Dear Journal…

(Author's Notes: Just a quickie fic I wanted to try. A short journal by Edward Elric. Oh, and I do not hold any rights to Fullmetal Alchemist. Talk to Square-Enix, Bones, and FUNimation about that. Be forewarned…spoilers.)

You found it lying there, this charmingly simple leather-bound book, clasped with a pristine silver buckle. It must have been laying there for years judging by the thick film of dust that had gathered upon its cover, and yet the pages still appear crisp and white, the black leather not at all threadbare and smooth to your fingertips.

Out of primal curiosity, you attempt to open it, but discover that the silver buckle isn't as immuneto time as you thought, as it snapped off with a loud clack. You groan, having thought that it may have made a decent journal for yourself ifno one had written on it yet, but deciding that you don't write too much anyway you discard the broken buckle over your shoulder in a huff.

You open it to the inside cover, blowing away the filth and grime that obscured the words. You read the writing aloud, your voice at a near breathless whisper.

"Edward…Elric…"

Dear journal,

Yes, I'm keeping a written account of the events in my life. No, it is not a diary. Winry keeps a diary…I keep a journal. That's simply how things are. I don't want this thing discovered years later only for it to be referred to as the Diary of the Fullmetal Alchemist. That sounds far too much like a dime a dozen romance novel gone dreadfully awry.

You chuckle quietly at that. This person named Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist as he had referred to himself, at least possessed the brand of witty egotism that you, for some odd reason, always admired. You sort through several more pages, the dusty powder of time gathering on your fingertips as you do so. This person was smart, you couldn't help but notice. Everything was meticulously organized by subject and date, varying from topics such as 'Milk' to topics such as 'A detailed editorial concerning why I am not short'.

You take a seat on the damp, mildew-covered ground, tapping your fingers on the ground as you contemplate where to start. Shrugging, you flip randomly through the pages and choose the first thing that you can stop on, entitled 'Maes Hughes'.

Dear journal,

It's needless to say that what I'm doing is important, but the people that I'm surrounded by constantly grate on my nerves. First there was Mustang, that arrogant blowhard. As if he wasn't bad enough I have to deal with Major Maes Hughes. Never in my life have I met such aperplexing individual. Apparently, he suffers from some sort of extreme dementia that causes him to believe other people care about his family. Every single time I'm near him the only thing he ever talks about is his daughter and his beautiful, fairy tale wife. No offense to them, of course, but I can't help but pray for their coherent thought, what with living withsomeone aspsychotic as the Major. Sure, Hughes hasa fewgood things going for him. I don't think I've ever seen someone use letter openers quite as effectively as he does.

Nonetheless, he could show a bit more appreciation for me by not bombarding me with mind-numbing stores of his daughter every time he sees me. I helped deliver the kid for God's sake. If anything, I should be entitled to never listen to his stories. How ungrateful…

Dear journal,

Major Hughes is being more of a help than I thought he would ever be. Wait, excuse me, Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes. He's so obnoxious in the way he gloats over his fancy promotion, and still has the time to stick those passive-aggressive family photographs on people's lunch trays in the cafeteria here. I just gave mine to Alphonse. He posts them on the interior of his opening chest. At least Al appreciates it all. That guy's way too susceptible to cute things for his own good.

Then again, maybe I'm being a bit too hard on Hughes. He has been quite a help around here. But that doesn't give him an excuse to pester me like he does. Why can't he just mind his own business instead of hurling himself into mine? I have more important things to do than talk to someone as clinically as insane as that guy.

Dear journal,

Hughes, in his own obnoxious little way, has been digging pretty deep after the Lab 5 incident. Part of it is legitimately a good thing. I have someone to open up to now about the whole thing, and someone who I know could actually believe me. Hughes is just crazy enough to trust me on something like this. No way is he as trusting as he seems. I think he's just nuts.

On the other hand…he's digging a bit too deep. Why can't he just let some things be? This is me and Al's problem, not his. He has no right to interfere at all. As if he could contribute anything at all to our cause! He just gets in the way of it all. No way will he ever be any use. I don't want the State getting too much in our way. Hughes doesn't know when to quit! I wish he would just leave us alone…let us deal with this by ourselves. It must so easy for him, living the perfect life with the perfect family. He never had to deal with the kind of things I did, he's never been through these kind of trials and tribulations. He has no idea what it's like. I wish something bad would happen to him for once, just to shut him up.

You come upon what appears to be the final page concerning Maes Hughes, your mouth agape in mild confusion. The pages seem torn…weathered and dampened by droplets of moisture. Edward had left it out in the rain you assumed.

I never said it. I never told him that I was sorry, and now I'll never be able to. I saw him there, right there on the train platform. He waved and I found myself only to be able to stare, and to deny that I saw anything at all. I want to see those pictures again…I want to him laugh as he professes of how cute Elysia has become…and for once, I want to agree with him. I want to nod and laugh along. But I can't. Not anymore. I never said it…why didn't I say it? Why couldn't I get at least one more chance to tell him? Maes Hughes…he died for this and I never said it. Brigadier General Maes Hughes is looking down at me. I look back up and I say it, although I know he can't hear. I won't blame him if he hates me. I hate myself too. I'm sorry! God, I didn't know! I didn't mean any of it. I want to take it back! I want to stay...so I could help him...so I could tell him what a wonderful person he was. He didn't deserve it! I wished it upon him, but he didn't deserve it. I do.

You close the book suddenly, feeling shaken, sighing erratically and placing the book upon the ground. "He was crying…"