NB: No matter how much it seems like it, there are no pairings in this story. None. At all.
Please bear that in mind. :D
Bones
The armour is lost during the transmutation: dragged into the gaping mouth of the Gate by long whip-like tentacles that dart out and grasp hold of him; linger almost lovingly over his remaining flesh as if sizing him up, before abruptly retreating and seizing the armour instead.
We were just joking. Of course we wouldn't take you. Of course we would take the one that really matters.
He wakes up with dust in his lungs and his hair and his eyes; he groans, pulls himself up onto his hands and knees, and vomits over and over onto the ground. He continues until his throat is dry and raw and his stomach screaming, until he is forcing nothing but painful air from the pit of his stomach; he collapses once his arms can no longer support his weight, curls over on his side, chokes and sobs and thinks, no.
Al . . .
He doesn't think to wonder whether the Gate took any of him. He doesn't think to examine his body for any signs of damage or sources of pain. He doesn't even think to open his eyes. He just lies there, still retching, and thinks-
Al . . .
For a time, his world is bones and darkness.
Waking up in Roy Mustang's bed is not an experience Edward Elric ever expected himself to have.
He regains consciousness slowly, his mind gradually being pulled back into the waking world in a thin stream- until suddenly he realises that he is, in fact, alive; and what's more, that he is lying in bed, with the aforementioned alchemist bending over him.
His eyes snap open and he yelps in shock. "Mustang!"
"Not exactly the image of the heroic brother," Roy says, straightening hurriedly and smiling slightly awkwardly at him.
Edward stares in numbed silence-
Heroic?
- and he cracks, and then he is folded into a lopsided ball beneath the sheets, twisted over towards the wall, and he is making the sort of noise that Roy never wants to hear again.
"Al-" he forces out.
"Edward-"
"It took him."
"Alphonse is-"
"The Gate, and it-"
"Edward, have you not-"
"- and it left me there-"
"EDWARD!"
They are both surprised by the sheer amount of volume Roy's lungs have managed to muster. Edward falls abruptly silent- but Roy senses that it is the sort of silence that could easily precede loud hysterical screaming and much breaking of furniture, so he hastens on.
"Alphonse is here."
And all he can do is blink.
"We- Riza and I- have been looking after you. Both of you. And-"
"The Gate took the armour." It is a husky whisper, barely audible.
"Yes."
"Then-"
"Edward, do you remember what happened?"
"Envy," the boy whispers. "We tried to use him."
"He's gone. We don't know whether he's dead or just missing- but he's gone."
"And Al . . ."
"In the spare room."
Edward just looks at him, and his brain cannot take in the words.
Roy does an admirable job of suppressing his anger. It would be somewhat ironic is the Elric brothers were to survive all this only to be unexpectedly murdered by an angry Flame Alchemist, after all. Despite his efforts, however, he is unable to hold in all his rage.
"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" he bursts out one afternoon, as Edward sits propped half-upright on his pillows, holding a thin hand (so thin, so thin, all the veins stick out) in his own. "I could have helped you. If something had gone wrong . . ."
"What, don't you trust me to get it right?" Edward says, along with a strained sort of grimace: a warped mockery of his usual confident grin.
It is, on the face of it, a rather absurd question.
"You were lucky I found you when I did. I could have helped you keep it all hidden."
Edwards snorts. "You, Colonel? The famous Flame Alchemist? Get involved with illegal transmutations and other shady activities? No-one would believe it."
"It's Lieutenant General now," Roy says with a weak smirk. "And what am I now if not involved?"
Edward does not answer for a moment, his eyes following the parallel ridges of Alphonse's knuckles almost up to the wrist.
"Are you sleeping on the sofa?" he says suddenly.
"The sofa's too good for me," Roy replies, chuckling feebly. "Riza's sleeping there. I'm on the floor."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
Alphonse sleeps for days on end, which never fails to frighten Edward witless: even though he spends much of his time in the same room, Edward still has moments of panic where he scrabbles frantically for a pulse, pressing broad fingers into the frail white skin and winding blue veins of his brother's wrist, hovering his palm above parted lips and unable to stop shaking as he waits the almost unbearable few seconds for an exhaled breath. Roy catches him one day, his eyes climbing waveringly up the ladder-like slope of Alphonse's ribcage whilst his hands grab and examine head, elbows, feet-
"Edward."
The boy stops, almost guiltily, and darts a manic sideways look at him through his long greasy hair. "I can't stop worrying about it," he says, a dull constant delirium in his eyes. "Whether I made a mistake. . . He's been sleeping for so long, Colonel."
"Lieutenant General," Roy says automatically.
There is a slight pause.
"Well," Roy says, sitting on the end of the bed, "how is he then? His joints?"
Edward turns his face away. "Seem normal."
"His ribs?"
"I kept thinking there was one missing," Edward says as his gaze skitters unsteadily along the regular rows of Alphonse's chest once more, "but I was counting wrong."
"Toes?"
"Five on each foot."
Well, then-"
"But he's been sleeping for so long," Edward says helplessly. "I don't know what's happening. I must have done something wrong."
"Don't you think that we would have checked him for any problems already?"
"I. . ." He hesitates. "Did you?"
"Of course we did. Give us some credit, Edward, please."
"You really don't trust me to get it right," Edward mutters, but his heart isn't in it, and soon his disgruntled expression dissolves, and he looks alarmingly vulnerable as his fingers push back the honey-dark hair from Alphonse's forehead.
"I don't know why he's sleeping," Roy says, feeling slightly out of place as he watches from the end of the bed, "but he seems perfectly healthy- apart from his weight, of course- and he's been swallowing whatever we give him to drink. His heart's working, his lungs are working- his body seems fully functional."
He softens as he sees Edward slump beneath the weight of his curt tone. "Listen, Edward," he says, gentler now. "I know that this is difficult- almost impossible- for you to do- but try to stop worrying."
Edward nods slowly. "I . . . I guess I know all that. But . . ."
Yes. But.
Roy sighs. "Just . . . go easy on him, all right? You might be disturbing his rest."
Edward ducks beneath his curtains of hair again, and Roy almost thinks he is embarrassed.
Roy speaks to someone who speaks to someone who speaks to someone, and eventually he manages to come up with an explanation for all the strange happenings in Central on the night of the transmutation.
"I think you'll be fine," he tells Edward that evening, "as long as you stick to the story."
"What the hell did you come up with, to explain all that?" Edward asks, tearing his attention away from his brother- if momentarily. "Who did you speak to?"
"No-one and nothing untrustworthy," Roy replies with a slight smile. "You'd be surprised what good connections can do for you."
Try as he might, Edward is not surprised.
"Col- Lieutenant General?" he says after a while.
"Hmm?"
"Um-" Edward glances down at his mismatched feet. "I think- It's been difficult. For you. To do all this."
Roy blinks, taken aback. "Not really-"
"But it has," Edward insists, "and- I mean- it's been . . . well, you know. Trouble."
He's trying to thank me, Roy realises, stunned. This is how he thanks people. The world is mad.
He makes a sudden movement, hesitates, frantically weighs up probabilities in his head- before recklessly taking the plunge and putting his hand on Edward's shoulder.
Unexpectedly, Edward moves reflexively towards him, almost leaning into the touch; his eyes half-close for a second, and Roy realises that it is the only physical human contact- aside from his examinations of the unconscious Alphonse- that the boy has had in more than a week.
Edward is sitting in a hard, high-backed chair with a wooden tray balanced on his knees, slowly and cautiously spooning soup into his brother's mouth, when all of a sudden Alphonse's eyes open. He turns his head and looks Edward directly in the eye; the spoon falls to the ground with a clatter and a spray of warm red soup.
Wordlessly, Alphonse seizes Edward's hand and begins to cry deep, silent tears.
Author's notes: Reviews very much appreciated. This is different from anything else I've done before, and I'd love to know what you think. :3