It's been five months since Amestrian soldiers and state alchemists were deployed to Ishval, following another rebellion. It's even more bloodthirsty than the last, or so Edward hears. All he knows is that he's seen soldiers die left, right and centre. People he's passed in the halls. People he's gone on missions with. People with friends, and families, lovers. People dropping like flies for the sake of war.
He writes to Alphonse every chance he gets, just to tell his brother he's alive. He tells Al how everyone's doing; how Roy is more short-tempered than usual, how Havoc goes through three packets of cigarettes a day. Furey had a nervous breakdown last week, and Breda's lost so much weight that he's had to appeal for new uniforms three times in the last month. As a postscript at the end of his letters, he keeps a small obituary - soldiers he and his brother know that have died since his last letter. Yesterday's letter held one name: Riza Hawkeye.
It's the middle of the night, and he and Roy are off duty. Edward is sitting on the floor, penning another letter to Al. Roy plays with his hair; braiding and unbraiding it. He wants to complain - he hates it when Roy does that. He's no woman, after all - but he doesn't have the heart. It's late, they're both tired, and the colonel is grieving the loss of his best friend. Riza Hawkeye, Maes Hughes and Roy Mustang have always been a team. Now, he stands alone, and it breaks Edward's heart. He finishes his letter to Alphonse, and puts it aside. His hair is still being braided, and the silence mixed in with the heavy, impossible heat has become almost cloying. He searches for a distraction.
'Lie to me,' Edward commands. The fingers running through his hair pause, and he waits. It's a game they've taken to playing over the last few months - telling each other petty lies to comfort themselves.
'There'll be a snowstorm tomorrow.' Roy tells him blandly, and the blonde has to chuckle. The heat has been constant, scorching, since they got here. Edward's automail burns, and Roy's developed a sort of permanent sunburn.
'You can do better than that, Mustang.'
'Why don't you try?'
'We're going home tomorrow.' Edward muses. 'Al will pick us up at the station, take us to Gracia's, where she and Winry and granny Pinako have been slaving away in the kitchen, cooking for us.'
'Quiche, stew and pie?' Roy asks, and the blonde nods eagerly, eager to get the colonel to participate. Anything to stop him thinking of his dead best friend. 'How about shrimp?'
'Bastard.' Edward mutters sullenly as Roy begins braiding his hair again. He can't even work up a temper about the short jokes anymore; Ishval has taken too much out of him. What's the point at getting mad about something so trivial when men are out there, dying for no reason?
'We can get that house I had my eye on,' Roy sounds thoughtful. 'I'll get the cabinets custom-made so you can reach everything.'
Edward snorts.
And so the game goes on, late into the night. They lie to each other about everything - how they'll stay together after the war. How they'll adopt a pet because Edward can't stand children, but no cats because he's allergic to the fur. They plan for their house, the furniture. Edward talks of leaving the military, and Roy talks of rising in the ranks. They talk for hours, until they can pretend to ignore the deep, unsettling ache in their chests - until the hate and anger and grief and pain leaves them alone for a little while. They talk until they run out of words and repeat the same things four times over. They play their game until the sun comes up. In the distance, they hear soldiers shouting in what seems like alarm. But at this point, they're too tired to care - curled up on the bunk together, though neither of them can remember how they got there.
'Lie to me again,' Edward says sleepily.
'I love you.' The statement is punctuated by close gunfire - too close. They sit up, alarmed, neither of them tired anymore. Edward looks at Roy to find that the colonel's staring at him, and he's not sure if they're still playing their game.
Edward opens his mouth to respond with a lie of his own, but it's drowned out by the sound of bombs. His last thought is that he'll never get to send Alphonse that letter.