn’t reach for it until he finishes sipping away at his coffee, prolonging the action for as long as possible. As he unfolds the note, he treats it as if it were glass, more than careful not to rip it at all. The folds are tight and clean, as if it were left forgotten in a book, and the writing it withholds is neat and perfectly legible. The words are simple directions, supposedly to where Mustang is now living his life, to put it very loosely. Awaiting the end of it may be more accurate. Ed reads through it a few times before standing with a heavy sigh, grabbing his trunk and heading off. 

One train ride and a hike later, cold winds are pushing through Edward's body. Briggs. Mustang is in Mount fucking Briggs of all places. It went right over his head when Riza said so earlier, too stunned by the rest of what she was saying.

He isn't so small anymore, but the cold still seems to pierce through him with the same unforgiving iciness it always had. What's even worse, Ed has found himself in the thick of the woods. In the Briggs mountains. Near winter! The steadily increasing inches of snow have him slipping the further up he goes. The note said Mustang is on the edge closest to Central, some distance east of the nearest station at the summit of the mountains. He’s pretty sure he’s going the right way, he followed every direction on the note carefully. How long had it been since his last trek through Briggs anyway? Since he’d seen this much snow at all? Creta is essentially a desert, and while Aerugo at least has vegetation, it did nothing for the sweltering heat.

After nearly an hour of treading uphill, it only gets colder, and the snow that much thicker. His dragging feet ruin the perfectly still blanket of snow, undisturbed by all outside life. Tall trees are blocking most of the remaining light from the sky. It’s almost serene, and he might appreciate the view if he weren’t about to freeze. Not to mention the heavy clumps of snow that will occasionally fall from the high branches, making Ed jump every single time.

He has his arms wrapped around himself, his suitcase still in hand as he trudges through thicker and thicker snow. He was ready for the chilly weather, not a near two feet of snow and wind chill on top of it. The snow is starting to fall again as well. Just his luck. He can’t wait for it to be so worth it once he sees Mustang.

He hopes he’s close. It’s too late to turn back at this point, he knows for sure. He has to finish what he started.

As if his more than meaningless prayers are answered — wishes, rather, because he is still an alchemist in an ideological sense — Ed spots a cabin not too far off after another half hour, at least, of slogging and shivering and trying to keep his body moving. He can feel snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes from how cold he’s gotten.

It seems to fit right in, not disturbing any of the natural scenery. Even with the warm light that floats out from the windows, quite prominent since the sun had disappeared behind the other side of the mountain. He almost thinks he might be imagining it. Ed also thinks he should have left earlier, but he hadn’t exactly been planning on getting lost in the freezing cold woods. In Briggs. Has he mentioned he’s in Briggs? He is, thanks to Mustang. If the man isn’t already wasted away, Ed is going to kill him.

He would have been more ready to be seated next to the new Führer at dinner. It doesn’t matter now, because he’s finally made it. At least, he hopes he’s made it. If he’s somehow happened to end up at someone else’s secluded cabin in the woods, he can only hope that it’s some kind family that will let him warm up for the night. He thinks of Pinako and her stew, nearly sighing at just the thought of the comfort he so misses.

Ed walks up to the door, raising a shaky hand to knock. The soft crackling of fire comes from inside. He contemplates knocking much longer than necessary. He got this jarring feeling in his chest.

It snuck up on him sometime during his trip to Central, but didn’t hit him until just now. A feeling of his heart clenching so tight that it physically hurts and he knows he isn't that out of shape. Almost four years later he’s finally seeing Roy Mustang again. He has no idea what will happen, since he wasn't at all expecting to meet him in this way. And— Alright, fine, he is worried. Largely pissed at him, but he still cares. He wants to know more than anything just what in the hell had gone through his head, because Ed still hasn’t found the logic in this.

He shoves away those incessant thoughts (mostly because he’s about to become food for the local wildlife); He raps on the door with three firm knocks.

Nothing. Okay.

He waits. And still nothing. Ed swallows and knocks again, louder this time as he grows impatient.

A moment later he hears a creaking floor. It sounds as if the movement makes it to the door and then stops. He sees a shifting of the curtains from inside the window by the door, startling him momentarily. He can feel the presence of someone just on the other side of the door. Edward waits as patiently as he can for someone on the verge of frostbite and soon the door slowly creaks open.

A widened eye meets with Ed's own as the door opens all the way. The eyepatch is the first thing he notices. Black, void-like. Deeply unsettling.

The time that Ed and Mustang just stand and stare at each other in equal disbelief seems to last forever. Perhaps another few years, at least. Edward stares right back into his eye before trying to study the rest of his face that he can see, but it’s already too dark for him to pick out many detailed features, especially with the light against Mustang’s back. His gaze travels downward. Mustang wears an old white button-up, wrinkled, and equally wrinkled, blue slacks. Ed finally breaks the silence as he meets his eye again.

"So, you gonna let me die out here or what?” Because as shocked as he is, that doesn't stop all of his joints aching horribly from the cold.

Mustang blinks as he’s brought out of whatever kind of trance he seemed to be in for the past unbearably long minute or so. His gaze is… hell, just pitiful. Sad, empty, cold — reflecting the habitat in which he now lives. This isn't the Mustang he knows at all. Mustang is scorching embers and beguiling fire and fervor — the only things cold about him are his calculations and the façade he wears when being authoritative.

Who is before him now looks to be little more than a shell. A pit of dead ash.

Mustang slowly nods and steps aside for Ed, eye following as he comes inside, like he still can’t believe what he’s seeing. That it’s real. And, yeah, the sentiment is shared. He shuts out the cold wind that had been pushing at Ed’s back, locking the door as if anyone else in the world could even come within miles of the place. A soldier, or simply paranoid, or both.

Try as he might, he can’t help but to stare. Mustang's hair is much longer than he has ever seen it, brushing his nape and ragged with bangs that fall over his eyes— well, eye, he supposes. Now in the light of the fire inside, Ed can see how tired — exhausted — Mustang looks. The bag under his visible eye is absolutely terrible (Ed can only imagine how much worse he’d look with the other eye uncovered as well, but maybe the eyepatch makes the sight even more miserable), and he has quite a bit of unshaven scruff. He’s definitely a lot thinner than before, even with the baggy button-up he’s in, it’s obvious. A stranger might not believe that this very same man had been only a few ranks away from Führer of Amestris.

"You look like shit,” Ed says, because he's not typically one to deprive people of the truth.

Mustang looks momentarily stunned. Ed almost regrets being so blunt — though his harshness is fully deserved for what he’s done. That fleeting thought is snuffed out anyway when the next expression to vaguely cross the man's face is skepticism. He’s looking at Ed like he can’t be real.

"Nice to see you too, Fullmetal.” His usual sarcasm is hardly that. So painfully — heart wrenchingly — dull.

"Ed,” he corrects. “I’m not a soldier anymore. Haven’t been since I left Central last. And I’d say it’s good to see you, but..." Ed trails off as he eyes the other man down and up. "What are you watching out here? Bears?” The teasing is delivered much softer than what was typical of their back-and-forth. Back then he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to cut with his words, but now he’d just feel too bad doing so. Like kicking a man when he's already down.

Mustang’s gaze flickers away, huffing softly in feigned annoyance. Back then, he would have had a proper retort. At least he looks like he's decided that Ed isn't a hallucination. "What are you doing here?" There’s the slightest hint of bite to his words. That’s something.

“To think that after avoiding your office as much as possible, now you don’t want me here.”

"This isn’t my office." Ed stiffens with the sudden sharpness in his tone. Mustang seems to notice and tries to amend, continuing softer, “You can set your things down wherever. I’ll make some coffee so you can warm up.” That was fast. No fire at all.

He hasn’t noticed until now, but he is still shivering to his core. Ed shrugs off his dampened coat, folding it over his arm and glancing around the room as he does. The front door gives way right into the living room. Which is furnished surprisingly comfortably. A sofa, some tables, a bookshelf, the fireplace he heard from outside the door. Beside the door is a phone and a field rifle. Mandated, or by choice, he wonders. That aside, there's nothing too extra, just the basics.

There’s a hall to the left, and just ahead a small dining area and kitchen. A table with one chair — the second is off to the side, used to shelve books and clothes so that it has a purpose at all here. It is all… quaint. Which is and is not Mustang. Objectively, the entire place so far is pretty cozy. Yet Ed can’t help but get a sense of eeriness from it. Like it’s haunted. Mustang is alive, but there’s still the ghost of a man here.

Ed sets his trunk down by the end of the sofa and his coat on the arm. He goes over to stand in front of the fireplace, holding his hands out to it to hasten the process of warming up. At least only three quarters of his body can be cold, though the nearly frozen automail on his leg is biting into his thigh.

“Hardly looks like a military post.”

“That's because it hardly is. Did you talk to Riza?” Ed turns his head to see Mustang leaning back against the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the area.

“Yeah. She gave me the address.” He fishes the note out from his front pocket and holds it out to Mustang, who comes over and takes it from him, looking a little confused. Riza must have written it down herself. “When she said Briggs, I thought you might be living in a shack and I’d have to take you back to town and thaw you out.” Which is a less morbid way of saying what he actually thought: That he’d find Mustang’s frostbitten corpse in said shack.

“You met with her,” Mustang observes quietly. After a moment, he returns the note to Ed, who opts not to ask him why. “Did she send you, then? I doubt that you’d come to see me of your own volition.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He carefully folds the note once more and returns it to the safety of his vest pocket. His attention turns back to the fire, not wanting to look Mustang in the eye when he says, “So what if I did come of my own free will? Got a problem with that?”

“Well, yes, actually. I’m not exactly looking for or wanting company.”

“Well, you’re not exactly in the position to be making orders or requests.” Ed ignores the way Mustang lowers his head in what must be shame. Not a good look on him. “I was feeling a little homesick in Aerugo. It was only after I met with Riza in person that I found out about you. I had already made the trip to Central, and Führer or not, I wasn’t going to make the trip for nothing.”

“You feeling homesick? What else has changed?” Tactful way to avoid talking about himself. 

“Hey, I haven’t been back in over a year now. Al and I are traveling separately. He went to the East. I’ve been to Creta and I’ve spent the last six months in Aerugo. We’ll be meeting up at home next summer.”

Mustang hums noncommittally. Ed doesn’t miss him crossing his arms over his chest. “So what are you doing here now?”

“Huh?” Ed turns to him again. Mustang’s eye is on the fire.

“Homesick, but you were planning to visit Central. Not home.”

Ed stares at him, partly not wanting to and partly not even able to give him an answer. Weird, how he hesitates to say things to Mustang in this state. He averts his gaze. “Yeah.”

Mustang doesn’t push him (and Ed knows it's so he can't have a good reason to push Mustang in return), letting the conversation end there as he heads back into the kitchen at the sound of the coffee machine sputtering out the last of the water into the pot.

“I have cream and sugar. I was going to make something to eat here soon. You hungry?”

“How hospitable of you,” Ed remarks as he makes his way to the kitchen. Mustang is pulling out mugs for the both of them, then gestures for Ed to make his first. Sugar, no cream. He steps back when he’s finished, holding the mug with both of his hands near his face. His nose is still a little cold. “And, yeah, I am. Hadn’t exactly been planning to make a hike in the snow.”

“I could have turned you away at the door, you know. Or, better yet, you didn’t have to come at all.” After making his own cup — sugar and the horrendous substance that is cream — Mustang starts pulling out ingredients to cook.

“Nah, I don’t think you would have,” Ed returns.

“I really considered it.” It sounds genuine. Ed has nothing to say to that, just blows on his coffee so he can get to drinking it faster. “There’s a reason I chose to be stationed out here. A reason that you are the first and only person to come and visit after so long. You really never know when to back down, do you? Perhaps you are still a kid.”

“I’m not,” Ed snaps back immediately.

“Oh? Still a touchy subject at your grown age?”

“You’re one to be talking about touchy subjects. Hey, why don’t we talk about you resigning? I’m real eager to know why in the hell—”

“Edward,” Mustang cuts him off. Ed lets him, when he pitifully mumbles, “Please, just… don’t. Not right now.”

It’s a hard decision to make, but Ed… doesn’t. Not right now. He has half a mind to apologize, because he has matured over the past couple years. He does not.

Not a word more is said — nothing of use could be said right now — so Ed sighs and retreats back to the living room to have a seat on the couch.

Ed is no stranger to discontented silence. Sitting with Alphonse when they have yet to make up during a fight, being dragged into Mustang’s office after disobeying orders for the umpteenth time, or returning to Winry with a broken arm and leg for her to mend. This time, however, it just makes him feel a little sick. It’s him and — not Colonel Mustang, not even Mustang — just Roy. A man that he, arguably, hardly knows on a personal level. This is not his superior scolding him. This isn’t even the same man that found him all those years ago, happening upon Ed freshly bound to a wheelchair and Alphonse barely tethered to a suit of armor.

Ed hates this. This position, this situation, being uncomfortable with Roy Mustang of all people. None if it feels right. He has to do something about it, but he has yet to figure out what that something could be that would actually be effective and productive. He pushed and it backfired on him — seriously, damn Roy for sounding like that. For pleading to Ed of all people at all. Damn himself for being affected by it, but like hell he’s going to be gentle and understanding with the guy. Ed wants to scream at him for a good hour, at least, telling him just how stupid and how much of a bastard he is. He isn’t leaving without answers — and sufficient ones at that.

Well after he’s emptied his cup, Roy (that’s all he is, Ed tells himself, just Roy) calls him over to eat. Ed gets up and leaves his mug by the sink, then goes over to the table. There’s a tug at his heart when he sees the second chair cleared for him and at the table. Roy also took it upon himself to fill his bowl. It looks like a simple vegetable soup, and he longs for Granny's stew once more. For solace. 

Roy sits across from him with his own filled bowl and cup of coffee. Which he sips from, before finally speaking again. “A while back, I saw a paper mentioning the Fullmetal Alchemist in Creta.”

Ed looks up at him, brows knit with confusion initially. Then it dawns on him. “Oh, that,” he sighs. “Sort of— but it really wasn’t my fault this time.” To which Roy only laughs at, with hardly any breath of genuine amusement. Ed feels a rush of elation at how easily they can still fall into old habits. “Seriously! You know how it is over there, like walking in a literal minefield. One second I’m uncovering some old alchemical texts, and the next I’m getting recognized in Pendleton and harassed! They were trying to take me into custody for theft and being a spy, which— well, okay, maybe they weren’t entirely wrong. I was in possession of an alchemical artifact of theirs, but I found it on my own.”

Another spoonful of soup, because he can’t remember the last time he’s conversed so much and his mouth is already a bit dry. “Anyway, I bartered my freedom by promising them information on what I learned from the texts, spent about a month as a pseudo-prisoner, then went on my way.”

Roy nods, looking a bit thoughtful. “That… sure is something. It’s good to see some things haven’t changed.” He smiles — a faint and fleeting thing it is. “What did you learn from what you found?”

Now it's Ed’s turn to smile, but his grin is all teeth and mischief. “Nothing yet. I copied every page, said some big words to make them think they were getting juicy information, and took the next train out of there. So, it's in my head, but I haven’t thought about it yet.”

At that, Roy looks appalled. “Edward, do you know what kind of trouble you’ll be in if they figure it out?”

Ed shrugs. “Probably a shit ton, but I don’t have to worry about that. I’m out of their territory and they still have a border war to fight with Amestris.”

“Still? Führer Grumman—”

“Is still winning the favor of the people. Everyone's trust was totally fucked by Bradley. The borders are screwed until Grumman runs out of shit to do internally. Fuck any of those poor towns protecting that interior to begin with, right?” He scoffs, shaking his head. He’s silent, for a moment, as he debates his next words. His eyes are on his bowl when he does.

“They could really use your help down there.” It comes out as a mumble.

Roy doesn’t say anything, and Edward doesn’t push. They continue to eat in silence. Up until Roy is pushing his bowl aside, finished.

“The country will be fine without me, I’m sure.” His voice, Ed can tell, is forcibly level. It isn’t dissimilar to the front he would put up when on duty.

“Fine, maybe, but it could be better still. Other than restoring Central, Grumman’s been focused on mending trade with Aerugo. I know for a fact that we have enough materials. I doubt the East is settled already. He needs to be talking peace treaties, not making some extra cens.” He lifts his gaze, focusing his glare on Roy. 

“You don’t know what his intentions may be—”

“I don’t care.” Ed stops himself as he begins to raise his voice. He takes a deep breath, and continues evenly, “I do know that there is a far better candidate for his place. We all knew that a senior general would get the position over you immediately, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that you would be there when Grumman’s time was up—”

“Edward—”

“What? Do you want me to just not talk about this? You think that I would come here and just fucking act like nothing happened? Like you didn’t leave everyone behind? You betrayed them, Mustang— Roy. And, fuck, I feel betrayed too. I went to Central for someone to— to give me some guidance ‘cause I’ve been feeling pretty damn lost lately! And you…”

Ed doesn’t know when he stood up during his ranting. He realizes he’s looking down at Roy as he trails off. His hair is a dark curtain over his eye. And it’s just… pathetic. His slouched posture, unshaven face, and ill-fitting shirt. 

When Roy turns his gaze upward, Ed feels cold all over again. It’s most certainly a scowl that he’s given, but it isn’t from any sort of red-hot anger. It’s frigid, icy. Defeated.

“I what?” Roy simply asks, voice low. “I’ve disappointed you? I’m a useless failure—”

It’s in a mere two strides that Ed is before the man, and his right fist connects with Roy’s cheek. He grabs Roy by his shirt with his left, yanking him up from his seat.

“Will you shut the fuck up? You did this to yourself! Is this what you’ve been doing the whole time? Having a big fucking pity party for yourself? You made this choice, at least have the dignity to face it!”

It’s then that Ed finally sees something. At least, he thinks he does. Brief and dim as it is, there’s some light of recognition in Roy’s eye. It’s gone just as quickly as it comes, and so is his gaze lost from Ed.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Roy mumbles, a bright red mark already blooming across his cheek.

“What?” 

Ed thinks, only for a moment. It clicks rather quickly. 

Here Roy is, a shadowed and broken man. Ed shows up out of nowhere and chews him out for his mistake. A decade later and they’ve somehow come full circle.

Ed lets him go, because something about the realization is deeply unsettling. It makes him almost dizzy. It hurts. It’s sickening. “Why are we here, then?”

Roy sighs, his eye downcast once more. “Wish I knew, Ed.”

“Like hell you do,” he spits back.

The conversation ends there. It's hit the wall that is Roy's emotional defenses, along with Ed’s patience. Ed doesn't think he's going to get much more out of him right now. He's also so pissed at the moment that he doesn't even care for answers. He just doesn't want to be around Roy any longer. Riza was right to never come and see what's left of what was — despite all of Ed's ill feelings — a great man.

He goes over to his trunk, picking it up. That gets Roy's attention, and Ed can hardly feel accomplished in getting a reaction from him. “Where's the bathroom?”

Confusion briefly crosses Roy's face before he turns and points down the hallway. “First door on the right.” No questioning, no fight. It burns, being let go so easily.

Ed doesn't even nod as he walks away. He closes and locks the door behind him, only thinking to frantically search for the light switch after he's bathed in darkness. He drops his suitcase in favor of pushing his hands into his hair, gripping at that instead as he takes a deep, stuttering breath.

He's never felt so lost on something before. And he's dealt with far more complicated and convoluted issues in his lifetime. Which Mustang was there for. Which had Mustang fighting even though he was fully blind. Nothing is a good enough answer for him to justify this, but he’s slowly finding the thinking that may have led to it.

Ed sees a part of himself in this hollowed man, now confronted with him face to face. Not just from childhood, either. He's found himself ready to roll over and give up a number of times. When that butcher kidnapped Winry and he thought he was going to die, when Scar broke both of his automail limbs and rested his hand atop his head, and when they discovered the truth of Lab 5. He had been ready to do the unthinkable. 

But every time, he kept fighting. He'd rather crawl on the ground than give up — and he has. Because it wasn’t ever about him. He had a promise to Alphonse, and people to go back to. Each time he wanted to die and get it over with, he couldn't because he needed to finish what he started not for himself but for someone who mattered most. Now he's glad that he persevered and is able to see his brother’s smiling face again.

He knows for a fact that Roy has — had — people like that too. Riza and Hughes…

There it is, isn’t it? The guilt.

They had been able to stop Mustang from killing Envy, from going past the point of no return, but was this really the only alternative? He was either devoured by flames, or completely extinguished? Ed knows what that darkness is like, to collapse in on oneself, but to see Roy overtaken by it is unsettling in a way that he has yet to find the words for. It’s too familiar. This could have happened to himself. It could be happening now.

Ed removes his hands from his hair with a deep sigh, finally opening up his trunk to do what he came in here to do — change clothes. The sooner he got to sleep, the sooner he could leave come morning. The sooner he could avoid having his Pandora's box of feelings be the object of his attention.

He still hasn’t dropped the style of sleeveless shirts — and he couldn’t really afford to in Aerugo — so it’s all he has that aren’t clothes for the city. Those and plain old pairs of slacks and corduroys. Once he’s done, he takes a moment to look around the bathroom. It’s painfully barren. He’s becoming half-convinced that Roy doesn’t actually live here. Nothing about the place, including the living room and kitchen, says Roy Mustang. Though, he supposes that nothing about this situation says Roy Mustang.

Ed leaves the bathroom and glances to the end of the hall. There’s only one more door, so he assumes that’s Roy’s bedroom. As curious as he is, he won’t go that far. He heads back to the sofa, setting his trunk back where it had been, and takes a seat. He hears Roy washing up in the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to look at him.

The water stops, and Roy calls over to him. “Please, just make yourself at home.” He’s trying to be light with the sarcasm, Ed can tell. Ed can also tell that there’s a bit of real displeasure to his words.

“Thanks, I will.”

Roy pauses a moment too long to not go unnoticed. He huffs and looks over. Roy is leaning against the half-wall, looking… apprehensive? Sad? No— No, he looks afraid. Ed is reminded of the sight of Mustang on the Promised Day.

“What is it?” He forces out, because what left has he got to lose?

Roy hardly stops himself from jumping, glancing down the hall before he looks at Ed. “You'll leave in the morning.” 

It isn't a question, nor a demand, but Ed still nods. He looks away when Roy starts to look more sullen.

“Goodnight, Edward.”

Not another word is uttered between them, and Roy retreats to his room. Ed waits, he doesn’t know what for, exactly, but Roy doesn’t come back.

Ed takes it upon himself to put one more log of wood into the fireplace, just to get it, and him, through the night. There's already a blanket on the couch, wrinkled and worn. A pillow rests against the arm.

His life has largely been nothing but deciphering codes, reading between the lines, and making meaning from the bare minimum of information. He could spot a pattern with only two pieces of a puzzle. One common theme here, a similar one there, and an answer would be waiting right there for him. There had even been instances where one little detail set him off. Like when he found out about Hughes. All it took was one slip-up from one person and he just knew. If it lied in Ed's focus, it wouldn't be getting past him. In short, he’s perceptive, and usually too much for his own good.

Here, Ed has three pieces of solid information to work with. He didn't even have to think about the connection before he made it — which he had done the first time he sat on the couch. It required only a second of thought.

There is nothing of personal value in any part of the house that Ed has seen thus far. Roy looked like he was having flashbacks at the prospect of sleeping in his own bedroom. Lastly, the sofa cushions have an indent that is noticeably person-shaped.

Now he isn't only curious about answers, but also what may be behind that bedroom door. Curious enough to stay and push the bastard, however, has yet to be seen. Right now, he's still too pissed to give a rat's ass. Too furious to acknowledge the knocking of sympathy on his heart chamber door as he understands more and more.

So he grabs that worn blanket and pulls it up to his chin, rests his head on the crushed pillow after taking his hair down. He lays there, body facing the fire. His eyes watch the flames dance and lick at the air.

They're different from Mustang’s flames. These are soft and gently swaying, not a billowing torrent of fury and alchemical expertise. He thinks back to the Promised Day. The heat of Mustang’s anger towards Envy. The might of his power against Father, using all he had to drain the homunculus of its defenses. It was all there right before him. He can almost feel the singe on his brow.

Ed takes a deep breath. He brings the blanket higher and breathes again. Residual smoke, stagnant ozone, and cold ash. It's almost Mustang.

His next breath wavers. He was the reason he got back up, dedicated himself to a purpose and path forward.

His next gets caught in his throat. Purpose that he lacks now. That Roy lacks now. What is he doing? What is he going to do?

It's Mustang, there in every notable memory, or notable because he is there.

If this is what Roy has become, what will become of himself?

He does not feel the pang in his heart. The heavy ache.

He's still cold.

When Ed awakes, the first thing he notices is the pain in his back. If he's feeling it in his twenties, how in the hell does Roy sleep here? He sits up and, with a sigh, sees that it's still pitch black outside. With how quickly he passed out, he almost hoped that he could get a decent night of rest. He halfway did, at least. For once, the visions behind his eyelids weren’t entirely unforgiving. That's far better than what he's gotten since… who knows how long. He has more important things to think about (not so much anymore, these days, but he still grasps onto whatever he can).

He turns the other way and nearly jumps out of his skin with a sharp gasp.

A silhouette is hunched over at the dining table, facing him. There’s a glass in his hand, and a bottle next to it. Roy has the audacity to look as frightened as Ed.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Fucking hell, Roy. Could you look any creepier? Fuck.”

“Sorry,” is the mumble he gets in return, barely audible. 

Ed relaxes and takes the situation in. “You're drinking.”

“Astute as ever, Fullmetal,” comes out just as gruff and quiet. He's quick to follow up with another, “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” he sighs, and loathes this newly apologetic affliction of Roy's.

Ed doesn't know what to do here. The petty part of him wants to lay back down and (try to, with Roy at the table, watching him) sleep. Another part of him sees this as an opportunity. He's more likely to get answers now. Maybe he can get a peek into his room. He isn't above taking advantage of Roy like that. Someone else, sure, he probably would respect their privacy. Not Roy. He hasn't respected the guy since he was twelve, so he sure as hell wasn't going to start now (never mind that was merely disrespect for his title, position, and occupation with the military and everything that it stands for — as a person, that used to be a different story).

Ed gets up and takes the chair across from Roy. He looks at his nearly empty glass and then the quarter empty bottle. He meets Roy's eye.

“Why do you wear that?” He gestures vaguely, but they both know what he means. It had never been often that they fought together, but when they did, there was a wordless understanding and synchronicity to their flow. While Ed would fight up close, Roy would fire from afar. Just before an explosion would go off, Ed could smell the ozone in the air and feel the static crackle of alchemy right behind it. He’d move out of the way just in time for Roy to strike, then go right back in and make another opening for the Flame Alchemist to attack. It was an exchange of their very own, akin to equivalency but not quite. Something in the shades between the black and white mantra of give and take.

So, a mere gesture could be an entire conversation between alchemists.

Roy bristles, looking away. “Makes it easier.”

“To see or to stomach?”

He doesn't hesitate when he answers, “Both.” Ed isn’t ready to shoot something back at him. “I still don’t feel like talking, Edward.”

“Okay, that's cool,” Ed says, recovered and tamely flippant. “I don’t really care what you feel like doing. I'm actually just here to make you feel worse and just maybe you’ll pull your big head out of your ass.”

“And if it doesn't work?”

“It already is.” Because he thinks it'd be annoying, he grabs Roy's glass from his hand and finishes it off. It takes a monumental amount of self restraint not to make a face at the taste. He’s very familiar with this old game of theirs — the slow dripping towards aggravation until one of them cracks. “It started working when you saw me at the door. Has been every time we speak, every time you look at me. It's why you don't. And I know I don't need to tell you this.” He knows that for a fact by the way Roy looks at him now. “What’s in your room? You looked like you might piss yourself when you left earlier. I can't see why you'd sleep on the couch. Is it some sort of punishment? I know you're all pathetic now, but hell, Roy—”

“Okay, Edward, fuck,” he groans. It catches Ed a bit off guard, because Mustang just didn't use that kind of language with him — at least, not when he was a kid. “Do you want a medal or something? Good job figuring it all out, boy genius. Now, can you leave me the fuck alone?”

Ouch. “No.” He snatches the bottle away as Roy reaches for it. The man huffs, rolling his eye. “In fact, I might stay a while. See what's so great that keeps you out here.”

“Like hell you are. You're leaving as soon as the sun comes up.”

“Oh, and you're gonna make me? I could have you on the floor before you can even think about getting your old ass out of that chair.”

“Ed—” This time Roy stops to pinch the bridge of his nose, seeming to be reaching his limit for Ed’s bullshit. “Don’t you have better things to do? You said you’re in the middle of your trip in Aerugo.”

“I am.” Unfortunately, his voice clips and he hesitates. It’s just enough to finally tip Roy off that he’s keeping something under wraps as well; The downside to their synchronicity and what Ed will not be calling likeness. 

“Oh,” Roy says, enlightened, as his gaze finally becomes something other than beggarly. That may not be the reflection of the fire. An ember from within, maybe. Possibly. “So you did come to harass me to avoid your own issues?”

“That’s a stupid assumption,” he scoffs. Ed leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in a move that’s meant to seem casual and indifferent. “Is it so bad to want a break?”

“For you, yes, I think so.”

“Then you don’t know me,” Ed tries to say resolutely — it falls very far from it. It still gets an uncomfortably knowing expression from Roy. “I’ve been out of Amestris for over a year, doing nonstop research and expeditions.”

“So what stopped you? You know, you mentioned feeling lost—”

“Way to avoid talking about yourself,” Ed cuts in before Roy can finish that thought.

“That makes us both hypocrites, then.”

“I’m nothing like you!” Ed takes a breath, putting a lid on his continuously boiling anger. It’s something he’s learned to get a handle of with time, but it’s still far from foolproof.

Which is proven when Roy speaks up and Ed has to close his eyes to try and keep hold of his ground. “You’ll overcome whatever’s holding you back right now, as you always have. You have people around who will help you.” His voice is soft in a way that’s not unfamiliar, but isn’t something that Ed is at all used to from him either. Consolation came only a handful of times between them over the years. 

“You do, too.” Despite his anger, Ed includes himself in said people.

“Not anymore.”

“Oh, fucking hell! Riza asked me to come! And, yeah, she couldn’t do it herself because she wouldn’t be able to stand how you are now. I can hardly stand it, but that doesn’t mean she hates you. She still cares.” 

“She couldn’t hate me if she’s dead,” Roy mumbles bitterly. “I watched Riza have her throat slit open. She bled out in front of me, Edward. And I was useless, unable to do a thing about it. Maes did die because of me. And during that final fight, when you sent yourself to the other side… it was so… so quiet and so dark.” He leans forward, his head down with a hand pressed to his forehead. The ember goes cold. He’s shaking, ever so slightly. It makes Ed sit up straighter in his chair. His voice nearly becomes a whisper as he goes on. “I couldn’t see, Maes is no longer by my side, Riza was on death’s door, and I would have been powerless to help you too. If you hadn’t come back, Ed…”

Edward shifts uncomfortably in his chair, mumbling. “But I did.”

“And then you left again.” Roy lifts his head, reaching for his glass to fill it once more. Ed doesn’t stop him as he takes a drink. “You’re alive, I know, but you were gone before my eyesight was restored. I couldn’t get over the feeling. Riza surviving hardly felt real. And the gate— Hell, Edward. I… I needed to step back. I wasn’t changing anything.” He finishes his glass. “This country doesn’t need a man like me, or ambitions such as mine. It’s moved on fine without me, hasn’t it?”

Edward considers honesty, then shakes his head at himself for even thinking twice about it. “That’s a stupid excuse.”

Anger briefly flashes across his features, but quickly dies down into guilt once more. “Edward, nobody is going to want my return—”

“Bullshit,” Ed interjects.

Roy carries on. “I spent most of my life climbing those ranks. I don't have time to start again. Maes isn't around to light a fire under my ass anymore. Riza isn’t going to babysit me. Then there was what I saw through the Gate, and that I couldn't see afterward. Nobody around me at that point would have been able to understand it. The knowledge, the loss.” He glances up, a flicker of an eye like a bullet through Ed’s chest. “And you were gone.”

Ed says nothing, for a long time. It’s hard to find just what he wants to say here. Truth such as this is a weapon seldom pointed at him. Ed is usually the one holding the cold, unforgiving blade.

He hates, more than anything, that he does understand all that Roy is saying. He’s been there himself. Emotions tend to get sorted into two categories for him when he’s trying to reason something out: ‘logical’ and ‘illogical’. The longer he talks to Roy, the more of those emotions get moved from ‘illogical’ to ‘logical’. The lock on the box of his own emotions is proving to be faulty. Which ones are Roy's, and which are projections from himself, are starting to get mixed up.

For the longest time, Al didn’t remember what the gate was like. Ed, for the life of him, couldn’t even begin to try to tell him. Not just for a lack of words to describe it, but because he didn’t want to impose that information on his brother — or relive it more than he had to himself. Then when Al did know, there wasn’t time to talk about it. And when there was time, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were supposed to be moving on. To never stop moving forward.

He still has nightmares about it.

Then there was how much he hid from Al — he can’t really yell at Roy for keeping things from those closest to him and backing himself into a corner, especially when it really mattered. Now he’s on his own it’s that much harder. He knows that he most likely would have backed out of going to Central if he didn’t get the feeling that there was a problem to be potentially fixed that didn’t have to do with himself.

He knows this vicious cycle all too well. It’s just so infuriating to see someone like Roy succumb to it. Uncomfortable, too. Roy gave him the motivation, the kindling and the means, for them to find a way to fix their bodies.

“You could have called for me, if that was your issue,” Ed mumbles and then clears his throat, uncomfortable with his own vulnerability.

Roy's gaze is lost from him once again, and something in his face looks freshly wounded. “It's pointless to think about what could have been done differently. You left as soon as you got the chance. The military was nothing more than a means to an end for you, you hated it, and I wasn’t going to make you go back to that.”

“Yeah, but—” Ed stops, clenches his jaw around the words. He focuses his gaze intently on the dark hall that he can see from his seat, looking just past Roy and not at him. “I still hate it, but, you know, I didn't hate Hughes. Or Armstrong — even if he was way too much most of the time — or… anyone in or around your unit.” Ed didn't want to keep going, but in Roy's prolonged silence, the words finally started to come out. “We made a promise.” He feels something crawling out of that pit of emotions he likes to ignore when he says the words. Something, a feeling, a confused boy, long lost and shoved away breaching the light.

There's more silence, but Ed doesn't feel the need to fill it. He lets Roy sit with his words. Only to be disappointed, however, when the man eventually mumbles, “It's too late now.”

“It isn't.” His voice is tight — Ed hardly believes the statement himself. It's now or never, he tells himself, then opens his mouth. “I know what you mean. The… not being able to tell anybody about the gate. It doesn’t get better. It stays with you forever. Even when you keep yourself distracted to forget, it’ll be there waiting for you at night. As soon as you let your guard down. There’s nothing that you can do to stop it.”

Roy starts to apologize, but stops himself. “Sorry” does nothing here, and they both know that. They’re both alchemists, with or without the ability to transmute. They think things through in a rational, logical manner. Equivalency may not be as black and white as Ed once thought it was, but the principle is not unfounded. “Sorry” doesn’t cut it when it comes to true repentance. Getting up and doing something about it does. Ed is opening up, on the principle that Roy should do the same in return.

Ed takes a deep breath, hands moving off the table so he can grip at his trousers. He stupidly hopes Roy doesn't know how hard this is to do. He knows the truth, however, and he cannot even force himself to be blind to it if he tried.

“I’ve been feeling… I dunno— useless? Aimless? For a while now. I can keep researching alchemy, but I’m never going to have it back. I can come up with any number of arrays, but I can never use them or confirm that they'll work. I've even asked other alchemists for help, but they don't understand enough to make it work, and then I look like an idiot when they're the ones who messed up.” Ed shakes his head, face flushing with residual anger as he recalls times that other alchemists have even laughed at him. “So, I’ve just been thinking… What's the point? Should I try to find something else? And Al is on the other side of the country, making huge strides in his studies. I'm not jealous or anything like that, and I’m not saying that I would take back what I did. Fuck, no. Not ever. But I feel fucking helpless.” He leans back, arms crossed tight over his chest. “It keeps me barred from so much. Just what I need — another fucking setback. It's slowed me down. And when that happens, now that I don't have more to fight for, it’s like…”

“Like you lose your momentum,” Roy finishes for him.

Edward nods, murmuring a soft, “Yeah.” There’s relief in the way Roy understands, as there is sickness, and anger. “I won't bother Al since he's so busy, so I thought seeing you again would help. Since the last time I stalled, it was you…” He barely grits out the words through his teeth, loathsome to admit such a thing to the man himself — to the Mustang he once knew, full of ego and sarcastic remarks, he wouldn't say it.

Ed dares a glance up.

He didn’t think that Roy could look even more sullen and demolished, but he’s managed it. He looks broken in an entirely new way. If this Roy is the rubble of a great man, he’s now turned to dust. More remained of Xerxes than of the Lieutenant Colonel. 

Roy puts his face into his hands, attempting to hide away from the shame and from Ed right across from him. He’s silent for a long time.

“I’m sorry—”

Ed almost thinks that he’s heard wrong, the words quiet and strangled as they are. Roy’s shoulders shaking. His hands are balled into fists over his eyes, seemingly with the effort it’s taking him to hold it together.

“I’m so sorry, Edward—”

Ed can’t stand this. 

“Shut up,” he grits out. “You can say sorry all you want, but what’s that do? I don’t want to hear it if you don’t mean it.” He knows that Roy does feel guilt, but it still means nothing without proper recompense. 

Ed gets up to return to the sofa, done with trying to get through this conversation. Roy isn’t giving him equal vulnerability in return, so he doesn’t care anymore. As he takes his first step, Roy’s chair grates across the floor. Ed turns and there’s arms tight around him and a face in his shoulder.

Alright. A bit… out of the ordinary. Actually— very fucking strange.

Ed stands there with his arms up for a few moments, stunned by the action. The last time he hugged someone might have been… before he left Resembool over a year ago. As for it being Roy Mustang — the man has never laid a hand on him. At least, not a hand that was gentle or consoling, or in this case, desperate. They've fought plenty, but this is entirely new.

Now here's Roy Mustang, clinging to him and shaking down to his core. So, unfathomably, human and fragile. 

Part of Ed thinks that Roy doesn’t deserve even this. A drop of comfort and consolation, interaction with another person for the first time in years. To be able to express himself and be acknowledged and understood. But this is his exchange, and Ed has to accept that.

Slowly, Ed wraps his arms around Roy’s back. It still feels strange. It feels…

To call him a father figure is impossible for a plethora of reasons. Friend; They had fallen too far apart for that. Comrade… Ex-comrade. Commanding officer and soldier.

Ed truly hated him at first. Then when he matured enough to understand the man a little better, learned from those around Roy that he was more than an egotistical bastard that liked to run his mouth and there was nuance to his actions, Ed only kept giving him a hard time because that’s just what he was used to. There was a point that the bite was lost to his insults, and they became greetings. Conversation. ‘Hello’ and ‘Good to see you’ for them was ‘Fullmetal’ or ‘Brat’ and ‘Colonel Bastard’.

It feels… like deliverance. It's surrender.

There's still so much that could be said — always has been — but that's not how they operate. That's never been how either of them function, whether it be with one another or on their own. When Ed was still too full of anger and guilt, and too loud to let himself think, but hurt enough to keep what really mattered close to his chest. When he got a little older and those spit-fire remarks of his softened to a certain degree (but they were still harsh enough that anybody who wasn't aware of their dynamic looked terrified at the way a subordinate insulted his commanding officer, or any form of superior officer for that matter). 

Their personal peace treaty was found in Ed’s silent understanding, and in Roy’s leniency for the boy. There was an absurd amount that he let the Elrics (specifically one Elric that caused trouble) get away with. Letting a State Alchemist roam free to conduct his own research into a topic that even the military kept under wraps was far from conventional, or even permissible. Yet Mustang did just that, putting himself at risk to support him by any means he could. It was when Ed realized this that they were finally on amicable terms. It was never addressed by either of them directly. 

Now there’s this. Standing in the kitchen with Roy, and not only seeking but finding comfort in one another. It’s honesty entirely unfamiliar to men such as them — to alchemists once in pursuit of one ultimate goal, no matter the cost to themselves.

When he finally gets over the foreign feeling of it, Ed manages to relax and allow himself this one thing. Roy was already clinging before, but now one of his hands holds the back of Ed's head, fingers weaving into long blond hair. That feeling, too, is largely unknown. Winry and Al have braided it for him a small number of times, but to be cradled with such care is not something he has received since childhood — which is now a time that appears to him in shards of fogged glass, pieces chipped away and lost with time.

The longer he stays, the stronger that horrible lump in his throat grows. It hasn't reared its head to him in a long time because he learned control over himself and he never let it. He has to run from it, just as he does all of the other feelings he's been turning his back to since that day.

Ed starts to let go, expecting Roy to do the same.

He does not.

Ed could struggle and easily overpower him, he knows. Even back then, were it a fight of physical strength alone, Ed would have won. He doesn’t struggle. He succumbs to vulnerability. He feels himself crumbling on the inside but it doesn’t feel destructive. He acknowledges that confused, anguished boy. It'll take some time to accept him, and the feelings he labelled as shameful and chucked in the garbage, but Ed sees him. That boy, those feelings, are still part of him.

Eventually Roy lets go, but then there are hands holding the sides of his face and Roy's forehead pressed to his and they're close enough that Ed notices they must be the same height now. 

They're close enough that Ed can see Roy's glossy waterline catching the dim light of the fire. He can see his jaw tense and his lips struggle to move, to speak. So Ed speaks up first.

“Come back,” Ed whispers, like he's sharing a secret. For them, these tender parts of themselves are secrets, never meant to see the light for a single day of their entire lives. It sees it now in the flickering flame of the hearth. So like alchemists, abiding by their esoteric doctrine down to the smallest aspects of their lives, and finding purity in flame; So like alchemists, to fall victim to their own minds when they lose sight of their way.

Roy says nothing, only lowering his gaze. He’s thinking, and Ed, for once in his life, gives the man time to do so. He keeps his gaze on Roy’s eyelid and the out-of-place patch. 

Another lifetime passes. Ed pictures the changing of seasons, the foliage flourishing and dying and growing anew, the sun and moon circling the same path again and again and again. Always passing by each other, and aligning perhaps only once, by chance, in their lifetimes. Once is all they need. The man’s assent is in the tranquil way that his eyelid slips shut. Nobody mentions the gleam crossing the ex-Colonel’s cheek; Nobody moves. A world has crashed and burned and rebuilt itself in Ed's mind and they're still standing here together.

Ed doesn’t relax just yet. This isn’t a victory, or something he’s put his life into fighting for. Most unfortunately, he knows how obstinate they both are. His apprehension is validated when Roy softly sighs.

“You shouldn’t stay long.” Roy’s voice is still soft, protecting the quiet air around them, save for the crackling of the fire.

“I’ll stay as long as I like,” Ed shoots back, complete disregard for the serene atmosphere. They’re still so close that he almost misses the way the corner of Roy’s mouth quirks up.

“Which won’t be very long at all, knowing you.”

Edward doesn’t bite back his smile at that, but does swat away Roy’s hands from his face — with little to no real heart behind the action. He doesn’t argue.

A breeze of normalcy passed by them, and it was nice, quick and light as it was. Then only a moment later, the shadows that overtook Roy’s face when he answered the door hours earlier have returned. They crept in from the corner of his eye, tugged at the edges of his frown. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Maybe,” he answers, a little put off by the already strange request. “I don’t owe you any, and you hardly deserve it.”

Roy nods, like what he’s just said is common sense and is right. “Take the room. Let me sleep on the couch out here.”

This isn’t the favor he was expecting (not that he really had anything that he expected at this point), but it is a question answered. Roy is trusting him with that answer. “Alright,” he says, holding on to an impassive tone.

Roy’s head lowers further — with fear or shame is anybody’s guess. Thanks is mumbled from those frowning lips. Ed moves past him towards the hallway, but stops just short of the bedroom door. He looks over. Roy has yet to move from where he stands. Ed doesn’t miss the fists at his sides, or the shaking in his back, but he says nothing of it. He swallows down the worry (possibility, the pessimistic voice in the back of his head warns) that he may awake to an empty cabin when dawn comes. He turns the knob and walks inside.

The bedroom of Roy Mustang is yet another thing that Ed has never considered, but is real and before him now and the sight of it still brings him some surprise. It reflects nothing of the perfectly poised military man he once knew.

It’s a fucking mess. Not just the untidy that someone keen on procrastinating can manage, but a literal wreck. The first thing of note is the bed against one of the walls, in a complete state of disrepair with the blanket and sheets bunched on different ends, and pillows discarded on the floor. Said floor has a small path from the doorway to the bed, and in the middle of it a turn leading to a desk. Clothes, books, papers, empty bottles — these all outline the path, scattered about.

Ed’s feet follow his eyes to the desk, which is a little less of a mess. An assortment of pencils, pens and charcoals are dispersed across it, with a book atop disorderly parchment. Ed moves the book aside and finds his own face staring back at him. 

In smudged shades of black and gray, a detailed portrait of Edward faces the viewer. It’s not him now, but him from back then. From a few years ago, when Mustang last saw him. Before he lost his eyesight, and Ed left before Dr. Marcoh could heal him. It’s strange to see this face here, let alone at all. What’s more is that the paper is half burnt, the char stopping just before it can reach the edges of his hair. 

He sees more smudges on the pages underneath. Beneath his portrait are portraits of everyone else closest to him: Riza, Havoc, Fuery, Breda, Falman, Hughes, and Armstrong. Just about everyone who did all that they could to help him reach the top. Although, Ed wouldn’t have considered himself to be part of that list of people. In his opinion, they were never that close, or close in that sense. So Ed can’t fathom why his face would be here among his most important allies and friends. Ed didn’t consider his feelings of companionship buried in his core to ever possibly be mutual. Companionship that had been planted by their chance meeting.

Get up. Move forward.

So Edward did. He got up, and carried that philosophy with him to the very end — still carries it with him now. It’s just hard to keep moving when there’s nothing left to fight. Roy still has a chance to fight for something. Maybe Ed could too.

Ed does his best to put everything back just as he found it before walking away from the desk and towards the bed. He grabs the rumpled blanket at the foot of it, not caring for the sheets and too tired to, and unfurls it enough to cover him as he lays down.

Smoke and fire. Ozone and ash. Purpose.

It’s hot — blazing, in fact. He can’t breathe, coughing with lungs full of smoke. It’s not just his lungs that hurt. His arm and leg ache with the phantom pain that he felt for most of his life. The pain of nerves attaching to wires and cords and metal. It hurts like hell, blurring his vision and making his head spin, but he knows that this is necessary. The pain is necessary to gain anything, and to keep going. Pain derives meaning.

Ed stumbles forward, chin hitting the floor as he loses balance. He’s lucky he doesn’t bite his tongue. He feels more than sees where he’s going. Everything’s a hazy blur of black and red and orange, but beneath him is a dim path. He knows that he has to follow it — knows that he will live if he does. Be safe if he makes it. Even as his already hindered vision worsens, ratchet hacking shakes him to his core, and his remaining limbs dare to give out from fatigue, Ed crawls forward.

There’s a dark shade of blue coming into view. He can feel that he’s close. So close, but his body is giving out against his will. Ed cries out of pain and frustration. This feeling of having it all just out of reach — he can’t stand it. He can’t go through it again.

Just when he falls as his arm buckles, he’s caught. He doesn’t have to strain to keep his body up as something wraps around him tight. It soothes his lungs as he breathes in deeply, and replaces the blinding reds and oranges of his vision with military blue. The inferno relents.

Wind chill. A blanket of snow. A dilapidated shack. A body, rotting. He puts his hands together and there’s a flash of blue. The Gate takes them both.

When Ed wakes with a pained gasp for air, the light of day is filtering into the room. Not the bedroom, however, but the living room. He tries to think, to remember how he got here. He remembers his nightmare. He vaguely remembers grasping at something and burying his face into a button-up shirt, but he doesn't know if that was a dream or reality. He is alone on the couch.

As he's brought further into consciousness, he notices the sound of the coffee pot sputtering just as it did the night before. Next, he smells food. Ed pushes himself up and looks over to the kitchen, and sees Roy standing over the stove — moving, breathing, and alive. He notes that his own body is also fully intact. Well, as intact as it was before he went to sleep. Though the port on his thigh and the stump do still ache from hiking in the snow yesterday. This is all real, not a dream.

His first order of business is the bathroom, because he's not starting conversation with Roy right away, given what he's been able to conclude upon waking up. Fingers do a good enough job of brushing through his hair, just enough to allow him to tie it back.

Ed looks into the golden eyes of his reflection. He feels like he’s floating outside of himself and his body. He flexes his hands, and they both move as he wills it. Still not a dream. There’s not much more to be done about his appearance, and it's not like he really cares anyway, so he leaves and braves interaction with Roy.

Breakfast consists mostly of sequestered glances. Ed made one half-hearted sarcastic comment about Roy making a good housekeeper, which was returned with only a fraction of the enthusiasm given. Ed isn’t willing to talk about what happened (his memory of it isn’t even supply enough to do so), and Roy is sparing him the trouble. It’d be a kinder mercy if they weren’t simmering in a turbid pot of tension and nerves frayed and ready to snap.

Then there’s no longer the excuse of eating or cleaning up to keep dodging the questions and comments weighing like anvils above their heads, suspended only by those aforementioned nerves.

Ed sits across from Roy like before, a refilled mug of coffee cupped in his hands. Roy’s still on his first. Roy sighs, sounding a little exasperated like how he used to back in the day, and it’s enough to get Ed’s attention. He really looks at Roy for the first time that morning. His face is clean. He shaved. 

“We don’t need to talk about it.”

The words are gentle, and not in a way that Ed can particularly bring himself to hate. It is still enough to make him fidget, fingers tracing the rim of his mug. His mind can’t not think of an array within the circle. “Alright,” he manages, voice pinched. “Thanks,” he murmurs, marginally less tight.

Ed is grateful, to a point, because he really doesn’t want it to be brought up. It’s not just embarrassing, but he thinks to himself that it’s weird. He doesn’t seek comfort like that. Comfort is found in his studies, a blanket of notes to wrap himself in and know who he is and where his place in the world lies. A place that he’s practically useless in.

A finger follows the circle of ceramic. He imagines the array that Roy had on his gloves — the one that’s still scarred onto the back of his hand now. A hand with that scar settles over his own.

Ed feels the energy in the air before he sees the sparks. His brain barely reacts in time, getting his hands out of the way just as the mug explodes and piping hot coffee sprays over the table, scorching the wood where it lands. Roy’s hand is still outstretched halfway across the table, equally just a breath away from harm. 

Looking at Roy himself, he looks just as surprised as Ed. Not that he really thought it was, but that confirms it wasn’t intentional. That was definitely alchemy, and not the coffee deciding to spontaneously combust.

Roy is the first to finally speak. “What the fuck just happened? I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

While it’s true that Roy can perform alchemy without a circle now, Ed knows that it wasn’t him. At least, maybe not entirely him. He looks down at his own hands, bright red from what heat they did encounter while holding the mug. Imagining Mustang’s alchemical array. The array carved into his hand.

“I think…” Ed swallows, his mouth suddenly as dry as the desert. Part of him doesn’t want his theory to be right. Part of him needs it to be true. “It was both of us.” He speaks slowly, fighting through his torrent of thoughts for a comprehensible string of words. It doesn’t seem possible, though it just happened right before their eyes. There’s only one way to find out.

“What are you saying?” Roy questions, but Ed doesn’t answer.

He gets up and runs his way down the hall, tripping over Roy’s messes to his desk to grab one of the pieces of charcoal he'd used to draw. As he’s running back out, he nearly slams into Roy in the doorway, as the man had followed him. Ed curses at him and just grabs his wrist to lead them back to the table. He draws the simplest of alchemical arrays on an unmarred part of the wood. One that, should his theory be right, will definitely work. It was the very first he’d ever used. He gathers as many pieces of the broken mug he can find and sets them in the circle. Even though a reaction was technically just caused without a circle, because Roy's scar is mostly healed now, he’s not quite ready to delve into that yet. He’s not even ready for this.

His hands are shaking, he notices, as he presses them to the circle. No reaction, of course. He’s had enough sleepless nights to know that for a fact. 

“Put your hands on mine.”

Ed is only staring intently at the circle, but he can feel Roy’s incredulous gaze on him as he asks, dumbly, “What?”

“Damnit, Mustang, just fucking do it!”

There are no further questions asked. Ed isn’t thinking that it’s likely because of the shaking going all the way up to his shoulders. Roy quietly does as told, placing his hands atop Ed’s.

Flashes of fluorescent blue encompass their hands and the circle as the shards of ceramic mold and reshape themselves into a single mass once more. When the light is gone, there sits the old figure he had made as a child for his first transmutation to impress his mother.

Ed stares down at it, distantly feeling his heart trying to beat out of his chest. Oh, he hasn’t felt exhilaration like this in a long time. He hasn’t felt this unadulterated fulfillment, this completeness, in years. He’s still shaking, though with what emotion he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care.

“Edward…” That breaks him from his thoughts, as Roy sounds like he may be approaching a wild animal and Ed does not like the sound of that. He looks up to find Roy’s gaze on him. They’re close, hands still resting on the circle. “Can you explain it?”

That doesn’t tell him why Roy is looking at him like that, but he doesn’t care. That’s not what’s important right now. He laughs dryly, feeling mad, and looks back down at the figure. “I’m pretty sure that I can somehow do alchemy through you. Or you do it through me? Fuck, I don’t know. I just know that it works. The mug— When you touched me, I had been picturing—” Ed pauses, realizing what he’s about to admit. He shakes it off. “I was picturing the array from your gloves. Or maybe it was your scar— or both? Obviously, I haven’t studied your flame alchemy, so my guess is that it just got really hot and combusted instead of making an actual flame. And this—” Ed picks up the figurine, cradling it in his hands. “You couldn't have made this.”

He's confused, and so in awe, by the revelation that he feels his legs might buckle. It's unbelievable, to put it very lightly, but nothing can deny these past two transmutations. 

“So you're saying… that only I'm activating the array, but the transmutation can be bent to your will?” Ed nods slowly, since he's still not completely sure of the answer himself. “But… how could I have activated an array that you were imagining? I had no idea.” Roy nervously runs a thumb over his hand that touched Ed's the first time. “And this… is incomplete now.”

The blond worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, grasping for clues with what he knows so far. “You can transmute without a circle,” he starts, the theory forming as he speaks. All of the pieces are still flying around in his head, trying to find some place to fit for this to make sense. He sets the figure down and begins to pace to the end of the hallway and back to the table, each step reminding him of his aching stump.

“Maybe we… connected somehow. We are both alchemists. Even if my gate is gone, I had the knowledge at some point in my life. Maybe it's… all of these little specific conditions together that make it possible. That would also explain why we've never heard of it before, and I… have been looking. I had this theory for a while that something like this could be possible, but Al wasn't around to help me prove it, so… I let it go.” He had to, for his own sanity. “He's the only alchemist I know that can match my energy, I guess you could call it. Flow, maybe. But…” He slows to a stop in front of Roy. 

The solution has been in Briggs, hiding and slowly withering away from the world. It's in this man that he would have once loathed to ask anything from — to submit to making a request of him, and to admit to needing assistance. His pride isn't so fragile these days, like it had been back then when he was far more stubborn and headstrong. Ed is still both of those things, surely, as he would not be Ed without them, but growing up had dulled those sharp edges of his youth. His state of mind has waned too much to care.

That old feeling has successfully crawled its way out of his void of suppressed emotion. The boy that softened and warmed to Mustang, and that’s been hurt by a broken promise, and longed for a connection like this because it was always so close and so far.

Roy is looking at him with one wide eye and a brow furrowed to suggest worry in his expression. Worry that Ed neither wants nor needs. Just like that, Ed's newfound hope is already staggered.

“I don't know, Ed…” Roy whispers, like the softness of his voice could make the words hurt any less. “This… couldn’t be good for you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He grips at his left pant leg, the ache of his port making itself pointedly known now.

“You don’t need this. You paid a price—”

“Yeah, I know! I can't fucking— Fuck you, Roy!” He spits before slumping into Roy's chair, the figure dropping as hands push into his hair and he takes a deep breath. Ed laughs again, feeling somewhat like he's finally losing it. “Do you think I'd use you? You think I'd try to ignore the laws of alchemy again?”

“That’s not what I was saying, Edward.” Roy is talking slowly, and it’s half driving Ed up the wall. He doesn’t explode right away, instead taking a deep breath and tightening the grip on his hair to keep it together and let the man finish talking. “I only don’t want you to get ahead of yourself. And I… I don’t know if I feel comfortable helping you with the state that I’m in.”

“Then when you get better,” Ed grits out. He looks up through his bangs, tousled from mistreatment. “Mustang. Roy.” 

Roy picks up the transmuted figure and sets it back on the table, but not before inspecting it for any broken parts. “Think it over first. What if Al could do this with you, too? Surely the two of you have a stronger connection than… whatever it is that made this possible.”

“I don’t want to ask him. He’s… Al’s got his own life. He doesn’t need to be attached to me anymore.”

“And how does he feel? Have you even asked? Or did you just assume that you know how everybody feels about you and walk away before you could be told otherwise?”

Ed’s gaze flickers away before he can stop it. It isn't just that he doesn't want to bother his brother. He wants what's right here, in front of him. Instead, he says, “Come back. To Central. To East City. You can’t live like this, Roy. You can’t die like this.”

“I’m receiving only half the punishment I deserve already. I can’t do that. Riza told you back then, didn’t she? All soldiers that killed in Ishval were to be punished once the Parliament was back in power.”

“But the Parliament isn’t yet—”

“Justice must be served regardless.” Roy pulls the other seat out, sitting across from Ed. “Edward, I am fine.”

“Choosing to be miserable is fucking pitiful. Seeing you like this makes me sick. After all we’ve been through, and all that we know, choosing to waste away all alone is such a stupid way out.” The term “we” applies it's weight, heavy on his heart, only after he realizes that he's said it. Ed stands, not able to tolerate being eye-to-eye with this man.

Just as he's on his feet, he falters. A sharp pain shoots up his left thigh and he curses as he's brought back down to the chair.

Roy is up just as soon, stepping towards him. “What's wrong?”

Ed doesn’t look up at him, hands carefully cupped around where his stump meets automail. He's trying and failing not to be warmed by how quickly Roy got up for him. “Nothing. The weather just fucks with me a bit.” He stands again, and this time the pain isn't sharp, but it does have him leaning more on his right leg. “I’m going to stay in Central for a while.”

He makes for his trunk, digging around for his vest and into it's pockets before procuring the note containing Roy’s address on it. He goes back to the table and scribbles on the back of it with the charcoal he had grabbed for the transmutation circle. Once finished, he hands it to Roy, who takes it with such caution that it seems he thinks it might burn him.

“That’s a cafe right outside the East station. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, and then I’ll be going back to Aerugo to finish my studies there.” Ed swallows, flexing his fists by his sides. “I won’t wait forever.”

He doesn’t want to leave so soon, is the thing. For as much as he can’t sit still, one night hasn’t been enough. And after this— Well, this is it. If Roy doesn’t take this last chance from him, he’ll never be coming back. Ed won’t wait around for some sad old man. Especially one that’s made the conscious decision to be so pathetic. He has to move forward.

“You’re leaving now?” Roy isn’t looking at him when he asks.

Ed opens his mouth. He hesitates. He knows his answer — doesn’t want to say it. “Yeah.” He has to, before he succumbs to want and—

“Stay?” Ed goes still, ice snap-freezing in his bones. “Just one more night, Ed. For your leg. You shouldn’t make a hike in Briggs with any sort of impediment.”

They both know it isn't for his leg, as sound as Roy's proposed reasoning is. This is not an ask but a plea. And how funny is that, a damn plea, from Roy Mustang to an Elric.

Ed shouldn't, for a million and one reasons. Any more time spent here, doing nothing but talking and sitting around, is going to drive him mad. He can’t sit here with answers just at his fingertips. Just out of reach. Roy's right here. So close yet so distant.

He needs to get away from Roy now. Ed shouldn't waste anymore time entertaining this and spilling emotions by the fire. He shouldn't spend more time sitting back and sitting still and working through mildly uncomfortable thoughts. There are more important things to think about, like the fact he just pseudo performed alchemy. It'll relieve the sting of being rejected.

However, this in itself, he could argue, is a change. The part of him that wants is contesting. Just one more night. His brain could use the break (but he knows he won't get one, and he's just making excuses at this point). It's different from what he's been doing these past couple of years.

Acquiescence— No, surrender, rather, is in the heavy sigh Ed releases before slumping back into his seat.

The small smile on Roy's face may as well be a gun pointed at Ed's chest, smoke oozing from the barrel and his body lying on the floor. “I'll get you a second cup.”

Roy moves to the kitchen, and Edward’s gaze moves to the splatter of scorch marks on the table.

Ed does try his best, but Roy doesn’t give in and let them attempt anymore transmutations together. They talk about it instead because Ed still isn’t letting it go. It is also mostly Edward talking, with Roy nodding along, understanding most of what he’s saying, and every so often giving his own input. 

It starts at the table, with Roy grabbing the man paper before he can mark up his already defaced dining table further with a madman’s scrawls. Then it moves to the kitchen when their mugs need refilling, and not long after that it moves to the couch at Roy’s insistence to sit down. Ed makes fun of him for being old, and Roy plays along, though he knows that Roy saw him gradually leaning more and more heavily against the counter and off his leg.

There on the couch, Ed is still trying to persuade him, here and there. He’s still a brick wall, an immovable object for Ed to butt his head against even though he knows that it will always end in a headache for him. His hands gesticulate his every word, with Roy watching his every move.

The alchemist finally starts losing steam long after the sun sets. Though the conversations weren’t all theories on this new reaction. Ed started prodding for information about flame alchemy. It was through that he learned that Roy hasn’t used it since that day, and further, hasn’t ever used his ability of transmuting without a circle until a few hours ago. Ed musters the courage to say sorry, to which Roy says there’s nothing to be sorry for, but forgives him nonetheless.

There’s the fire, the porcelain figure, and the unforgiving cold outside. There’s Roy Mustang, in none of his former glory but still the same man, Ed knows. There’s Edward himself, listless, ignited, and trusting. There’s his eyes falling shut, his head on a shoulder, and the subtle ache in his chest for missing it all before it’s even gone.

The sleep itself seems to take an eternity. Ed keeps waking up against his will. Nothing disturbs him but his mind, never resting and never ending with a cacophony of thoughts. Each wake consists of him noting the warmth at his back, the warmth in front of him, and the crackling from the hearth before his eyes close once more.

When morning finally comes, seeming nearly as elusive as his goal a few years ago, he wakes the same. The notice of more light in the room keeps his eyes open this time. There’s no warmth at his back, but it’s still at his front. Ed listens to the heartbeat, the steady breathing. He tries not to mourn something not yet lost. He sits up.

Ed runs a hand through his hair and wonders, but doesn’t really care, when he took his hair down for the night. Looking at the hearth, he sees the fire reduced to embers and ash. Looking back, he sees two dark eyes on him, one pupil looking a bit dull compared to the other. 

Ed reaches down, slowly, to give enough time for a refusal. None comes as he pushes the hair overgrown on the left half of Roy’s face aside. There’s no scar, just the slight discoloration. If he had become Führer, the patch would have made people uneasy. It’s with that thought, and the fact that Roy is not Führer, that Ed draws his conclusion. Just how many ways can one self-destructive man find to punish himself?

The moment passes, Ed draws back and stands, stretching out his limbs as he does. His automail doesn’t hurt so much anymore, which is good — it is. He’ll leave today. After stealing one more meal from Roy, who is already up and making his way to the bathroom.

Ed waits at the table, looking at yesterday’s aftermath. The little figure and his note for Roy to meet him. He’s second-guessing that decision. He can’t make Roy show up, and he doubts that he’s convinced him. Ed isn’t sure that he’ll be able to handle waiting, and further, be able to handle the disappointment that will follow.

When Roy emerges from the hall, he looks freshened up again. He’s even changed his clothes. However, he makes a stop by the sofa to grab his discarded patch and put it back on. Ed won’t tease him about the fact that he cleaned up. He does move to join him in the kitchen when he sees the man start to prepare a fresh pot of coffee. Ed doesn’t want the process to move along faster, he just doesn’t want to sit back and watch.

Roy is waiting for a pan to heat up, and Ed is waiting for the oven. Eggs and diced potatoes is today’s breakfast, as it was yesterday’s. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Roy says suddenly, the first words all morning. “You always do. Your only solution isn’t me.”

Ed is leaning over the counter across from him. While they’re waiting, he’s stolen more paper from Roy to jot down his thoughts. If he doesn't get Roy to help him, he needs to at least have some sort of documentation of this. His hand stops when he hears Roy speak, but he doesn’t turn to him. 

He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. Roy is really trying to push him away, even though Ed has already made it known that he won’t be waiting around trying to guide Roy back to his path, or any path for that matter. Maybe it’s a form of closure. Maybe Ed had been a loose end for him, in a sense. The tender sound of his voice, hand in hand with the pain, suggests as much.

“Yeah, I’m sure I could. I will, in fact.” He continues writing, starting to get mildly annoyed with how his ponytail keeps falling over his shoulder and getting in the way. “Would be easier if it were you. The only other person viable is on the other side of the continent and happily living his own fulfilling life. I want—” Ed hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “I think you should be part of it.” 

That finally gets Roy to shut up, though Ed is sure he’s trying to sell himself on even more excuses in his head. He hasn’t been thinking like a high ranking military officer for years, and Ed hasn’t been around to keep him on his toes. He must be rusty, no longer able to make counter-arguments in his head before the other person was even finished speaking. Ed had hated it back then, being a headstrong teen with the ego ride he got from being the youngest state alchemist. Some military man trying to order him around and act like he knew everything pissed him off to no end. 

Ed takes his notes to the table to be out of the way for the time being.

Doing such a mundane task with Roy is, somehow, not strange or awkward in the slightest. They don’t get in each other’s way, even in the cramped space of his small kitchen. Brush elbows, sure, but there’s not even the chance of a collision. How simple it is, when lacking the context of how and why they got here, is something that Ed can appreciate after the shit show that’s been his life thus far. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t do settling. A break is nice, though. This, with someone who's so much like himself, who can't or shouldn't ever stop moving, is nice. To take it slow. Breathe. Appreciate.

As much as he wants to, Ed isn’t looking at his notes while they eat. When they’re finished, Roy asks, “Would you mind if I held onto that?” He gestures to the little ceramic animal, perched on the edge of the table.

“I don’t care,” is Ed’s automatic reply. Then he thinks about it, and considers that that’s the only thing he’s made with alchemy in years. He wants to keep it, and Roy is looking at him like he knows Ed wants to change his answer. Instead, he doubles down. “Keep it.”

Roy nods, taking his answer for what it is. Ed hopes, selfishly, that it will serve as another guilty reminder for Roy if he doesn’t come out of hiding. Not to be cruel, but to give him something more than a half burnt drawing of a boy that's in the past. A reminder that this interaction wasn't a hallucination, and all these years later, Ed has sought him out.

“How’s your leg feeling?” Roy asks, and it sounds like another plea.

“Better. Fine. I should get ready before I end up leaving too late again.”

“Yeah,” Roy replies, despondent. A sip of coffee and a sigh later, he agrees, “Yeah.”

Ed clenches his jaw tight, closes his eyes so he doesn’t look at him any longer, and leaves the table. He grabs his suitcase on the way to the restroom. 

He holds his breath for as long as he can, trying and failing to ignore the knot emerging in the back of his throat. He tries to shove it down, along with everything else, instead. There’s the chance that whatever they just discovered won’t work with Al. That terrifies him — the not knowing. The abandonment of knowledge right there. He could be leaving behind his only means of ever feeling that energy again. That rush of his blood and hard pounding of his heart. Not the only thing he’ll be losing, either.

With his hair tied back, and as many layers as he can wear on his body, Ed exits the bathroom. Roy hasn’t moved from his seat at the table, but he does get up when Ed goes for the door, meeting him there.

Ed holds his right hand between them. Roy regards it with an ambiguous, fleeting expression that can’t not be described as pained.

“Roy,” he says simply. There’s no witty remark, and there’s no farewell good enough.

“Edward.” 

One shake of their hands, and they let go, because that’s what comes next. They let go, not lingering in each other's grasps, because that's what they ought to do. Ed picks up his trunk with his left hand. “See you around.”

Roy doesn’t nod. He neither confirms nor denies. Ed holds back a frown. “Stay out of trouble, Ed.”

Ed smiles, all mischief but only half the energy, and all of the ache. He turns for the door and he leaves.

It isn’t snowing anymore. It looks like it might have stopped shortly after he arrived last night, since the blanket isn’t any deeper than it was when he arrived and his footprints are still mostly visible. He’s rather sure of the direction he needs to go, but having a clear path will help to get him back faster. He’d rather not spend another evening in the snow. His stump already aches, and he’s well past due for an adjustment as it is.

The sun is nearly set when he’s on the train back to Central. His head rests on the cold pane of the window, gaze vacant as he watches the scenery pass by. What he’s feeling now isn’t entirely unlike what he felt after they got their bodies back, but it’s definitely not the same. There’s the sense of not knowing what to do with himself next, but he doesn’t feel accomplished like when they reached their goal. 

Ed feels that he might have lost something in that cabin. Opportunity, a friend, a part of himself. He feels drained and let down, and he doesn’t like accepting that he had any hopes to begin with. He doesn't think that there’s anything to be gained, either. This will be what it is, and he moves on as he always does, regardless of the scab picked open and oozing vitriol, neglected and left to rot.

Ed does not want to be in Central. Which is a feeling that takes him a couple of days to firmly decide he has. Seeing the progress that has been made since that day is nice. The city recovered well, with the people’s interests and self-expression flourishing without the oppressive reign of Bradley. Führer Grumman isn’t doing a bad job, Ed was— is just angry.

Next to his well wishes for the people of the city is the ugly cesspit of feelings Ed has regarding everything that happened to him for this progress to be made. There are far less military police patrolling the streets, perhaps just about one every few blocks, which is good. Ed still feels uneasy with every one he sees. Walking the streets, he can’t help but to listen in on any conversation he can, just in case there might be any rumors of trouble floating about. His next issue is just that — walking around town.

He couldn’t wear his hair in a braid, and most definitely could not wear red, anymore. In Creta, he learned that the hard way. It was the very reason why they caught him in Pendleton. Central is no skirmish-zone such as that, and his face was very well known from all of the stunts he pulled back in the day. Everywhere he goes, there’s furtive or reverential glances. If they don’t recognize him, they analyze him like they’ve seen him somewhere before, and it’ll only be a matter of time before they connect the dots.

It first happened when he booked his hotel room for his week (he decided the time limit on his train ride back) he’d be staying in the city. The receptionist gave him a twice-over, and then it clicked when he said ‘Elric’. Ed spent the rest of his evening in his room.

The next day he did some wandering around, checking out what had changed in his absence. There’s a new breath of life to the streets, and it’s nice. It’s not like he’s being stopped constantly like some celebrity, but any conversation stirs up people’s memories of that day and the Fullmetal Alchemist. The grocer, the cafe, the library. So Ed keeps his head down, reads his books, and waits.

On his second day he has the courtesy to call Riza and tell her about Roy. She says that if he isn’t coming down from that mountain, they probably shouldn't get everyone together right now. She also thanks him before hanging up with a brief, strangled goodbye. Ed, so loathsomely, regrets. He smashes the feeling apart. He moves forward.

Ed’s mornings are spent pouring over the books he gets from the local library. Now that important information isn’t being kept under lock and key so that the homunculi can control the flow of media, books and research topics of substance are no longer barred behind a military ID. He can spend his time brushing up on physics and the like, since most of the alchemy he’d been learning in Creta and Aerugo had more to do with spirituality and chemistry respectively.

In the evening, he’d wait at the cafe, secluding himself to a table towards the rear with his books and journals. Roy could only arrive in the evening, due to the schedules of the trains, so he didn’t worry about missing him for the most part. Then he would go back to his small hotel room and make it through the night.

No script and no working theory could make him stop thinking about those two nights in Briggs. It almost felt like a dream with how much he reminisced on it, and he didn’t really have any physical proof that it had happened, save for his scribbled notes that read like a baseless theory. He should have taken the figure for himself, so that he had concrete evidence, if only for himself, that he had technically transmuted something. With each day that passed, it seemed more like a scarily detailed delusion. 

It’s only the small details he remembers that keep him from truly thinking so, things that he’s sure even his mind couldn’t make up on its own. He’s seen Mustang outside of uniform a handful of times, but this was somehow different. He’s never considered an image of Mustang as a total civilian — it's basically what he is now, so he doesn't bother with semantics. There’s the portraits that he found on Roy’s desk and he tries and fails not to think about his own page half burnt and what it might mean. Most notably, as it’s a proven fact that it does well to jog one’s memory, he remembers the scent. Campfire and pine, and the subtle hint of alcohol when they were close. That lattermost smell has almost always been there, he realizes, but he hadn’t made the connection when he was younger.

A dream might have been better, or perhaps it’d only serve to give him reason to make the trip, and there’d be no escaping the confrontation. It had to happen. Ed just wishes he could find a substantial enough reason as to why it had to happen. He doesn’t want to have this knowledge. To sit and stew over it for years to come, because he’s sure that’s what will become of this indenture. He loathes to admit it, and to admit that they have anything in common other than a shared experienced catastrophe, but he and Roy are equally obstinate. There’s the very real chance that Roy had been considering returning, and Ed has just snuffed it out by pushing him on it. It's entirely plausible that he'll die with his feelings unfulfilled.

Ed will catch himself being in a sour mood over it, and mentally scold himself for being… he doesn’t even know what he’s being, actually. That just makes it so much worse. Upset? Angry? Why is he so listless now, even more so than before? He hasn’t seen Roy in years, it shouldn’t matter that much. It should be gone.

The answer is there — has to be, because there are no unexplainable events — he just has to look it in the eye and address it. He just really, really does not want to. He’d like to return to Aerugo and move on without accepting whatever the hell this is (he knows, has known for a long time, but it makes no difference when the subject of such affection has been hundreds of miles away).

If nothing else, Ed makes proper use of his time in Central. He visits Gracia the next day. Elicia has grown up what seems like too fast. He sits on the sofa with a mug of tea in hand, Gracia on the couch across from him and Elicia by her side. She remembers him, but does seem a little shy now.

“So you’ve been good, but what brought you back to the city? Are you visiting anyone in particular?”

Ed had hoped it just wouldn’t come up. He glances at the picture of Hughes on the mantle, the same as it was the last time he was here years ago. “I felt like paying a visit to the old squad. Uh… Mustang’s unit.”

The atmosphere darkens ever so slightly, but Gracia’s smile holds strong. “So you know…”

“Yeah,” he swallows. “Yeah, I found out when I got here. I got back from Briggs a couple days ago.”

“You saw him?” She sounds completely surprised. He doesn't really blame her.

Ed nods. As his fingers trace the rim of the delicate mug, he’s reminded of what happened. His hands itch and nearly burn to feel that energy again. “Hawkeye— Riza asked me to. To… you know, get through to him.” He’s fidgety, and he can’t help it. His guard is always down a certain degree around Gracia and it’s never been something that he’s been able to control. “I kind of tried, but I feel about the same as Riza does. Pi— Angry and let down. Not exactly the best place to try and lift someone up from.”

“I’m sure.” Her voice is a little tight now, and Ed recognizes the same pained lilt he heard in Riza’s voice days ago. “It is… disappointing.”

It’s more than that, they both know, and need not say aloud. Ed clears his throat and ventures, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not my apology that’s needed, but…”

“No, no ‘but’s. Maes wanted to see you boys get your bodies back. You did just that. Roy made his choice.”

Ed mulls over it, wants to find an argument because it just feels so horrible, but Gracia doesn’t deserve his anger. “Right,” he whispers. He has his body, but what more is he doing with it than the same things he did before? Research, fight, keep moving. He doesn’t regret his choice one bit, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world, but that doesn’t stop him from yearning. Alchemy was part of him, and everything that he knows. He’s becoming stagnant. He feels a little worthless. He's essentially cut off everyone as well.

Ed understands how Roy crashed and burned. They are alarmingly similar. His eyes are downcast when he asks, “Would it mean anything if he came back?”

Gracia's silence chokes him and makes his legs itch to jump up and retreat before he gets hurt. “Of course. I am angry, yes, but I can forgive. Should he return and make amends, and honor his best friend the way he should be honored, I can forgive him.”

Ed nods, because he does understand forgiveness of unforgivable acts. “Would you think less of him?”

Her silence is less impactful right away, but as it drags on, he can't help but to look up. “Is this still just about Roy?”

He flinches, even with the gentle delivery of the question. Ed weighs his options: to leave now or open up. What else is he going to do with his time? “Getting our bodies back was the end-all-be-all goal for years. I haven't found what to do next. I thought I'd come back and Mus— Roy,” it still feels strange in his mouth, “would have it all figured out, and that there'd be something here for me to do. I didn't realize how much I was banking on that until I saw him. If Roy became that, what could happen to me?” He clears his throat, uncomfortable with his own honesty. “That's what I thought.”

Gracia hums, sounding like she's easing into the understanding of it herself. “You really looked up to him.”

Ed’s jaw clenches as an instinctual reaction. “I guess. I mean, he's the reason I joined the military. How I got the motivation for getting our bodies back, and he… had a big part in getting us there. I wanted— He was supposed to be here when I got back. So, reverence isn't really it, I don't think.” He knows, but hasn't even told Al, so how could he tell himself?

Elicia, seemingly now bored with their conversation, runs off to another room. Ed almost sighs with relief. He’s held back because of her, feeling weirdly uncomfortable being vulnerable around a kid. He wonders just how much she understands now, if she knows that he was part of the reason her father was killed.

Gracia sets her empty cup down on the coffee table between them. Ed braves another look at her and her expression is thoughtful, maybe a little confused too. “How long was your visit for?”

Ed blinks, not seeing how the question is related. “Uh… just a couple nights. Got there in the evening, stayed for a day and left the next. How come?”

She hums, “If nobody ese, I’d venture to say you could get through to him.“

Ed doesn’t say it, because he does know how to be respectful at times, but he wants to tell her that she’s wrong. They had no real personal relationship. It’d be Riza, if anybody, who’d get through to him. Though, he is reminded of the last fight they had with Envy. It took more than Riza to talk him down. 

“I’m not going to keep trying. Like you said, he made his choice. I’ll be going back to Aerugo by the end of the week.”

“Of course.” She sounds resigned, a little less hopeful. Ed doesn’t blame her. He’s already given up. Why he’s holding out, he doesn’t want to admit even to himself. So, it surprises him when she goes on to say, “But you have been known to achieve the impossible.”

Ed leaves hardly feeling much better. Saying what he had been thinking aloud, finally, felt strange. It made the thoughts stick more firmly, now tangible. He couldn’t avoid them. Not with studying or trying to force himself to dwell on something else. It used to hang over his shoulder like a ghost. Now he rubs his eyes compulsively to make the vision go away. 

Roy is across the table, or next to him. His hand reaches out when Ed picks up his coffee, and he's ready for the energy to flow through him, but it never does. Because Roy isn't there. Roy is never there. He's stuck in a bleak never-ending midwinter. And his self-imposed time limit is up.

Ed stays for far longer than necessary on the last evening. He spends nearly the whole day at the cafe. Rain patters against the window. The seat he's claimed as his for the week feels more uncomfortable now than ever. 

Now, he's thinking that he doesn't even want to go back to Aerugo. He could visit Winry in Rush Valley, but she's busy and he shouldn't make this her problem. The tune-up can wait. There’s home, in Resembool, but alone time with Pinako doesn't sound the slightest bit favorable right now. There's Al on the other side of Amestris, somewhere across the desert, in Xing or a neighboring country. There's Roy, just sitting there in Briggs, festering in poisonous thoughts and decaying slowly, slowly. Fading away.

He'll go back to Aerugo and who knows what will become of Roy Mustang. He'll keep studying and then go back home and cross-reference his findings with Al's. Al can handle all of the arrays and Ed… can leave behind what he regrettably rekindled in Briggs and let it die along with Roy. It'll remain untapped and undiscovered and unknown.

He stares out the window and doesn't quite recall when the sun set. The rain has let up, reduced to a light sprinkle. He repeatedly taps his pen on the corner of the page he had been attempting to write on for the past few hours. There's a blotch of black ink, effectively rendering the bottom right portion of the page useless. His left leg bounces under the table. Each time he's noticed it, he sets it still, until he forgets about it and repeats the cycle. He could go for another cup of coffee, though he's about out of money and his last couple mugs have gone cold. It'd be a waste.

A kid splashes around in one of the puddles on the street, much to his mother's dismay, it seems, though she only gives him an exasperated smile. An older couple jogs by, seemingly having forgotten an umbrella, but they're laughing and smiling instead of being upset over being wet. Easy, slow. It's nice. He aches. It's not for him.

“Excuse me.”

Ed jumps nearly a foot out of his seat and turns to the voice. The waiter, who looks half as frightened as him now, stands by his table. Embarrassment quickly sets in and his cheeks flush. He relaxes and clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“No, please, I'm sorry for startling you. I hate to disturb you, but we're about to close up for the night. If you wouldn’t mind…”

Ed blinks, not having considered the cafe needing to close for the night. He hasn't ever stayed long enough for it to happen. Where did the time go? “Right, no. Yeah. I don't mind. Thanks.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes out as many cens as he can to leave enough to afford the trains back to Aerugo and sets them on the table.

The waiter thanks him and Ed leaves, trunk in hand. It goes everywhere with him, always ready to go at a moment's notice. To the right is his hotel. Going left will take him to the Northern station and he could catch the last train if he's fast enough.

Ed stands still, the weight of the decision almost comically large on his shoulders, because he’s decided far more dire matters in far less time. This is his last chance. He doesn't want to come back here when his trip is over. He can burn this bridge here and keep going. He can't keep looking back.

With a stupendous amount of effort, he turns right and starts walking. He feels something tugging at his heels, telling him to turn back and give it one more chance. Ed picks up his pace, tries to outrun it. He'll take the first train west in the morning.

“Edward!” 

Ed stops, but doesn’t turn. That specter again.

The footsteps are a new addition, and serve well to make him feel severely ill. He forces himself to keep walking.

“Ed, wait!” 

There's a pull at the back of his coat. The figure rounds in front of him and Ed stops again. He meets Roy’s eye.

He's embarrassingly out of breath, heaving and saying nothing for a full minute as he blocks Edward's path. His hand is firm on Ed's shoulder and it'd be a fight to make him let go. Ed doesn't fight it.

“What took you so long?” He says first, blind sighted by disbelief before anger.

“Storm— Snow. Had a delay,” the man heaves.

Right, it's been raining in Central for days. 

Then Ed remembers to be furious. “I waited long enough.” His voice is tight as his fists, clenched and shaking at his sides. He’s so full of anguish now, so hurt, it hardly matters that Roy is here. The rejection already settled into his heart and buried.

Roy finally seems to get his bearings. He stands up straighter but still doesn't let go. “Come see me when you get back.”

A kindling, of sorts, rustles within him. He stomps on it to snuff it out. “What?” Ed searches his face for more information and finds none. It's then that he notices the eyepatch is different. Smaller. “I'm not making that hike again.” I don't want to see you again.

“You won't have to. I'll be back in Central, or East City.” 

“You've always been a liar.”

“I'll prove you wrong. I won’t break another promise.”

Ed doesn't want to be entertained by it, or to entertain it. He's pissed. And Roy is fucking grinning like he’s already won. Won what? 

“Why? I don't understand. Why leave if you're going to just come back like this? It’s senseless. You should have had the foresight to avoid this.”

The corners of his lips fall slightly, but not all the way. Ed wants to punch him. “You're right. You're also right that it isn't too late, and I was being a fool. Now I'll pay the price for such foolishness. I had lost sight of what mattered.”

Ed stares at him, his seething anger gradually cooling into confoundment. Because this, without a single doubt, is ridiculous. Unbelievable. 

Edward considers the concept of deserving something good. He considers if this is good. If this is something that he wants to deal with or to get into, now or ever. If it’s even something that will last. It's a lot to consider, when he's only realized it this past week and is just now easing into acceptance. Acceptance, so as it is now, and formerly resignation. 

There’s an ember — a spark — and it dances around his feet and dodges his attempts to rid it from his heart. Much like the man himself, always dancing on the edge of Ed's patience, keeping his attention firmly in his grasp one way or another. It's as infuriating as it is fun. He misses it. He believes it isn't too late.

Roy's hand on his shoulder is heavy, though his grip has loosened slightly. Ed glances at his hand, he has no active qualms with it, then meets Roy's eye. He looks at the new patch. He blinks. Idiot, he thinks. This fucking idiot, he grins, all mirth and full of irritation.

“Was that a joke?”