Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.

Fireflies

He was cold. He was so cold.

Colours twirled and spun before his eyes like a drunken dancer, blues and blacks and searing oranges. Somewhere above him, Mustang was shouting—voice thick and tight and so human that it scared him—and orders tumbled through air thick with acrid smoke and the dust of ruined buildings.

Pale granite stones—bigger than his head, bigger than his whole body, bigger than the trucks and tanks rolling up the cracked streets—were scattered around him, tossed carelessly, embedded in cracked buildings and cracked roads and covering the bodies of soldiers and civilians and armour and—

He was so fucking cold.

Flames snapped, lighting up just above his head, yellow-white. If he could just move his hand, he could reach up to them, maybe steal their warmth—

Pain lanced through his body, sharp and mind-numbing. Setting his nerves on fire. A moan—low and guttural; so much like the dog he was—bubbled up from between his lips. Blood sprayed across his face.

Another voice—Havoc, his mind whispered to him. It was Havoc—cut through the hissing of flames and the screaming of gunfire. "We can't move him, sir! We'll break the blood seal!"

Screaming, shouting, desperate wails. "Just go! Just leave me! Save him, please!"

More flames flashed across his eyes, curling through the air; eddies of smoke and dust played with each other. Ash drifted around him like snow, touching his red jacket—it was wet. Why was it wet? It wasn't raining—kissing his cheeks, turning pink.

"Just leave him then!" Mustang's voice cracked, and his fingers snapped.

Someone screamed. Was it him? Was he screaming? His throat hurt, his lungs hurt, blood flew from his lips. The agony was a white-hot brand against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes tight, forced air into his lungs—it hurts! It hurts!—searched for the scratched and damaged and dented armour that was his brother—

Missing legs, missing helmet, chest plate cracked and blackened and pocked and lying fifteen feet away. Covered in granite sand and white ash and wood splinters.

Al. Al. Al.

He tried to scream out again, say something, anything. The noise didn't make it past his throat.

Fire blossomed before his eyes, weaving and swaying and then dying out. The flames were mere pinpricks now, bobbing in the air, dancing almost playfully, glowing yellow. They winked at him, surrounded him, beckoned to him.

Cautiously, he reached forward with a near-broken automail hand. A firefly lit on it, crawled over his fingernail and explored the fine lines of his first knuckle. Its tread was light; it almost tickled. Somewhere, the back of his mind howled at him—how could he feel this? How could he have nails and boney knuckles and flesh fingers?—but the screaming weakened, fell silent. Just… died away.

"Edward?" He glanced over, watched his mother as she drew near. She was just as he remembered. Her chestnut hair bound loosely, tumbling over her shoulder; grey eyes soft and gentle, face unblemished by time. With a happy sigh, she seated herself in the grass next to him. "I think Al's still by the river. Would you mind getting him for me, dear? It's nearly dinner and he'll be hungry, I'm sure."

He offered her a smile, and returned his gaze to the firefly on his hand just in time to watch the thing fly away. "Yeah, no problem."

He climbed to his feet, toes digging into the rich soil. He stared down at them for a moment—for some reason, it seemed odd to be able to feel the cool earth beneath his left foot—and, in a moment he couldn't quite understand, wrapped her in a one-armed hug.

She smiled up. "What's this for?"

"Nothing," he muttered, burying his face against her shoulder. The smell of cinnamon and lavender filled his nose. Why did he feel so nostalgic?

"You've been acting so odd lately, Edward," she told him, but returned the gesture nonetheless. "Have your stories run away from you?"

He froze. "Stories?"

"Yes, dear. All your tales about alchemy and artificial people. You get so wrapped up sometimes."

"The homunculi?" But the homunculi were real. He'd seen them and fought them with Al and Mustang; had bled because of them, had his skin dimple and bruise under their inhumane strength. They'd kidnapped Al and had threatened to kidnap Winry. They'd tried to kill Al. They'd torn off his legs and beat off his chest plate; had nearly gotten to his little brother's blood seal before he'd managed to find them—

Wait, what? Blood seal?

Fingers twined between his own. "Edward, dear, are you listening to me?"

He nodded and pressed his face against her shoulder, inhaled the cinnamon and lavender, and tried to shake the feeling that it'd been too long since he'd felt her arms around him. "But… the homunculi are real. They kidnapped Al."

"Did they try to hurt him?"

Another nod. "They were going to scratch off his blood seal."

Her arms tightened, pulling him close. He could feel her heart beating. "You've had that dream before. Don't you remember?"

"Dream?" But it all seemed so real…

"Just a bad dream," she repeated, and she pulled away to smile at him. "Why don't you go down to the river to get your brother, and you can see for yourself?"

"O-okay…" With one last glance at her, he began his trek. He knew the path well; passed the school and cut through the Carpenter's hay field, hop over the low stone wall that ran the length of the Moorcock's sheep pasture, and follow the dirt road to the bridge… The grass tickled his bare feet as he moved, the gentle wind tickled his fingers and played with his cowlick, and the early summer air carried with it the smell of honeysuckle and sheep shit.

He trusted her. He really did. But the pain and the fear and his pounding heart and not Al, not Al, no please not Al wouldn't leave his mind. Homunculi, not real? But how many times had he fought them, clapped his hands together, transmuted his automail arm into a wicked blade—

He paused, stared down at his arm, turned his hand over to follow the fine lines that made up his palm. Felt the tiny hairs on his forearm sway in the wind. He would talk to Al, he decided, then forced his legs back into action, hopped over the stone wall and continued on his way. Al would be able to help him sort through everything that was going on. He would let his older brother know if he was hallucinating or insane or—

"Brother?" It was Al's voice, soft and tinny and oh so familiar, that brought him out of his reverie.

Edward blinked, squinted in the moonlight until he spotted a familiar gleam of metal. A grin slid onto his face. "There you are, Al. Mom said to go find you—"

"What did you say?" He wasn't sure how a seven-foot-tall suit of armour could look confused and suspicious, but his brother still somehow managed it; his spiked shoulders slouched forward and his helmet tilted down, and gleaming eyes met Edward's golden ones squarely.

"As I was saying, Al. Mom said—"

Al bent down further, gleaming eyes still fixed on his sibling. "Brother, are you okay?"

"Of course I am, Al." Exasperated, Edward ran his right hand through his hair. A few blond strands caught and broke in the metal gears.

Al stared at him for another few moments, then sighed. Drew himself up to his full height. "You're so weird, Brother. Let's just go back to the Rockbell's before Winry gets too worried. Besides, she might have your new arms done!"

What the hell? New arm? What did he need an automail arm for, anyway? He had two perfectly good flesh and blood limbs attached to his shoulders, thank you very much, and—

But his eyes made their down way downward, caught against the dull metal of a scratched, dented, barely even functional automail hand. Oh. "Yeah, okay. You're right."

He turned on his heel, pointing his toes toward the road that would lead them both to the sunny yellow Rockbell home, ignored the way the dirt dug into the joints of his artificial foot. He'd have to deal with that later—make sure to get all the dirt and dust out before it fucked up the wiring.

They strode forward, Alphonse's heavy armour rattling and clacking with each step he took, and the servo in Edward's knee ticked and whined and made it clear that it would have to be serviced once Winry was down with the new arm. "What a pain in the ass," he muttered to no one and nothing in particular. The feedback in his protesting knee sent a jolt up his spine and he spat out a curse.

"What do you expect?" Alphonse's voice sounded as his back. "That's what happens when you try to go head-to-head with three homunculi without even trying to come up with a plan first."

"Huh?" Edward stopped, stared at his brother. "Homunculi?" But… artificially created humans were theoretical, something they'd read about as boys, right?

Alphonse couldn't physically roll his eyes, but the tone in his voice made it clear that he wanted to do just that. "You wouldn't stop complaining about it on the way here, and now you pretend that you don't remember? Lust and Envy and the others kidnapped me, and you got all mad and charged in without thinking. You're just lucky that Colonel Mustang heard about it and came to help you."

"Like I'd ever need help from that bastard. Let's just see if Winry's done with my arm." He could see his destination in the distance, windows lit up with a few yellow lights and front door open to admit the mild summer air.

Fireflies danced around them as they walked, lighting up their path with just the barest light, and winking about playfully as their uneven tread rang out.

"Do you remember when we were little?" Alphonse asked suddenly, and his voice as wistful. "We'd go down by the river with jars and catch fireflies to bring back to mom. She'd tell us to let them out every time, but she'd laugh while she watched them fly away."

"Once we're done getting our bodies back," Edward muttered, ignoring their tiny pinpricks of light, eye focused instead on the house in the distance, "we'll stay here for as long as you want. We'll catch a whole bunch of them and, every night, we'll let them go and watch them fly off."

"That'd be nice…"

He sighed. "But what?"

"… It's just… Mom won't be there to laugh and watch them with us."

There was nothing Edward could see to that.

Den was lounging on the front porch when they stamped up the rutted dirt driveway. Her happy, booming barks filled his ears and her wagging tail slapped against his left leg, smarting and stinging. Still, he couldn't really be mad at the animal's exuberance.

"You're acting like we haven't seen you in months, you dumb mutt," he muttered around a smile, and his fingers found the perfect stop behind her ears.

"Edward! Alphonse! There you are." People were streaming out the door now, the bright light silhouetting their bodies. It was Trisha Trisha who stepped out first, smiling at them even as she tried to look stern. "We've been so worried. What could have taken you so long?"

Alphonse trundled forward. A hand reached up to scrub at fine hairs resting against the base of his skull, and he scuffed at the ground with one dirty shoe. "Sorry, Mom. You know how these things don't always go according to plan. But," his own smile watched hers so well, mirror images, and Edward's heart squeezed painfully, "we've finished everything, and we don't plan on leaving again any time soon."

Edward blinked. Stared at his brother, his mother, at Uncle and Aunty Rockbell as they filed through the door, at Winry who was standing and smiling from within the house, at Granny who was watching them with a proud grin on her face. How was Mom here? And Uncle and Aunty Rockbell? They were supposed to be—

But evidence to the contrary was both his wide golden eyes, taking the form of three welcoming, smiling faces.

He opened his mouth. Paused. He was so confused. What was going on here?

Then Trisha speaking again, smiling and crying and wrapping one arm around each of them. Pulling them close. Her skin was so soft and she smelt like cinnamon and lavender, and his right hand moved up on its own to dig his dirty nails into her shoulder blade. "I'm so proud of both of you boys." Her voice was tight and trembling. He hated seeing her cry. "You're both so strong, and so brave, to be able to get your bodies back the way you have. I'm so proud."

"It's… it's all done, then." The words were out of Edward's mouth before he remembered thinking of them. Could it really be over, finally? All the years or searching, fighting, revealing, bleeding, nightmares in his sleep and looking over his shoulder?

His mother's eyes, a silver to watch his gold, fixed on him, held him. Her mouth was still smiling. The fireflies flickered overhead, winking in and out of existence. "It's all over, dear. You're home."

He smiled back at her. She wouldn't lie.

He was home.

A wet winter hadn't quite surrendered to spring yet, and miserable weather had struck the village of Resembool hard, bringing gale-force winds and freezing rains that left farmers churning mud to try to prepare their fields. The gentle Rain River turned into a muddy torrent; high waters threatened to abandon the shallow banks.

At the back of his mind, Colonel Mustang took note of all this, told himself that he would make a few phone calls to East City HQ and see what could be done.

Lieutenant Hawkeye walked beside him, treading slowly as she navigated the muddy ground in leather heels. She gripped a folded black umbrella—a necessary precaution, given the thick tomb of grey clouds overhead—was clutched in her white-knuckled hands.

His progress was just as difficult as hers, though for a much different reason; the fine, metal wheels of the wheelchair he gripped kept slipping and sinking in the mud, and the cuffs of his dress blue were already stained with much.

Alphonse, huddled in the wheelchair, sporting a black suit far too large for his boney frame and bundled beneath a thick wool blanket, sniffled once, twice, then spoke up. His voice was thick and tight, and Mustang thought it sounded odd without its metallic ring. "He promised, you know. He promised. We'd get out bodies back together."

He'd heard this a dozen times during their sombre train ride. And he'd always answered the same way. "Maybe he already realized something we hadn't, and just wanted to make sure he could make something out of all this. You saw the shape he was in."

The youngest—the Elric boy nodded, sniffled again. Mustang reached the top of the hill and nodded to Winry, whose hands were trembling though her eyes were dry, and to a steely-faced Pinako. Somewhere, words were tumbling into the drenched air, talking about "honour" and "duty" and "courage" and a dozen other useless things Edward would have sneered at.

"Do you think… Do you think he was scared when...?" Alphonse asked.

Golden eyes peered up at him from a too-thin face, pleading. Please don't let my brother have been hurting. He didn't deserve to hurt. But he'd been battered and bruised, choking on his own blood…

He cleared his throat and pushed the image from his mind. "There was a smile on his face," he said finally. "I bet, Al, that he was just happy to know that you'd be able to live life again. If you want to prove how much you loved him, then the best thing is to do just that."

The blond nodded, and squeezing his eyes shut. Brother wouldn't want him to cry. There was no way that Brother would want him shedding tears over this. He forced a few deep breaths into his lungs, opened his lids again, met Winry's eyes, Granny's eyes, his old friends' and neighbours' eyes. Looked around, anywhere other than the dull white stone and the six-foot-deep hollow. Glanced up.

And above them all, a few very brave little fireflies were dancing, bobbing in the wind, winking in and out of existence. In. Out.

In.

Out.