I know the timing's off here, since Edward definitely wasn't sixteen during the time of the Ishbal Massacre, but I have some sort of twisted fascination with post-Ishbal tortured Roy, and I couldn't stop myself from writing this.

He stared deep into the depths of his glass, absently swirling the amber liquid around with concentration that implied he was contemplating drowning himself in it.

His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, from lack of sleep, and tears that he would rather not admit to. His body was perfectly still, except for the hand that tilted from side to side, in an almost unconscious motion. He wasn't even blinking.

Having collected the last of the glasses, the concerned bartender walked towards him, and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, with enough pressure to draw him from his mind, but not enough to startle him.

"We're closing, Roy," he said, voice laced with sympathy. "Can you make your way home alright?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse and cracking as he attempted to force sound from it. "Be...fine. 'Fanks."

He knocked back the rest of the Scotch that he had been nursing for about an hour or so, and stumbled to his unsteady feet, clutching at the bar to remain upright.

The bartender sighed, guiding him towards the door with some difficulty. Clearly, he was anything but alright, but it was late, and he couldn't exactly walk him home to prevent him from getting into trouble. Most likely, he would collapse somewhere, and sleep there until dawn, where he would awaken with a pounding headache, and no memory of the previous night.

"Take care of yourself, Roy, okay?"

There wasn't much else he could do as he relinquished his grip on the Lieutenant Colonel's arm, and watched him stagger to the end of the street, stopping at an intersection and looking blankly in both directions.

The months since the Ishbal Rebellion hadn't been good to him, if his excessive drinking and pallid complexion were anything to go by. He had heard countless stories about Roy Mustang, the war hero, but he had watched him night after night, meeting those same lifeless eyes, and he knew without having to question that he felt anything but heroic.

Roy groaned in frustration. No matter how frantically he wracked his brain, he just couldn't recall which direction he lived in. He stood there, unmoving, for almost five minutes, before he decided he would head in whichever direction he wanted, and pray that he would remember his own doorstep when (if) he came to it.

Contemplating for a moment, he turned left, and stared determinedly down at his feet, having to focus more than usual on the supposedly simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.

Since he wasn't paying a speck of attention to where he was going, he found himself tripping down the sidewalk and walking into walls multiple times, but he didn't allow it to deter him. Thankfully, the Scotch seemed to have dulled the pain that would undoubtedly be plaguing him when he awoke at some point that afternoon.

He turned another corner, clinging helplessly to the nearest wall to prevent his legs from buckling, and found himself looking up for the first time. His vision was blurred, but that didn't prevent him from realizing he was staring into the depths of a nearby alleyway.

It was enshrouded almost completely in shadow, except for a faint sliver of moonlight, which gave the mouth of the alley a certain sickly glow.

Glimmering faintly within this light, was a strangely familiar automail leg, barely covered by a scarlet trench coat.

Roy took a tentative step forward, allowing the darkness to envelope him as he maneuvered carefully around said appendage. He could feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of his head, but the figure did not speak. Other than how his eyes followed the taller figure's each movement without a trace of emotion, he showed no sign that he had even acknowledged his presence.

Once he was certain he had stepped over both the automail, and the flesh leg, Roy allowed his own limbs to give way, and he collapsed into an awkward sitting position. Grinning proudly that he had managed to perform such complex actions, he looked up at the figure opposite him for the first time.

There was no mistaking those amber eyes, so cold and defiant, masking every possible emotion with well-practiced precision. He, like Roy, did not seem to have slept in a long period of time, and though he tried to force an impassive expression, his lips betrayed him, forming an anguished frown that caused Roy's heart to ache.

"What'cha...doin' here, Fullmetal?" he asked slowly, ensuring that every word was coherent.

"Sitting, Flame," he replied coolly, with added emphasis on his title. "What does it matter to you?"

Roy gave an over-exaggerated shrug, his trademark cocky smirk in place, though slightly lopsided. "'Ooever said it did?"

The teenager sighed, shifting away from him in annoyance. "Go to Hell," he snarled. "No, in fact, crawl back home and I hope the hangover fucking kills you."

Stung, Roy struggled to his feet with some difficulty, his eyes glimmering with rage. Under normal circumstances, any poisonous comments from the vertically impaired alchemist would be ignored, or he would take it in his stride, and throw back a dig at his height.

But now, under the influence, he wasn't about to stand for it. The nerve of that kid! He was just concerned, that was all, and he threw it carelessly back in his face. Who the Hell did he think he was?

"Be'er watch your step, Fullmetal," he replied coldly, his eyes narrowed. "Mouth like 'at can ge' you in trouble."

"From who? You?" he cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Don't make me laugh, Bastard. You're too drunk to even remember your own name."

He hesitated for a moment, ensuring that he did, in fact, recall his name. He would so hate for the shrimp to be right, especially when he was so determined to emerge victorious from this argument, like he always did.

He held up his hands in resignation. "I was just lookin' out for you. See, if you wind up dead in this alleyway by mornin', I'll get in trouble, and I'll 'ave even more paperwork to deal with."

"Then I'll walk into a fight just to spite you, and hope I die."

Roy grit his teeth, fumbling for his gloves in the pocket of his standard issue military jacket. He knew exactly what Edward was doing: pushing all of the right buttons to invoke a reaction from the usually stoic Colonel.

"That won't be too hard," said Roy, rage overpowering the alcohol in his blood. "All they'll have to do is step on you."

Edward opened his mouth to start the 'Who're-you-calling-so-short' routine, but managed to hold his tongue just in time. Roy's triumphant smirk was already in place, and he wasn't about to let him get the better of him. Not this time.

"Why don't you do it yourself?" he spat, getting to his feet and looking quite intimidating for someone half Roy's size. "You had plenty of practice in Ishbal, right?"

The look of utter horror on the Colonel's face was enough to tell him that he had gone too far. The initial shock faltered, and he solemnly averted his gaze to the ground.

That was it. The reason he spent his nights drinking himself unconscious in squalid bars. He wanted to forget the faces of all the innocent lives he'd taken, forget the image of those doctors crumpled upon the ground, their lives stolen by his hand.

In one, venomous sentence, all those memories had come flooding back to him. They were so overwhelming that he couldn't respond, couldn't even move.

Edward bit his lip. "Roy..."

He looked up, meeting Edward's gaze, and the blonde instinctively stepped backwards, his back hitting the damp, brick wall that he had been leaning against since before the Colonel had arrived. The sorrow had faded completely, and what replaced it was a fury Edward had never seen before, especially not from Roy.

A pair of hands found his shoulders, effectively pinning him in place. He struggled and writhed beneath his grip, but quickly deciphered it was hopeless. Falling limp, he looked up, meeting Roy's glare with one of his own.

"Don't you ever pretend you understand what happened in Ishbal," he snarled, baring his teeth. "Nothing in your darkest dreams could ever come close to what I saw there!"

Edward lowered his gaze guiltily, and raised his automail hand, flexing each finger in turn. "I think you might be wrong there." he said quietly.

Roy's anger faltered for a moment. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Edward was just a child, despite how fervently he denied it. But standing there, shifting his feet in shame, it almost physically hurt to see how much he reminded him of the child he had seen five years ago, lying unconscious with two missing limbs.

He pitied him, and at the same time, a familiar guilt flooded his veins, making him sick to his stomach. He was the reason Edward had been forced to grow up so fast. He was the reason he was still so vulnerable, but no one seemed to realize it.

Once again, it was all his fault.

He didn't know what made him do it. Perhaps he was trying to cause something other than pain. Whatever the reason, he suddenly found himself stooping down and softly pressing his lips to Edward's, earning a startled squeak.

For a moment, Edward was frozen in shock. Was Roy Mustang, affectionately known as Colonel Bastard kissing him? Deciding in the space of a second that this was actually happening, he pulled away, and stared into those onyx eyes in disbelief.

"What the Hell d'you think you're doing, Bastard?!" he demanded, deciding to ignore how his legs were suddenly reluctant to hold his weight.

Immediately, Roy's eyes narrowed. He hadn't been rejected once in his life and he certainly hadn't expected his first rejection to be from Edward Elric, of all people. Hell, if Hughes, or anybody for that matter, had walked up to him in the bar and told him that by the end of the night he would be kissing Edward, he would've laughed in their faces.

Hurt, but determined not to show it, Roy released the blonde and stormed back to the mouth of the alleyway, feeling those mezmerizing amber eyes burning into the back of his head.

Everyone deals with rejection in different ways. For Roy Mustang, it was to turn back to that blonde shrimp after only several steps, looking over him with a faintly amused expression.

He removed a gloved hand from his pocket, holding his thumb and middle finger against each other. Edward had only a split-second to react, and had managed to move about an inch towards Roy, before he snapped his fingers, and the entire alleyway erupted in flame.

Roy turned on his heel, and swiftly left the darkness of the alley, smirking faintly to himself as he heard the walls collapse behind him.

No one got away with rejecting him. No one.

Before I receive a lot of angry, "How could you do that to Ed?" and "Why did you make Roy such an asshole?" messages, know that I'm not planning to finish it there (grins) Well, unless my rabid plot bunnies decide not to cooperate. Again.