Author's Note: Why don't more people wonder what brought Hughes and Gracia together? We know they were acquainted by the time of the Ishbal war, but how did they actually meet? Well, this is one idea to answer that question. I'm not completely satisfied with this fic, other than the third section. Somehow, when you write something, it takes a lot longer than it does to read it, and sometimes that causes problems with me because my perception of time is skewed when I write. Also, I don't think I've portrayed Hughes correctly; I'm horrible at writing humor and I think he came across as being too serious. I'm not completely satisfied with the ending either. Oh well.

Maes Hughes strolled down the streets of Central at his own pace, hands stuffed into pockets. He still wore the crisp blue military uniform from training earlier that day, but he had unbuttoned the jacket in the heat of the summer evening, revealing the black shirt he wore underneath. His black hair was a little messy from a friendly tussle with Roy Mustang, his best friend (whom he had told needed a girlfriend), and his squarish glasses were slipping down his sweaty nose.

Few cohesive thoughts entered Maes's mind. He was tired from another grueling day, and the muggy air had done nothing to improve matters. He wanted to get back to the tiny two-room apartment he was renting and throw himself onto his little cot, even if the heat kept him awake for hours. Sometimes he wondered why he carried on with this whole military thing. He could have chosen another way to spend the rest of his life. But whenever he wondered this, he remembered the proud look that had lit up his mother's face when he had told her he was going to join the military. She was counting on him; she was proud of him for fighting for his country. And putting a smile on the sad face of his widowed mother was worth anything.

A corner of Maes's mouth lifted at this thought, when a flash of color caught his eye. He turned to find himself standing in front of a new flower shop that had certainly not been here the last time he had passed this way. A young woman with light brown hair was bending over the displays of flowers, flicking water over the multicolored petals. At the very moment Maes paused to contemplate this new shop, the young woman straightened up and looked right at him. Maes blinked in surprise; he knew this woman! It had been years and years, but those green eyes were just the same as ever. "Gracia!" he cried in delight.

Gracia's eyes widened in recognition. "Maes! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you," Maes chuckled, coming closer. "What're you doing in Central?"

"Well...I had to earn money somehow, didn't I?" Gracia asked, smiling but not meeting his gaze. "But you..." She looked pointedly at his blue uniform. "You're in the military now?"

"Yup," Maes grinned proudly. "I'm in my last year at the academy!"

"You don't seem to have changed at all." Gracia couldn't seem to stop smiling.

Maes cast an appraising eye over Gracia, taking in the plain brown dress she wore, the simple cut of her hair, and the deep green eyes that seemed to take over her whole face. "Neither have you," he replied truthfully. Alter a little here and there, and she was the kind, bright-eyed girl he had known as a child.

When he realized he had been watching her silently for several awkward moments, Maes quickly asked, "How about I treat you for dinner tonight?"

"Oh!" A blush sprang onto Gracia's cheeks. "Well...I'll have to close the shop..."

"Here," Maes offered, "let me help you bring these flowers inside."

Gracia thanked him softly, and by working together they had the plants inside in no time at all. "Well?" Maes asked, straightening up from the last one as Gracia hung a 'Closed' sign in the window. "Ready to go?"

"But I can't go just like this!" Gracia protested, gesturing to the mudstains on the knees of her dress and the frayed edge of one of her sleeves.

Maes laughed good-naturedly, offering her his arm. "Don't worry. I don't have much money, so we'll be going to a cheap place anyway."

Gracia laughed and took his arm shyly. Maes steered her down the road to a small, cheap cafe with little round tables outside. When they were seated across from each other, it occurred to Maes that Gracia was very quiet. He remembered her as being cheerful and talkative, a very pleasant person to be around. Yet some kind of barrier seemed to have sprung up before her at seeing her childhood friend. Wishing to relieve the tense silence that had fallen, Maes began talking about his life in the military. He complained about the cafeteria food, bragged about his achievements, and described Roy in great detail. Soon Gracia was laughing at his enthusiasm, and Maes managed to gradually draw her out a little more. They spent hours catching up on everything that had happened since they had parted at the age of fifteen. Maes noticed that Gracia delicately avoided anything that had happened within a year, but he decided it was best not to pry.

The evening passed quickly, and Maes hardly even noticed what he was eating. Being with his friend again brought pleasant memories to mind - the day he had taught her to whistle...the time she had surprised him by revealing she knew how to make rocks skip over water...the camping trip when a skunk had sprayed him in the face and Gracia had been the only one who came within five feet of him for the rest of the trip...

Finally they made their way back to the small apartment above Gracia's flower shop. Gracia made tea and brought out a delicious apple pie she had baked herself. After his third slice, Maes leaned back contentedly in his chair and asked, "Why did you come to Central, Gracia? How come you didn't just stay back home?"

Gracia abruptly got to her feet and cleared away their dishes, keeping her face turned away from him. The dishes clattered loudly in the sink, as though her hands were shaking. Maes slowly stood up, watching her with concern. "Something happened, didn't it?" he asked softly. She didn't answer, so he pressed, "Didn't it?"

Gracia was gripping the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles were turning white. "You're nosing, Maes," she muttered through gritted teeth. "It's none of your business."

Maes stepped closer to her. "I have to stick my nose into your business, Gracia. It's what friends are for."

Gracia made an odd choking noise. Maes crossed over to her side, but she kept her face turned away from him. "What is it?" he asked gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You can tell me; I'm your friend."

"It's...my parents," Gracia said haltingly, rapidly running the back of her hand across her eyes. "They...They're dead." More tears ran down her cheeks, and she frantically tried to wipe them away. "S-Sorry," she murmured, her voice shaking.

Maes pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. "It's okay to cry," he whispered into her hair. He remembered all too well the day of his father's funeral. He had tried to comfort his mother, telling her, 'Don't cry, Mother. It's all right.' But she had covered her face with her hands and burst out, 'Why can't you understand, Maes? I need to cry!' And he hadn't understood then. He had thought crying was a sign of weakness, something to be avoided at all costs. He had thought his own tears as he lay in bed at night, missing his father terribly, were things he had to hide from the rest of the world. But now he could see that those tears he had shed had been the salve that soothed his aching heart in the years after his father's death. Tears were...necessary.

Gracia clung tightly to him, her sobs muffled in his black shirt, and all Maes could do was hold her and let her cry. Her sobs shook his whole body; he could feel her fresh grief all through him. A few small tears of his own found their way into Gracia's hair as he remembered the desolation that had filled him at his father's funeral, and realized that Gracia must be feeling the same way.

At long last, her shuddering sobs subsided and she wiped her eyes. Maes smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way and handed her his handkerchief. "Thank you," she whispered as she dried her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. "I...I hadn't allowed myself to cry until now."

Maes gently squeezed her shoulder. Her eyes were red and her nose was running; she looked just like she had as she waved goodbye to him from the platform at the train station years ago, when his family had left to move to Central. He didn't want to leave her alone at a time like this, but it was already late, so after a few minutes he said goodnight and trudged on home.

The next evening, Maes combed his hair and washed his face very carefully before setting off towards home. "Going somewhere special tonight?" Roy asked curiously as he watched his friend fussing over himself.

"Mmm," Maes replied, hardly listening. He was concentrating on deciding which cologne to use. "Get yourself a girlfriend before you make fun of me." He ducked the swipe Roy had aimed at his head, not wanting to mess up his hair.

Maes practically skipped his way home, hardly feeling the heat that had been so overpowering the night before. When he appeared in front of Gracia's flower shop, Gracia came rushing out with a smile on her face. "Maes!" she exclaimed. "You look nice. Are you going somewhere?"

"Oh, yeah," Maes replied casually, selecting a large red rose from the bouquets arranged around him. "I'm going on a date tonight, you know."

"Oh?" Gracia's smile became fixed. "That'll be ten cenz." As Maes handed over the money, she asked nonchalantly, "Is she pretty?"

"Beautiful," Maes replied, smiling down at the flower in his hand. "Just gorgeous. How should I put this... She's like an angel come down from heaven." So saying, he held the rose out to Gracia.

Gracia blinked twice in quick succession at the rose, her face blank with surprise, and looked up at Maes, who smiled at the confused and embarrassed look on her face. Then a blush sprang onto her face and she took the flower. "Now," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, "what do you say to some ice cream?"

Over the next month, Maes visited Gracia almost every day. Sometimes they would merely talk for a few minutes before parting ways, and other times they would go out to dinner at a cheap restaurant. Gracia would occasionally fix a delicious meal for them, always followed by one of her apple pies. Some days they would engage in a heated discussion, and other evenings they would watch the sun set in companionable silence. One night, Maes and Gracia wandered aimlessly along the warm streets of Central, talking and enjoying each other's company as usual. When they came to a large fountain, Maes stopped. "Gracia," he said slowly, "there's something I need to tell you."

"Yes?"

"I...I'm not going to be able to see you anymore."

Gracia pulled away from him. "What do you mean?" Worry frothed from her voice like the fountain behind her.

"I'm being sent to Ishbal. I leave tomorrow."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" she whispered.

Maes scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I didn't want it hanging over us. But I...I had to tell you tonight; I wouldn't want you to think I'd just-"

"I understand," Gracia cut in hastily. She slipped her hand into his and said softly, "I'm...going to miss you, Maes."

"Yeah," Maes sighed heavily. "Me too."

Blood. Screams. Explosions. Hailstorms of concrete and thunderclaps of heavy artillery. Maes sighed as he looked down at the squarish glasses in his hands. One of the lenses had cracked right down the middle, blurring his vision as much as when he didn't wear his glasses at all. Trembling. Adrenaline. Pain. Senseless rage at everyone and no one. He looked up at the man sitting on the other side of the little fire they had built. Roy was scratching in the dust at his feet with a twig, his shoulders hunched with weariness. Guilt. Shame. Reproach-

Roy snatched the glasses from Maes's limp fingers and laid them in the center of the small transmutation circle he had just drawn. With one smooth motion, he activated it and handed the glasses back, good as new. At an earlier time, Maes might have grinned his thanks. Now, however, he merely put his glasses back on and said, "You didn't have to do that."

"You'll need perfect vision tomorrow," Roy replied tonelessly. "I've heard we're doing Sector 9."

"Typical," Maes spat out with disgust. "Throw us at the thickest pack of resistance when we're already half dead on our feet."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Roy replied, rubbing his fingertips together in anticipation.

"But you won't be able to burn anything unless you get some sleep." Maes got to his feet, wincing from the aches and pains that never seemed to leave his body. "C'mon."

Roy chuckled mirthlessly as he got to his feet as well. They both knew what little sleep their jumpy minds allowed them would be filled with half-real nightmares that left them exhausted. No soldier was spared. As the two of them stumbled back to their tents, Maes briefly touched his breast pocket - just to make sure the letters were still there. The letters Gracia sent to him on a regular basis were like a talisman that warded away the ghosts haunting him day in and day out. Just knowing that there was still someone who cared for him, who knew nothing of the horrors he witnessed daily, brought hope and warmth to his heart. He hadn't replied to the last three letters, because most days now were filled with skirmish after skirmish, and by the end of the day it was all he could do to stagger into his tent and throw himself onto the ground.

So tonight, though he could barely keep his eyes open, he lit his tiny lamp and brought out the cheap writing materials he had brought with him. Dear Gracia, he scrawled across the top of a sheet of paper. But what could he write? He couldn't begin to articulate the horrors of war, and he didn't want her to know anyway. There was nothing cheerful or newsworthy about his life, nothing that would make Gracia smile when she read it. So with a disgusted sigh, Maes shoved the paper away and threw himself onto his blankets.

Nearly every night after that, Maes would pull out the letter he had begun and would attempt one more time to compose a proper letter to her. But every night left him staring at the words Dear Gracia, and the letter never grew any longer. Once he added underneath those two words, I miss you. But those simple words wrenched his heart so much he couldn't hold his pen steady anymore. He did miss her; he missed her terribly. It didn't help that she kept on sending him letters, hinting in each one that she was worried because he hadn't replied for such a long time.

About a week after he had written the second line of his letter, as he stared at the ungainly scrawl he had written, his heart began to burn inside him. He could see Gracia's face as clearly as if she stood before him, and she was smiling at him. Biting his lip hard, he scribbled, I want you underneath the last line he had written. Then he put away his pen and paper and went to sleep.

The paper was becoming rather crumpled, but Maes made little progress in completing it. Every time he saw the words he had written, he would wonder what he thought he was doing. He didn't want Gracia to see the torment that was ripping him apart! This confounded letter would only make her sad. So why did he keep coming back to it?

Finally, about a month since he had begun the letter, Maes wrote at the bottom of his tiny message, I need you. Love, Maes. He stuffed the crumpled paper into an envelope, addressed it to Gracia, and sent it off the next morning before he could think better of it. When a reply came a week later, he couldn't decide whether he was anxious or excited. He opened the single folded piece of paper in the privacy of his tent that night and read:

Dear Maes,

I miss you.

I want you.

I need you.

So don't die.

Love, Gracia

For the first time in weeks, a smile creased Maes's face.

To all of Amestris, the Ishbal War was over. But for Maes, a battle still raged inside. On the train ride back to Central, though he ranted at great length to anyone who would listen about how much he had missed Gracia, he secretly wrestled with himself. He longed to see Gracia smiling up at him again, but at the same time he was afraid. He had changed while in Ishbal. He had seen, and done, many things that belonged only in the worst of nightmares. Would Gracia still accept him when she saw his filthy conscience?

Maes trudged glumly to the same apartment he had rented before, let himself in, and dropped his bags to the floor. Now that he was alone, in the seclusion of what he might tentatively call home, he found himself faced with the guilt that had only grown more weighty as time passed. He dropped into the chair by his small square table and propped his elbows up on the tabletop, pressing his forehead against his fingertips. All those people...all those dark-skinned, crimson-eyed Ishbalites... He had killed so many of them. Men, women, children...priests, warriors, shopkeepers... One quick squeeze of a trigger, and they were gone. Just a heartless BANG, a splash of blood, and they fell down - never to rise again.

Maes stared at his palms. Blood dripped from them, but it wasn't his own blood. His hands were drenched in the blood he had shed, soaked in the deaths he had caused, marinated in the lives he had stolen. The blood trickled down his arms and pooled in his lap, dripping down onto the floor. So much blood flowing down, and it showed no signs of ceasing.

He leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over, and practically ran into the bathroom. He turned the water on at full blast and grabbed the new bar of soap, scrubbing vigorously at his palms. So much blood... Got to wash it off... It won't come off! Why won't it come off?! Maes cursed nonstop under his breath as he frantically scrubbed his hands. The water turned red, but his bloody hands were still not clean.

Something made Maes look up, and he froze. Gracia stood in the doorway to the bathroom, watching him with wide eyes. For an agonizing second, Maes stared into her confused, frightened eyes, his face distorted with the pain and rage he was feeling. Then something seemed to snap inside him: You can't let her see you like this! Cursing again, he slammed the door in her face and returned to his fruitless task.

When the soap was diminished to a mere sliver and his palms were pink and raw, Maes wearily turned off the water and slid down the wall to the large puddle on the tiled floor. His arms ached from the constant scrubbing; he was weary all through. And still...still...the blood would not go away. After he had sat in the puddle for nearly an hour, he heaved himself up and returned to the main room of his apartment. A basket lay on the table, and when he lifted the cloth covering it, he saw an apple pie. If anything, this only made him feel worse. He dropped the cloth back over the basket and lay, fully clothed, on his cot. Sleep evaded him for hours, and he was left alone with the ghosts again.

"You look awful, Maes."

"Gracia..." Maes opened the door wider to let her in. He hadn't fallen asleep until around three o'clock in the morning, and his dreams had been filled with screaming Ishbalites. As usual. His hair was tousled, his clothes crumpled, and he was sure there were dark circles under his eyes.

Gracia stood looking at him for a while after he closed the door behind her, and he was uncomfortably conscious of the way he had shut her out the day before. Finally a sad smile crossed Gracia's face. "I've missed you terribly, Maes." She wrapped her arms tightly around him and rested her face against his chest .

Maes's arms hung limp at his sides. He longed to tell her how much his heart had ached for her, how so many nights he had just wanted someone to hold him and chase away the ghosts. He wanted to laugh with her again, to see her smiling and laughing at the jokes he told, to feel the joy he had experienced during the brief time they were together before he had gone off to war. But he didn't deserve to feel that joy. He didn't deserve her. His hands were bloody, after all, and hers were spotless.

When he didn't respond in any way, Gracia pulled away from him again. "Talk to me, Maes," she whispered, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "What's troubling you?"

He turned away stiffly. "It's nothing."

Gracia's hand tightened around his arm. "No," she said in a soft but firm voice. "It's not nothing. You're hurting me, and you're hurting yourself. You wouldn't do that for no reason at all."

Maes reluctantly turned back to face her. He looked into her large green eyes and found himself hurtling back to the years when they had been best friends. They had told each other everything back then, even painful secrets they would never have told anyone else. They had told each other when someone had hurt them, or when they had done something they knew they shouldn't have. Maes clenched his fist and paced over to a wall. He stared at the dirty white paint that covered the wall for several minutes, then hit it with his fist. The pain in his knuckles did nothing to soothe the guilt in his heart.

"I killed them," he spat out. "Children, mothers, old men... I killed them all!" His legs gave out under him and he slid down to the floor. He rested his forehead against his fist and whispered, "I'm a murderer."

A gentle pressure alighted on his shoulder. "I wasn't there to see all that you've experienced," Gracia said gently, "but I know that war means thousands of deaths on both sides. Our streets are filled with murderers now. I know you must have done some horrible things, Maes. Nothing I say will change that, but I want you to know that I...I still love you."

Maes's breath caught in his throat. How could she still love him when she saw how bloody his hands were, how filthy his conscience? But she had said she loved him...and Gracia never lied. He realized that tears were streaking down his face, and remembered what Gracia had once said: I hadn't allowed myself to cry. He had been doing the same thing, he realized, and let his tears fall for himself, for Gracia, and for every last Ishbalite he had slain.

Presently he felt Gracia take his glasses off so they wouldn't get wet, and a soft, comforting hand slipped into his. He clutched it tightly and pressed it to his lips. Please, Gracia, he begged. Never let me go.

Perhaps he had said it out loud without meaning to, or maybe Gracia could read his thoughts. Whichever was the case, he heard her soft voice whisper in his ear, "I won't." He turned to her and planted a clumsy, rather wet kiss on her cheek.

"And then we're going to go to Dublith - the beaches there are supposed to be perfect! Then we'll swing up around North City to see the mountains, and-"

"Are you planning to eat at all after your honeymoon?" Roy asked, bemused.

"I haven't even told you about the lovely house we're going to buy when we get back!" Maes gushed. "I was thinking it should be yellow, with a tidy little fence all around it, and a spacious garden out back so Gracia can keep growing flowers, you know."

Roy listened to him chatter on about his plans for the future, but by the time he reached the number of children they were going to have, he interrupted, "Hughes, if you keep talking this much you'll be out of breath when it's time to make your vows! And we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

Maes laughed and fell silent, seeing the sense in this. But as soon as his cheerful planning was silenced, he began to feel nervous. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair, and flicked miniscule bits of dust off his suit, feeling as though an entire legion of butterflies had been trapped in his stomach.

Roy noticed this almost immediately, and like the good friend he was said encouragingly, "You'll be fine. It doesn't matter if you mess up or forget what exactly to say; Gracia would love you even if you fainted away while you were up there."

Maes sighed tragically. "Easy for you to say; you're not the one getting married. Speaking of which..."

"We're here," Roy interrupted loudly, stepping out of the car.

Maes followed him into the church, and all the preparations that followed were a dreamy haze to him. He kept on thinking of the sad, sympathetic look in Gracia's eyes the day after he had returned from Ishbal; the condensed joy that had radiated from her eyes when he had asked her to marry him; the way she had tipped back her head and laughed out loud, her eyes brimming over with tears of mirth, when he had described to her all the places they were going to go on their honeymoon. He wanted to keep those eyes shimmering with happiness, and he desperately hoped this was the right way to do that.

When he saw Gracia coming down the aisle towards him, he didn't have to wonder anymore. Joy seemed to shimmer around her like an aura; she looked like she wanted to skip and twirl and squeal like a little girl instead of walking with slow, measured steps. Maes couldn't keep from beaming back at her all through the proceedings; she had never been more beautiful in all her simplicity.

When the time came to make their vows, Maes no longer felt nervous and uncertain. He was fully prepared to pledge his whole life, body and soul, to Gracia. There was no one he would rather spend the rest of his life with. For who had understood and accepted him like Gracia? After the ceremony, as he and Gracia danced together on the empty dance floor, he put his lips close to her ear and murmured, "Thank you."

Her only response was to squeeze his hand briefly.

Later, Maes was standing with Roy and drinking wine, telling his friend for the fifth time the specific locations they were going to visit on their honeymoon. "You've said all this before," Roy grumbled exasperatedly.

Before Maes could reply, there came a loud squeal of excitement from the nearby group of women surrounding Gracia. Maes looked up and saw something colorful sailing right towards him. He sidestepped quickly, but Roy wasn't fast enough. Roy instinctively caught the boquet of flowers before realizing its significance. Maes almost doubled over with laughter at the expression on Roy's reddening face. He caught Gracia's eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Gracia only winked at him. A vein was pulsing above Roy's temple, but Maes clutched his sides and roared with laughter.

In the years that followed, Maes looked back on that day as the best day of his life.