Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Levitas Fragosus ❯ . . . And that which is Lost ( Chapter 4 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

On fanfiction.net, where I also post this, some of my readers asked what the title meant. I figured I would explain it to y'all as well:

There's this song that I liked and that I thought went just beautifully with the idea of the story; however, I didn't want to put the title of the song as the title, because A) people might mistake it as a songfic and B) that just seems cheesy in my mind. So, I translated the title into Latin.

`Levitas Fragosus' means `Lightning Crashes'. That's the explanation. (smiles)

The song is by Live and I suggest y'all give it a listen. It probably won't give you any special insight into the plot of the story (only my two good friends and I know how everything will eventually turn out), but it's a good song.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. That would make me Hiromu Arakawa. She hates RoyEd. I love it. Ergo, I am not Hiromu Arakawa and don't own FMA. Tada!

- + -

“Man's Reason is in such deep insolvency to sense, that tho' she guide his highest flight heav'nward, and teach him dignity, morals, manners, and human comfort, she can delicately and dangerously bedizen the rioting joys that fringe the sad pathways of Hell.”

-Robert Bridges

- + -

Chapter IV: . . . And that which is Lost

There is a moment in every person's life.

A moment where reality comes to a screeching, stumbling halt and who that person was before becomes ethereal and fades away into the realm of forgotten. A moment that is both feared and strived for, both hated and loved. It was a moment that Edward Elric thought he had experienced before . . .

In his sixteen short years, he was sure that he would have gotten used to the feeling of being humbled. Of being down on his knees, begging . . . beseeching. Of feeling pain.

Of fear . . .

But as he kneeled before the Gate—the same Gate that had rent his limbs and still haunted his waking dreams—and pleaded for it to give his brother's soul back . . . Ed understood yet again.

“I want my brother back. Please. I'd give anything! Anything! Just give me Al back!”

There is a moment in every person's life . . . And as black, tendril-like hands reached towards him from the abyss caged between two doors, caressing, ensnaring, wanting . . . Edward had that moment once again.

The moment that he realized that he was only human.

He had learned that when he and Al had tried to resurrect their mother . . . and again when he had faced both Barry the Butcher and Scar. He had learned that on the rainy night he first saw the silhouette of Nina Tucker burned onto the side of a building in a dark alleyway. And he was relearning it now. Hands fell upon him and he trembled under the weight of Darkness . . . he hurt, and was afraid.

Edward Elric was only human.

And he screamed.

- + -

Roy Mustang was currently experiencing a very similar moment . . .

The Flame Alchemist stumbled over yet another grave marker that had been carefully concealed within the damp grass, but quickly regained his balance before gravity got the better of him. He should slow down—should lessen his frantic pace before he fell and broke his neck, because that wouldn't do anyone any good, especially him—but he couldn't bring himself to do so . . .

He ran like the devil himself was at his heels, his breaths becoming shorter, rapider, and more staccato with each step, his eyes refusing to leave the red-clad figure as it ran blindly out into the dark cemetery and toppled headlong over a gravestone. Under any other circumstances, the situation might have been amusing—even comical; however, as Roy's knees hit the ground next to his subordinate and he saw the blonde's face contort as he wailed and writhed in agony . . . the colonel couldn't find anything funny about it.

Truth be told, he was scared shitless.

Gripping the boy's flesh shoulder, Roy gave him a rough shove and more or less forced him to roll over onto his back; Ed, of course, did not like this one bit and screamed his discomfort to the starless sky, seemingly trying to tuck his knees under his chin in his efforts to ball up against the pain.

The dark-haired man growled in irritation—the boy was hurt, no doubt about that; however, Roy was left to only guess as to the extent of his injuries. The shirt and jacket that he appeared to be forever cloaked in were both black as pitch . . . making it very difficult for the colonel to tell if Ed was bleeding under all those layers . . . He needed to take a look at the teen's stomach, to assess the damage to the area.

Now, Roy wasn't a doctor by any means. The extent of his playing nurse had begun and ended on the fields of Ishbal—and then, that had merely been helping to hold down a fellow soldier while he screamed and writhed as his broken legs were set . . . At the very most, his alchemic talents had been used to cauterize major wounds, usually brought about by enemy explosives or simply Kimblee having too much careless fun.

However, if Ed was as seriously injured as Roy thought, then the Flame could at least stem the hemorrhaging—cauterize the wound, if need be—and then get him to a hospital where a real doctor could look at him. Edward, however, with all of his squirming, was not making it easy for Roy to help him.

Eventually, through much clawing and pushing and pulling and maybe a bit of shouting, the colonel somehow managed to fend off Edward's hands long enough to pull his shirt up and reveal . . .

Nothing.

There was no welt. No bruising. No burn, alchemic or otherwise. No cuts or lacerations. No wound of any kind . . . Nothing but smooth, tanned, unbroken skin, dimpled here and there to form abs that a sixteen-year-old shouldn't possess and sinking away into a dark belly-button just above the waistline of his pants. No mark, whatsoever . . .

Roy released the struggling ball of muscle and automail—who promptly rolled back onto his side and hunched over, his breathing deep, erratic, ragged, and laced with pain—and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding . . .

“Fullmetal,” the colonel stated loudly, trying to make himself heard over the blonde's muted cries; his own voice was raw and gritty and trembling so badly he wasn't sure if it even belonged to him. “Fullme—Edward! Edward!” he shouted, finally resorting to calling the boy by his actual name when nothing else worked.

That seemed to do the trick.

The blonde stilled and let out a shuddering breath; golden eyes—dark, hazy, and unfocused—cracked open a sliver through the pain and swiveled up to rest on the older man's face. “Al?” the boy wheezed. “. . . Alphonse?”

The colonel's breath hitched painfully in his throat, his dark eyes widening to an uncomfortable circumference. “No, Fullmetal,” he whispered harshly. “It's Roy.”

“Mm . . . Mustang?” Ed squinted up at him, recognition suddenly invading his clouded orbs. Clamping his eyes shut once again, Edward groaned and rolled over onto his knees, grinding his forehead against the damp grass and pressing himself as deeply against his own legs as his body could manage. “What're you doing here, Mustang?” he rasped out through clenched teeth. “Where . . . where's Al?”

Roy let his brow furrow as he settled back on his heels, taking several deep, steadying breaths and several long seconds to process a calm, rational response to this question. But, for the life of him, he couldn't help thinking back to the blue light he had seen only minutes before . . . and that made him seethe. And so, he also couldn't help the harsh response that flowed out of his mouth:

“Alphonse is dead, Fullmetal. You know that.”

Edward visibly cringed at the words and then appeared to shrink, as if he were attempting to tighten even further into his fetal ball of misery. “But . . . I thought that—” His words were abruptly cut off as another spasm of pain racked his small body; he gasped and wrapped his arms firmly around his midsection once again, shuddering and choking and sobbing . . . and Roy felt the knot of anger in his chest loosen considerably . . .

“What?” he whispered once the teen's tremors had ceased. “What did you think?”

“I just . . . I just thought that . . .” Edward wept out, his voice echoing around the cool, dark cemetery lot. “I thought that if I gave enough . . .” The blonde let his voice trail off as his body was slammed with yet another convulsion, but Roy caught the meaning behind the words.

I thought that if I gave enough . . .

. . . gave enough . . .

Equivalency.

The colonel had Ed's shoulders in his hands and he was smashing the quivering boy up against the nearest headstone before he could stop himself. “What happened?” he yelled into the Elric's face.

Edward's whole body contorted for a few short moments—his legs locking up against his chest and his hands fisting the grass beneath his gloved palms—before the pain finally receded . . . and he lifted his head the slightest degree. It was enough for Roy to glimpse the intensity burning in the slivers of gold irises that he saw.

The teen lowered his head again, flaxen bangs curtaining before his face and shielding his eyes them from further viewing. He then growled out, “What the hell do you think?”

Roy Mustang felt his breath leave him is a gust then, gut-punched not only by the sheer animosity that the Fullmetal managed to put behind the words . . . but by the words themselves . . .

Giving Edward's flesh shoulder as painful a squeeze as he could manage, he leaned in and hissed into the blonde's ear, “You wait right here. Don't you move.”

Then, leaning away and pushing himself into a standing position—only now realizing that his legs had fallen asleep, as he could feel the pins-and-needles of returning blood dancing the Can-Can down his calves—Roy began slowly making his way towards the shed that Edward had just stumbled out of . . .

The one containing the suit of armour that had once been Alphonse Elric.

- + -

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

The door was ajar, Edward having not bothered to close it again as he fled, and ethereal wisps of powder grey smoke were curling out over the doorstop and slithering through the blades of grass. The jabs seemed darkened . . . maybe due to an alchemic burn . . . Roy wasn't sure . . .

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

The colonel swallowed thickly and ran his clammy hands slowly up and down the sides of his trench coat, trying to rid himself of the sweat on his palms; his mouth was dry, his ears were buzzing, and his whole body was trembling uncontrollably, his teeth chattering together as though he were freezing.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

He didn't know what he should expect . . . but, at the same time, he expected the worst. Because it was Edward. And bad things followed Edward . . .

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord . . .

Roy's fingers silently found the edge of the door and he grasped it firmly, feeling the rough texture of the beaten wood even through his gloves. He closed his eyes then, taking a deep breath—the whiff of ozone that always lingered over the site of an alchemic reaction stinging his nostrils and sinus cavities—and pulled open the door.

. . . forever.

- + -

The residual alchemic charge in the air of the small space was so overwhelmingly intense that Roy swore he could feel his hair trying to stand on end; his whole body tingled and itched in a familiar way—almost as if a layer of radioactive ash was settling on his skin—and he resisted the urge to reach up and scratch his arms. Misty smoke hung heavy in the room, making it hard to discern anything; it swirled past his ankles, making its escape through the opened door behind him, and Roy was, for once, thankful for the heavy military-issued boots he wore . . .

He didn't want the stuff touching him.

His heels sounded heavy and slow on the concrete floor as he made his way deeper into the dark interior of the cramped shed. The Flame squinted around, his eyes adjusting, but still unable to make out anything definite through the vapor and murk . . . There were forms—varying in size, shape, and distance—starting to appear, the meager light filtering in from outside through the wide-open entryway helping Roy to see.

There looked to be built-in cabinets on the left wall, floor to ceiling and painted the same blue-grey as the rest of the room . . . what looked like three or four push mowers lined up against the back wall . . . There were containers—boxes and tubs, buckets and baskets—stacked in various places. And . . .

There.

What is that? The mist was clearing more quickly now and a hulking form was appearing in the centre of the room. Sparse light played off of the contoured edges of a cuneus breastplate and rounded epaulieres, the sharp points of protruding spikes glinting almost menacingly . . .

Roy Mustang had to bite down on his tongue to be sure he wasn't dreaming.

Alphonse Elric's reattached armour lay in the middle of the room, the chalk lines of a deadly-looking alchemic array spreading outwards from his body like a mold, his empty eye sockets staring up at the ceiling . . .

Cold, unmoving, unresponsive . . .

Lifeless.

Roy tasted blood.

The colonel approached with caution, his steps slow, deliberate, and heavy—a subconscious warning to whatever lay before him that he was coming, built into him from back when he was a small child playing in the thick-grassed fields near his country home. Where poisonous snakes and other dangerous creatures ran rampant, his father had always taught him to let them know that you were coming; alert them to your presence before you accidentally snuck up on them.

Sound advice for a bare-footed boy.

And Roy had inadvertently carried it with him for the rest of his days; he never thought that it would be something that he would have to remember, but now—as he made his way towards the viper of chalk and alchemic pomp, hissing its displease and coiling tighter around an inanimate cataphract—for some reason, he was glad that he did . . .

He squatted down at the edge of the array, one hand on the ground between his legs for balance, and leaned forward to examine the design that Edward had made. He knew better than to touch the thing—he might not have been as well-versed on the subject of arrays and transmutations as the Elrics were . . . but he was an alchemist. One who had done his fair share of research on body alchemy . . .

And putting his hands to an “active” human transmutation circle didn't seem like a very bright idea. However, he leaned as close as he dared—close enough to where he could smell the dampness, mold, and chalk dust aromas rising off of the concrete floor—in silent awe. In reverence.

Intricate and beautiful in the ways of a speeding bullet, the lines of the circle came together. Its angles and curves seemed to dance as Roy breathed, glistening like pentellic marble in the sparse moonlight that shone through the clouds . . .

Edward Elric was an alchemic genius.

“You tried it again,” he whispered to himself. “I can't believe that you actually tried it again, you crazy, stupid, selfish sonofabitch . . .”

An alchemic genius . . . and a suicidal fool. The dichotomy of it all made Roy's head spin . . .

When the Flame had seen the flash of blue light and had watched Ed run from the shed, holding his stomach like it was going to slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful, his mind had immediately gone to the worst. He had silently hoped—prayed—as he ran to the blonde's aid, that he was mistaken. That it was just some simple alchemy experiment gone wrong . . . That Edward wasn't as idiotic as he had just proven himself to be . . .

“Did you . . . did you not lose enough the first time? You felt the need to do it again? Why would you . . . Why would you put yourself in danger like that?”

Roy shoved himself up and away from the circle, spinning away as the rage built up inside of him. It clawed and snapped at the inside of his chest and burned his innards, seeping out through his pores and snarling viciously at the open air.

“Edward Elric, I swear when I get my hands on you . . .”

What will you do? a voice very akin to his own cooed almost condescendingly inside his head. Hit him? He's been beaten so much throughout his short life that I doubt he would feel it anymore . . .

Roy slowed . . . his balled fists slackening . . .

Will you threaten him with a court martial? Or simply yell at him? Scream about the fouls of Human Transmutation—of how it's illegal and can never be right, because what one has to give up can never equal what was lost?

The demon attempting to claw its way through his sternum quieted and went still, as if it, too, was harkening the words. He approached the door, hand outstretched . . .

And what kind of a fucking hypocrite are you, Roy Mustang, to berate him for wanting to atone for his sins? For wanting to bring someone back?

The colonel stopped, his palm resting on the doorjamb.

“It isn't the same. I didn't . . . I didn't go through with it . . .” There was a pressure building behind his eyes—pressing and probing—and the Roy let his lids slip shut, hoping to stem the force.

That's right. You didn't. But you would have. You would have if someone who loved you more than you could ever hate yourself hadn't intervened and slapped some sense into you. Someone was there for you . . .

“Hughes . . .” he whispered, his grip tightening on the burned doorframe.

Someone was there to stop you . . . and that was something that Edward didn't have . . . He did Human Transmutation again . . .

The dark-haired man worked his jaw silently, not trusting himself to respond to the voice just yet.

So where's Alphonse?

Roy opened his eyes.

“It didn't work.” The words left him without him meaning to, but simply hearing them spoken—even from his own lips—was enough to make that realization tangible to the Flame . . . and he collapsed heavily against the jamb as relief washed over his senses in numbing waves. “It didn't work,” he repeated hoarsely. “It didn't work.”

No. He failed.

Roy took a deep, long breath, forcing the cool night air down to the very depths of his lungs, inflating them until they ached . . . and then released it all—all the anger, guilt, sorrow; everything—in a wet rush of carbon dioxide and adrenaline. Resting his face against the wooden frame of the door, the colonel let his onyx eyes slip shut as he mused silently.

Edward was okay. He was alive. Granted, the fact that he had attempted a second human transmutation in the unimaginable time span of four years was something that would be thoroughly touched upon whenever the two of them did talk about it; however, he was there. He was there and whole and, despite the pain he seemed to be in, he wasn't hurt as far as Roy could tell. He was all right. He was safe.

Alive.

And that was the part the Flame should be focusing on. There was no doubt in Roy's mind that they would discuss the Fullmetal's stupidity. Eventually. But for now . . .

For now . . .

What about Edward?

Roy let his eyes flutter open at this thought, peering around at the vast necropolis surrounding him. He couldn't possibly send the boy back to his room in the dorms . . . Alone. By himself, where he could listen to the silence and think. Think about what he had done wrong and about how he had failed his brother.

Who knew what he might do to himself if given that opportunity?

No.

Of all the things that Edward needed right now, being alone with his thoughts was not one of them . . .

- + -

Roy carefully placed the chipped, white mug on the coffee table before Edward, and then sat down next to the boy on the couch, his own mug of steaming tea clutched in his ungloved hands.

Once Roy had made the decision to not leave Edward alone, there had been only one place that he could think of to take him. His state alchemist's position paid him well and his house was large enough to be blessed with a small number of guest rooms—Ed wouldn't be by himself to stew and, more importantly, he would be under the watchful eye of his superior officer. Roy sank back into the white divan, letting his eyes take in the calming familiarity of his living room.

A plush white rug and taupe walls hadn't been his first choice, but now . . . they settled his soul and he was thankful to his mother and sister for forcing him into it. Floor to ceiling mahogany bookcases lined most of one wall—only breaking once to give way to the room's great marble fireplace, sitting unlit at this time of year—holding mostly knickknacks and family heirlooms; Roy kept his vast collection of tomes divided between his study and small library. The other three walls contained artwork of various size and heritage, most of it from Xing or Creata, and a swinging door near the back led to the out-of-the-way dining hall . . . It was peaceful and good.

It was home.

The Flame then spared the blonde seated next to him a flickering sideways glance, studying his lowered profile charily, before he sighed and brought his cuppa to his lips.

“Why?”

The question seemed spoken from the air and was so unexpected that Roy nearly choked on his tea in his surprise. Coughing a bit, he lowered his mug and turned to look at his guest. Dulled aureate orbs were peering out at him from behind flaxen fringe. The colonel swallowed hard before responding, attempting to level his voice.

“Why what?”

Ed turned to stare down into the dregs at the bottom of his steaming tea, his trembling hands tightening around the mug. “Why aren't you yelling?” he all but hissed out. “Aren't you gonna berate me about how stupid it was and how I should have known better? Why the hell are you being nice? Why the hell aren't you being an asshole?”

The blonde fully looked at him then, his eyes dark pools of grieving amber; the skin of his forehead and around his mouth pinched and tight, and he had dark, triangular hollows under both eyes. The teenager was showing signs of an age that the Flame Alchemist himself hadn't reached yet . . .

Roy fixed him with a blank stare—one practiced and improved over countless meetings with naïve soldiers and pompous, infantile officials—and sighed gently. “It was stupid,” he said slowly, “and you should have known better . . . but if you want me to yell, then I'll do it later.”

Edward's brow furrowed slightly at this; Roy closed his eyes and brought his cuppa up to his face, resting the tip of his nose against the mug lip. “Don't get me wrong—you attempted something that you knew could get you killed and you attempted it with no regard for your personal safety. I am so pissed at you I can barely think straight. And I will yell eventually, trust me on that . . . but, right now, that's not what you need.” He brought the cup to his lips then, taking a long draw on his cooling drink.

“Oh, so you know what I need now, do you?” the Fullmetal spat, his voice laced with the Edwardian hostility that Roy had grown accustomed to over the years. Setting his mug down on the table before them, he shifted on the couch to face the eldest Elric.

“As a matter of fact, Edward, I do,” he stated calmly, lacing his fingers together in his lap and leaning forward slightly. “You need someone to talk to about this—calmly, rationally, equally. Someone who will speak to you as an adult and won't chastise you. Someone who won't treat you like a child.” He paused to read Edward's features, noting that the lines of his face had become somewhat less drawn and that his eyes had softened—if only a little. “Now, it's my turn: Why?”

The blonde stared at his commanding officer for several seconds, before turning back to his tea. He chewed on the inside of his cheek contemplatively, while Roy waiting patiently for a response. He wasn't disappointed.

“. . . Why'd I do it?”

Not the answer he was looking for, but it was a start. He nodded once, knowing that Edward didn't have to be looking at him to catch the simple motion.

There was a laugh—harsh, cold, and raw with every emotion besides mirth—and the boy choked out, “Why do you think I did it? I wanted to get Al back. What other choice did I have?”

The colonel had known that—it was a simple enough concept, after all. Edward was passionate about his loved ones in ways that made Roy's knees tremble. He had given up a part of his own body to save his brother's soul—had had it ripped away while he was alive, awake, and feeling it. Anyone who knew the Elric couldn't help marvel at his devotion to his family . . . even if they didn't know the whole story.

So, there was no doubt in Roy's mind as to why the boy had done it. However . . .

“How were you planning on getting him back?” he probed carefully. “For human alchemy, you need the components that make up a human body, as you well know. From what I saw of your setup back in the graveyard, you had none of that—nothing of equivalent value to give . . .” Edward tilted his head and gave Roy a strange, questioning look, but the dark-haired man waved him off evenly and continued, “How were you planning on getting him back, Ed?”

Edward stared at him a long while, his jaw working back and forth, his tongue clicking every so often. It wasn't like the blonde to be so quiet—he was normally verbose and animated to the point of being violent . . . So, his silence was unnerving Roy more than the man would say . . .

After what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his eyes to a spot somewhere near the colonel's clavicle and said in a voice so low that the older man felt compelled to lean in so he could better hear it, “. . . I wasn't planning on getting his body back.”

Roy's brow furrowed. “What do you—?”

“I figured that . . . if I could give up enough, I could get his soul back. I could reattach it to the armour. It wouldn't matter if I lost another arm or leg . . . or even both—I've got the best automail mechanic in all of Amestris . . . What would another limb matter if I could get Al back?”

Roy let his mouth hang open silently, his eyebrows coming together in shock and concentration. “And once you got him back in the armour . . .” he whispered, more to himself that to his subordinate, “. . . you would simply resume your search for the philosopher's stone . . .”

Edward nodded slowly. “Another automail appendage wouldn't matter once we got ahold of the stone. It would all be moot.”

The Flame would never admit how much he truly admired the boy at that very moment . . .

He sucked silently on his bottom lip for a short time, taking in what the teenager sitting next to him had just admitted; sighing, Roy placed a comforting hand on his flesh shoulder. “Edward . . . I know that you miss your brother dearly; hell, we all do. You might think that you're going through this alone, but despite what you may think, everyone under my command felt the blow—”

The blonde shrugged off the man's hand and spat, “What the fuck do they know? You all just—”

“I'm not saying that anyone felt it as hard as you did,” Roy serenely interrupted, holding up his hand for silence. “Don't accuse me of that. All I'm saying is that . . . you're not by yourself in your pain.”

Silence reined for a long time after this statement, its rule broken only by the harsh tick of the living room clock and the light pitter-patter of drizzle against the window panes. The two men gazed at one another, neither speaking, but both seeing the silent emotions betrayed in the other's eyes.

“Edward . . .” Roy began softly, turning his head slightly. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe Alphonse wouldn't want this? That maybe he wouldn't want his only brother going through that kind of pain for him?”

He knew that he was stepping into dangerous territory, but he had to play this card for Edward to truly know the gravity of the situation. The Fullmetal's expression grew dark and stormy as the night sky then, his golden orbs flickering with fire. “I don't know what Al would want, now do I?” he growled through clenched teeth. “Because he's not here to tell me! And he never will be! I failed! I failed him! Again!”

“Edward—”

“Don't!” he bellowed, slamming the cuppa he was still clutching down on the table with a clatter. “Don't you fucking tell me that you know how I feel, because you don't! Al was the centre of my universe. He was the reason that I got up in the morning; the reason that I took each and every breath. He was my everything!”

Ed paused and looked away, his bangs falling before his face, masking his expression; when he finally spoke again, his voice was low and gravelly, sharp and cold as his automail spear and Roy felt himself tremble in its wake:

“When you've lost your everything . . . your reason for living . . . then, maybe we can talk . . .”

- + -

“Hey, kid! What're you doing down there? Are you all right? . . . No offense, but you have to be pretty idiotic to fall down a well . . .”

“I can't believe that your grandmother is teaching you alchemy! That's not fair . . . My parents told me that there was no way I was gonna try alchemy. `Too dangerous' they always tell me . . .”

“So, you went out with Janet last night? How'd it go, you dog? . . . Oh. Y'know, maybe she was just nervous. Maybe you came on too strong? Try being more gentlemanly next time, okay? Girls like that.”

“So . . . your dad's making you join the military? . . . Heh. Looks like you're a true military brat, now Roy . . . Oh, a state alchemist? Yeah, that'll really rub it in his face . . . Maybe it won't be so bad.”

“You know that I can't let you out of my sight for one second, otherwise you'll do something stupid . . . That's why I've decided to join up, as well . . . Face it Roy, without me, you're bound to do something stupid and get yourself killed.”

“To do that, you're gonna need someone who understands you and the system . . . and support you from the inside. I'll work under you, stay close to the higher-ups, and help push you to the top . . .”

“When you've lost your everything . . . your reason for living . . . then, maybe we can talk . . .”

“Mustang? Mustang!Roy!”

The porcelain mug lay shattered and forgotten on the floor, the dark tea creeping along through the cracks in the hardwood and seeping into the white throw rug. Roy Mustang had his face in his hands . . . and he was weeping. He was sobbing frantically and he had no idea why.

No. That wasn't true. He knew . . . knew why he was crying. Because of his friend and companion and partner . . . for his memories and life and loss and death . . . He was weeping for Gracia and Elysia and all of the man's friends and loved ones . . . He was crying out in sheer sorrow and rage and agony . . . because he had failed him. He had lost him . . .

His everything.

Roy Mustang was openly weeping for Maes Hughes . . . and for Alphonse Elric . . . and for Edward.

Edward . . .

The colonel risked a glance at Ed through his tearing eyes, and saw that the boy was on his knees next to him; he leaned heavily against Roy, his gloved hands bunched against the navy jacket, and the man could feel him trembling. His golden eyes were wide and wild, tears spilling down his paled cheeks.

He looks . . . terrified . . .

“You can't . . . cry!” Ed choked out between sobs, his words broken by shuddering gasps. “You can't . . . Not now! Please! Al was always the stronger one—the braver one. But, he's . . . You can't cry, Mustang! You have to be the strong one!”

The dark-haired man slowly removed his hands and turned to gaze at Edward.

“The strong one?” he questioned hollowly, his tears still sliding silently down his face. “But, Edward . . . I was never the strong one. He was always . . . always the stronger of the two of us. He took care of me. He was the strong one. Not me. Never me . . .”

Roy leaned forward, gently resting his forehead against Edward's and their tears mingled and merged and spiraled downwards in a chaotic dance, spattering on the hardwood like the raindrops against the window. Ed hesitated, but then reached up and clutched at the front of the colonel's uniform, his fingers looping themselves into the lapels almost possessively as Roy's own arms wrapped themselves around the blonde's shoulders.

Neither of them remembered who initiated the kiss . . . but both would later claim—if only to themselves—that they hadn't meant to do it. No. Roy hadn't meant to kiss Edward that night.

And he hadn't meant to have sex with him.

He hadn't meant to. But it happened . . . and he let it happen. And they both cried and held each other and clawed and writhed and screamed their sorrow and passion and agony to the rafters . . . and the skies above opened up . . .

And heaven wept for two sinners.