Disclaimer: I do not own Roy and... or... Edward. Or this handshake. Or the shortness of this.
A/N: I wanted to make a small exchange between Ed and Roy, because they never really mean what they're saying. This can be taken at any point during the series, though I do see it at the end. (In the manga he does offer up his left hand, I thought that was odd, so it gave me the idea) At least I believe so, so correct me if I am wrong. They always have the best, simple conversations that are really not as simple as they seem. This is just a short expression of mutual respect between the two.
Avowal
"Fullmetal," Roy said firmly in acknowledgment of his subordinate. He offered his left hand out to the air before him.
He always offered up his left hand. It was the least he could do for the boy. The minimal amount of respect that he could administer without words and in such a small action. Respect that he so rightly deserved.
"Mustang," came the boy's reply, as he offered a left hand of his own.
Their hands met between them, and Roy's eyes caught the golden irises of his fellow soldier. Both noticed the symbolism that this handshake held. A mark of equality between them. A few seconds that represented a milestone in the expression of mutual respect. Edward acknowledged that Mustang was using him for his own goal, and in return Roy acknowledged that Edward was using him in quite the same way. Similarity held fast in their reasons yet they had goals so painfully unique – and somehow still strikingly similar, if not at least intertwined – that this was almost a sign of companionship.
One yearned for a country. For power and control. The power to protect, to rule and watch over those that he wanted to succeed and bloom. To keep his loved ones in a land less dangerous and more prosperous. To pave the way for good and bury betrayal and corruption under walls of flames that did not burn and destroy – but instead licked avariciously at each object they touched with plumes of inspiration and freedom.
One longed for a brother. For his brother and his soul. For a home in a country that another yearned for. Not only a home for his battered body – for his own bed, and his own brother there at his side – but for a home in a much more metaphorical sense. A home for his brother's soul. An embodiment of his endless dedication. For safety and assurance. For the day – the day he would sacrifice anything to make happen – when he could fix his wounded brother and his own wounded soul. With his own hands, that would be calloused with the effort, finally, with the success.
A brother with the kindness to create a thousand joyous hearts, and a country that the brother can live in and love with all of his heart because of its hope for kindness and joy.
These two were brothers too. Brothers in this journey, fighting for their country, for their families, two soldiers.
Locked in a handshake.
Both offering up the wrong hand but clasping tight and accepting it all the same.
Even through the gloves that encased both of their sin-covered hands, they could not miss the warm tingle of human of human flesh that passed back and forth between them at the contact. Edward's mouth was pulled up in a grim twist between a scowl and a smirk, but an amused expression all the same. This moment meant more than either of them would ever admit out loud. For it represented not only the acknowledgments of one another's goals, and the assistance that they were involuntarily – and yet, also, not completely unwillingly – giving to one another. It represented their acknowledgment of each other. As beings, whole and wholly pure, in innocence and unpardonable sin and devotion and ecstasy.
"Flesh hand I see," the tortured boy, the alchemical genius, crowed in a silent fashion, "does this make this handshake illegitimate? A bastard just like you?"
This was the two of them. Always silent promises and audible quips and insults. A battle of wits that was never very intelligent, and an exchange of knowledge that was never sarcastic.
"A promise, I think, would be better off created by human flesh than steel. I wanted your real hand for this shake," because this is serious. Roy explained himself firmly. Then, this man of fire, this commander of devotion's expression, mimicked his companion in the same bemused scowl-smirk that must have been painful to wear, and added quickly, "shorty."
"Is there a promise to be made?" questioned the child, the young adult. The weight of what was to come was heavy on his shoulders and pressing hard against his spine. And he knew very well that there was a promise to be made. And more than one at that.
"Will I see you and your brother again? Soon?" The soldier, the man asked. Promise me you won't die.
Edward's eyes suddenly steeled in the determined air that fit them best, as his eyes were so accustomed to housing this expression, "We'll make sure we visit you so Al can show off his new body, don't worry." he said lightly. I will get his body back, no matter what. Don't make me make promises I can't keep. "You gonna be able to control that giant ego of yours while I'm off for a bit?"
Promise me you'll keep your head straight? Promise you'll stay true? No corruption. No deceit.
"Of course, but you'll get taller won't you? At least try?" Don't die. Come back.
Edward's eyes flashed with grief for a moment and he choked on what sounded like a laugh, "Bastard!" he chided, "I'm plenty tall!" Don't you dare forget me.
Roy placed a hand on his head, "Okay, you just keep telling yourself that." I won't. I would never. Don't give me reason to.
"When Al comes, you'd better watch your mouth, dumb ass. He's sensitive," If I die. Take care of Al.
"Of course," Roy took a deep shuddering breath, eying the future that still sat atop of Edward with sudden reproach and barely concealed suspicion. He felt the young man loosen his grip and he tightened his own. He couldn't leave yet. "Be careful."
Don't go.
They were both aware of the finality of this moment. It may be the last chance they had. For an exchange of words, true to their hearts, not their pride. Roy spoke again, "Be careful," he repeated. You've always been like a son to me.
"Bastard," Edward snapped, "Let me go," it wasn't his hand that he was talking about. Let me go. I have to do this. I'm sorry.
"Let me go," I feel the same.
The boy – no, the man – turned his back without another word and strode into the future that had been looming behind him all this time, out of this moment, out of this present, and away from the past.
"Edward!" Mustang called, and watched as the young man froze – the one he had always seen almost like a son – not turning to look at the older male behind him – the one he had always seen as a father, "Goodbye,"
"Yeah," Ed held up a hand, "Bastard."
The words they wanted to say had never left their mouths. But they had always managed to understand each other. Somehow.