La la la

Yeah. I know. I haven't published anything new since...August. My bad. Tenth grade was overwhelming. I'll try to be better next year. Although I probably won't succeed. Ah well.

Anyway, I wrote this awhile ago. It basically rose out of me being oppositional, which I won't explain in case some crazy fool actually reads this note and spoils the story. Other than that, I don't have much to say about this. If you like, you like it. If you don't, you don't. Just tell me what I can do to become a better writer.

The song is "Cancer" by My Chemical Romance. The title of this story is actually from Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, which I'm in the middle of now. It's a line they say basically whenever something unpleasant happens.

Disclaimer: I. Do. Not. Own. I disclaim everything that I did not originally write!

And I just hope you know

That if you say

"Goodbye" today,

I'd ask you to be true.

'Cause the hardest part of this

Is leaving you.

'Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.

"Hey."

You look up with a start. You haven't been dozing, exactly, just lost in thought. "I thought you were asleep."

I smirk and stretch, trying to get the stiffness out of my back. "I get enough of that when you're not here; no need to waste your visit." You smile. You reach for my hand and turn it over in yours, doing your best to ignore the IV that snakes between us. "I wish I could come more often."

"Don't beat yourself up, Riza," I tell you sternly. "Life doesn't stop just because I'm sick."

You look like you want to argue, but I just squeeze your hand and give you a smile. "Why don't you get some sleep? God—if he exists—knows that I'll be here when you wake up." I reach up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but stop myself. Too many displays of affection will only make this harder for the both of us.

Finally, you nod. There's a recliner in the corner, and you go to it. Within a few minutes, you're fast asleep, and I'm left alone with my thoughts again.

I hate seeing you like this: worried and tired. You should be living your life, not sitting in this goddamn hospital, losing sleep over me. I wish that you could be out there, enjoying the new regiment. Ever since we took down Father and the homunculi, Oliver Armstrong has been trying to set up a new, peaceful democracy. You and I would be helping her, if I wasn't stuck here, being useless, and you weren't stuck here, worrying about me in all my useless glory.

You were the one to call my foster mother and sisters and break the news to them. It just goes to show what a coward I am that I allowed you to take on that dreadful task. They arrived within a few days, bearing old scrapbooks and comfort food. Madame Christmas even snuck me in some of her best beer, but unfortunately, the nurses confiscated it before I could finish the bottle. The fact that she brought me alcohol goes to show how concerned she is, but she would never admit it. In that aspect, the two of you are more alike than you could imagine.

I know I'm going to die. The doctors explained to me a week ago that they didn't know what else to do. I sat there for awhile, unsure of what to do. And then, I asked them not to tell my family. I can accept this, and I can handle this. But I can't place this on your shoulders. If you all gave up hope, I couldn't deal with it. You are all that keeps me going. I can act strong; I can pretend I believe it will all turn out fine, just as long as you aren't acting.

The first treatment the doctors tried made me vomit, the second almost put me in a coma, and after the third, all my hair fell out. This latest treatment has me dizzy and weak, but I am still conscious, and that's all that matters. I'm holding on to every moment with you and the rest of my family.

"Hey chief."

Breda and Falman come in, pushing Havoc in his wheelchair. The first thing I notice is the number of stripes on their chests. Each of us was promoted a few ranks after the overturn of the government; they all would be at least brigadier generals if, technically, we hadn't been committing treason. Still, the new ranks are an improvement. Now they have their own subordinates to take care of.

Havoc's in charge of his family's shop, and doing a damn fine job, from what I hear. He still has time to visit frequently, so really, not too much has changed. They're still the same idiots that I would die for.

I nod my head in your direction, signaling them to keep it down. "Where's Fuery?"

The sudden commotion in the hall explains his absence before they can. "Godammit, I don't needhelp, Fuery. I can get it on my own."

Edward Elric comes barging in, pushing Alphonse, with Fuery trailing behind. Alphonse smiles at me from his wheelchair. After they retrieved his body from the Gate, his muscles were so weak from disuse that he was like a newborn, barely able to hold up his head. The intense physical therapy with Izumi Curtis had helped, but he still couldn't walk for long periods by himself. Edward still has his automail arm and leg, but he doesn't care, because Al is restored. I can tell that the automail bothers Alphonse, but he tried not to let it show.

"Hi Colonel. Oh wait, it's General now, isn't it? Sorry, sir." Alphonse says with a grin. It's great to be able to see his expression.

"Hello boys. Edward, still haven't grown much, have you?"

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD BLOW AWAY IN THE WIND?!!"

All of the men shush him, but it's too late; you sit up with a start. You look around at all of our friends and smile politely. Your eyes travel over everyone, but they unerringly return to me, like a compass to true north. This secretly pleases me and breaks my heart, all at the same time.

I offer you a small grin, reassuring that I'm all right, nothing changed while you slept. This is the language of two people who love each other: words become so unnecessary when the smallest movements speak volumes, when you can read someone's mind by looking at their eyes.

Everyone begins speaking at once, trying to fill the silence they find awkward. Breda mentions what my new office will look like, because they all still believe I'm going back. Al informs us that Winry and Pinako are doing well. Havoc talks about running the shop, and unsuccessfully trying to kick his smoking habit. After awhile, I realize that they aren't really talking to me, more at me. So I nod and throw in a vaguely positive comment here and there, and let my mind wander. I think you realize what I'm doing, but you don't say anything.

"Well, Mr. Mustang, it's good to see that so many people care about you, but didn't we tell you last time that each patient is only allowed to have five guests at a time?" Everyone looks up at the orderly, who is glaring at the boisterous military men.

Havoc's eyebrows shoot up, and I can't help but roll my eyes. Even though he's been hailed as a hero of the revolution, he still can't get a date.

"Yes ma'am. Beg your pardon." Havoc looks up at his companions. "C'mon, men, let's get on out of here. See ya later, chief, Hawkeye."

Ed and Breda roll Al and Havoc out, and Falman and Fuery follow suit. You and I are alone again, at least, for a little while.

It sure is ironic, isn't it? That I would survive Ishbal, and the revolution, and barely survive the murder trials, only to wind up dying in a hospital. But really, I always knew that what was inside of me would kill me in the end. I just wish that we had more time. You and I never married; we never had the life that we had tried to build. You threw your life away on me, and I could never give you what you deserve: a happy normalcy, without the constant fear that has defined us for so long. I just hope that you can find your happiness once I'm gone.

"Riza…you know I love you, right?"

Your head jerks up at my question, surprise racing through your eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Just…you know that I would give anything for you, that you are everything to me."

Are those tears? In the eyes of my sturdy Lieutenant? Shit, I didn't mean to make you cry…

"Roy Mustang, you listen to me now, and you listen well. You are not leaving me. Don't you dare offer me your goodbyes, because I will not accept them. We are going to get through this; you are going to get better. Everyone who gives a damn about you is waiting out there; you are not going to disappoint them by throwing away all we've worked for over some stupid disease."

Your words are broken now, like you're having trouble pushing them through your throat. Those damn tears are still threatening to fall, but I know you: If you have to cry, you'll do your best to save it until you're alone.

Suddenly I want to hold you again, to lose myself in the real dream of knowing that you belong to me. You need to stop being so brave.

"Riza…" I start, but you interrupt me.

"Do you understand me, Roy Mustang? You. Are not. Going. To die."

"Oh Riza." A renegade tear has dared to trespass on your cheek, and I catch the insurgent with my thumb. Then my fingers fan out to cup your face, and suddenly you are there, in my arms, clinging on to me for dear life. Poor Riza. As strange as it may sound, I always wanted you to die first. The last thing I wanted was to cause you more pain, and by leaving you, I am doing just that. If I was the one left behind, maybe I would finally give in to the nagging in the back of my head and end it all, just so I could be with you. But you are stronger than I am. You will suffer, and you will carry on no matter how much you hurt, because you are brave enough to live for our friends. Goddammit, your life would be so much easier if you weren't such a fool to fall for me.

It's not really death I'm afraid of. I am not worried about the pain, or about redemption or condemnation. I don't care about what's on the other side of this life. None of it matters, because you will not be there.

So, until the day the breath leaves my body, I will be counting every blessed second with you.

Until the day I die, I will love you.