Hughes heard the phone ring, but it took him a long few seconds to understand what was going on. He had been in a dead sleep, and when the sound woke him up he was too exhausted and disoriented to process it for a moment. Even once he had gotten himself out of bed and moved over to the table, he wasn't entirely sure what the call was signifying. He was staying in a hotel in East City; who would even have this number? He supposed Gracia would, but there was no way she would be calling him this early in the morning, not unless there was some sort of emergency….

"Hello?" he said, picking up the phone and lifting it to his ear.

"Maes." The voice on the other end was strained-sounding, and instantly recognizable. Hughes sighed a little.

"Roy? What is it? I...I was asleep. I don't have to be at the Command Center for a few more hours, you know that, right?"

"I...I know," Mustang said hesitatingly. "But I needed to talk to you."

Hughes felt his heart drop into his stomach. "What's wrong?" he said. Because of course something must be wrong, there was no way Mustang would call Hughes in the early hours of the morning needing to talk if there wasn't some problem that required solving.

Mustang didn't say anything for a few long moments. Hughes was about to ask him if he had hung up when he finally started to speak again.

"I don't want to say over the phone," he said. It was then that Hughes realized how tired and drained he sounded. He sounded...ill, like he had the flu, and Hughes wanted to reach through the phone and grab him and shake him until he told him what was going on.

"Are you sick?" Hughes demanded. "You know how important this is, please don't tell me you're sick…."

"Just...come to the Command Center. As...as soon as you can. Please."

"Roy, don't you dare hang up on me, tell me what's happening-"

"I have to go," he said, voice weak. "Just...be here soon."

"Roy-"

But he heard the click, and knew that his friend had already hung up. Hughes slammed the phone back down again. It hadn't sounded like whatever Mustang had been going on about was a life or death situation, but he had made it sound urgent, and Hughes knew he couldn't put off getting to Eastern Command. Mustang clearly needed him, he wouldn't have called if he didn't. And if it was something that he wasn't willing to say over the phone….

Hughes tried to figure out what it could be that was distressing Mustang so much as he pulled off his pajamas and dragged on his uniform. Based on the way his voice had sounded, Hughes had to guess there was a problem with Mustang, not simply with paperwork or scheduling or investigations. But Hughes had seen Mustang last night, and he hadn't seemed particularly sick then. Hughes supposed he had seemed rather tired, but at the time he had chalked that up to the stress of hosting important Aerugan dignitaries in Eastern Command for the week and nothing more.

The diplomats had arrived in East City about a week ago, and so far, everything was going smoothly. General Grumman's men had been working around the clock to keep the Aerugan dignitaries happy, and they'd been mostly successful.

Successful barring that one minor...incident, of course. But on the whole, things were running smoothly, and Hughes was impressed with the East City officials. Despite Grumman's eccentric reputation, the man was clearly smart and capable.

And what's more, he had Roy Mustang working under him, Roy who was desperate to rise all the way to the top. He worked hard to stand out, and made everyone around him stand out in the process. And it seemed to be working; even in this high stress situation Mustang was flourishing. Of course, it was nothing compared to a war zone. But if Mustang was ill….

Hughes dashed out of the hotel room, grateful that it was only a few blocks away from Eastern Command. He could be at his friend's side in a matter of minutes, and then he'd be able to assess the situation and deal with the damage.

Hopefully, it wasn't anything too bad, and Mustang was just tired, or stressed. But as much as Hughes wanted to believe that, it didn't seem likely. Mustang was too proud for that. He never asked for help unless there was no other choice.

Almost without thinking, Hughes broke into a run. After that, it only took him a few more minutes to reach Eastern Command. He flashed his credentials at the sleepy receptionist and hurried down the unfamiliar hallways, hoping he remembered where his friend's office was.

Mustang's office was shut, but there was light showing beneath the door. Hughes knocked on it lightly.

"It's open," Mustang said from within, sounding exhausted. His worry mounting, Hughes pulled the door open and entered the office.

Mustang was sitting in his desk chair, holding himself carefully upright. Something about his posture seemed wrong, and Hughes stared at him for a few seconds before realizing that he was twisted slightly, his right shoulder held at an awkward angle.

"Hughes, I think-" Mustang began to speak, but Hughes knew what he was going to say. With a jolt, all of the pieces fell into place, and Hughes felt his heart sink.

Mustang sat stiffly at his desk, trying not to agitate his shoulder. Suddenly, any movement felt almost impossible considering the agonizing pain that lay in wait. Mustang knew his shoulder was infected, he'd known it since last night, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge the truth and the host of problems it entailed.

A week ago, when the Aerugan dignitaries had arrived, a few of them had gone out to a bar. Some idiot Amestrians had started an altercation, and one of the foreigners had drawn his rapier and given one of the Amestrians a souvenir, a nice little gash along his right shoulder. The foreigners were understandably angry about the Amestrian hostility, and General Grumman had begun a search for the men responsible. Hospitals had been notified to look out for anyone with wounds that fit the description.

Mustang and Hughes hadn't known that they were diplomats, they'd just thought they were your everyday drunken assholes. Unfortunately, Mustang didn't think that that explanation would be enough to avoid a war. If the diplomats found out they'd been attacked by two Amestrian military officials instead of two mere civilians….

And, of course, he and Hughes would almost certainly face a court martial. All in all, Mustang and Hughes had determined that it would be best to keep this…incident…quiet. Mustang had gone home and bandaged the wound as best he could, and he hadn't thought any more about it.

But now the gash hurt with a sick pulse that matched his breathing, and the skin over his right shoulder felt stretched and tight. And as if that wasn't enough, Mustang felt ill, slow and heavy. He thought he might be running a fever. He had woken up too nauseous to risk eating, and his head was pounding faintly in a way that made it hard to think.

He knew that what he really needed was a hospital. But he couldn't forget the sinking feeling in his stomach when he'd walked into the emergency room only to see a uniformed figure telling the receptionist to report anyone who came in with a gash on the back of their right shoulder. He knew that wasn't an option. And Hughes was the next best thing.

"Your shoulder…something's wrong with it, isn't it?" Hughes said, looking at Mustang with an expression of worry and dismay.

"I...I think it might be infected," Mustang said. He reached his left hand up to touch the wound, wincing when his fingers even so much as brushed the fabric. "I need you to fix it."

Hughes laughed nervously, like he thought Mustang might be joking. "Roy, I'm sorry, I don't think I'm going to be able to fix your shoulder-"

"Please just try," Mustang said, a little embarrassed at how weak and strained his voice sounded. "I need to be at the parade in thirty minutes, and I'm not sure I can even salute…."

"Alright," Hughes said, his voice softening a little. "Let me take a look at it."

"Thanks," Mustang said. He nodded slightly, and the movement made his head swirl. He swallowed hard.

"How did you even get to work this morning?" Hughes asked. While he was speaking, Mustang began laboriously unbuttoning his jacket, struggling because his right arm was almost completely useless.

"I didn't," Mustang said.

"What?"

"I could feel that it was starting to get bad last night, so I decided to stay here overnight. I figured that would be easier. Less chance of missing the parade."

"You spent the night in your office?"

"Yeah," he said. He began gently trying to ease the jacket over his shoulder. The fabric kept catching on the bandages, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He felt his eyes close, almost involuntarily. He was just so exhausted; he had barely gotten any sleep at all the night before, sitting upright at his desk and trying to look busy in case anyone realized he was still there, shoulder already starting to throb with a dull pain.

"Let me do that," Hughes said. He tugged the fabric off Mustang's shoulder. It was fast enough that he felt a small cry escape him, but then the pain was over and Hughes was pulling the sleeve off his arm.

"I'm going to have to take these bandages off, okay, Roy?"

Mustang nodded, steeling himself for the pain. Even so, when Hughes removed the sloppy bandage, Mustang couldn't stop himself from crying out. There was a long moment of silence, and then Hughes sighed heavily.

"Goddamnit, Roy…."

"That bad?" Mustang said, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt Hughes' gentle fingers on his shoulder, and clenched his jaw to keep from crying out again.

"It's not good," Hughes said. "I wish you'd let me clean it out a week ago…."

Mustang laughed bitterly, feeling the sick heat in his shoulder. "Yeah, me too. Is there anything you can do? Please? I...I don't think I can get through the next few days like this…."

Hughes sighed again, and Mustang's heart sank slightly. "I can't really do anything for your shoulder at this point, it's pretty bad…. You need to go to a hospital."

"I can't-"

"I know. That's not an option. I guess we're just gonna have to keep this a secret til the diplomats leave."

Mustang closed his eyes, feeling desperation well up inside him. He saw his career, and Hughes', crumble in his mind. Twenty five and already a Lieutenant Colonel, but all that would be for nothing if he was court martialed.

"Hughes, I...I don't think I can. I'm not even sure I can stand up, I can barely move my arm…."

"You aren't gonna be doing this alone, Roy." Hughes sounded almost offended, and Mustang carefully turned his head to look at his friend.

"You...you'll help me?"

Hughes rolled his eyes, as if the very question was ridiculous. "Of course I'll help you. They won't suspect a thing. And when they leave, we'll figure something out and get you help. Okay?"

Mustang nodded, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. "Okay." The prospect of having to pretend to be perfectly well for the next two days wasn't exactly appealing, but it no longer felt quite so impossible.

Hughes had wanted to encourage Mustang, but he wasn't nearly as confident as he seemed. He took a deep breath and looked back at Mustang's shoulder, forcing himself not to look away.

The wound was half scabbed over, oozing a mixture of pus and watery blood that had soaked through the bandage. The skin surrounding it was red and puffy, as though it was stretched too thin. As soon as Hughes laid his hand on Mustang's shoulder, he could feel the unnatural heat that was coming from the wound. And even the barest hint of touch on the area around it caused Mustang to shudder with pain. He looked almost sick with agony, even when Hughes was nowhere near the wound itself.

Hughes wasn't even sure washing it out was going to be much use at this point. Hughes had no idea what he could do to help, short of getting Mustang some antibiotics. But that would only be possible in a hospital. Hughes felt like he was trapped between a rock and a hard place. He had to either get medical help, losing the cooperation of the dignitaries and harming Amestris's and Aerugo's already fragile status, or watch his best friend die.

No. Mustang wasn't going to die yet. He was sick, but there was still a lot of fight left in him. They just had to make it through the rest of today, and part of tomorrow. They would...they would be fine.

Hughes rummaged around in the desk and found a small first-aid kit. There wasn't much much in it, but there were some bandages. He wound them around Mustang's shoulder, being as gentle as he could. Mustang hissed in pain whenever Hughes so much as brushed it.

"I'm gonna get your shirt back on, alright?" Hughes said.

Mustang nodded stiffly. Hughes tugged the fabric back up, trying to be as gentle as he could. Mustang sucked in a sharp breath whenever Hughes accidentally jostled the wound. Hughes winced slightly, hating to cause Mustang pain.

"You can still walk, right?" Hughes said once he had gotten Mustang's shirt back on. If Mustang couldn't walk, this was going to be difficult to even impossible.

"Yes," Mustang said. As if to demonstrate, he pushed himself to his feet. He moved in front of his desk, walking a little unsteadily but certainly under his own power. He looked at Hughes as if daring him to say something.

"You think you can make it through the whole parade like that?" Hughes asked dubiously. The parade wasn't a particularly long affair, about ten minutes of all the soldiers marching together, designed mostly to show off the Amestrian military prowess. But there would certainly be quite a bit of walking, and in formation, no less. Hughes wasn't sure how well Mustang would be able to handle it.

"Don't really have a choice," Mustang said grimly. He took a few shaky steps toward the door, and Hughes watched him dubiously.

"I'm going to walk with you, just in case," Hughes told him firmly. "The Aerugan diplomats won't know the difference."

Mustang looked as though he were about to protest, but he just nodded softly. More than anything else, this scared Hughes. He'd expected his friend to protest, to complain about being "smothered." His quiet acceptance meant that he must really be sick.

"Okay," Hughes said, looking Mustang over for any outward signs of illness. He was paler than usual, but that would be put down to the stress. Hughes winced at the stiff way Mustang was holding his shoulder, but he knew how much it had to hurt. Mustang was doing the best he could. They'd just have to hope no one noticed.

"Let's have a parade," Hughes said with an optimism he didn't feel, and watched Mustang stagger out the door with no small amount of trepidation.

Mustang stood in the hot sun, grateful for Hughes at his elbow. The parade hadn't even started, and he was already swaying on his feet. For possibly the first time in his life, Mustang wished for rain.

Maybe not rain. But a few clouds would be nice, they would cut off the punishing sun and give him a break from the damn heat. Mustang felt the little water he'd retained begin to leach out of his skin and his stomach roiled unpleasantly. He was momentarily glad that he hadn't eaten anything that morning, and then General Grumman signaled and the parade began.

Mustang fell into a rhythm quickly enough. He focused on the horizon, and he ignored the pain in his shoulder every time his foot hit the ground. He could do this, he could march for fifteen minutes, that was nothing.

But after five minutes, Mustang's shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he had to hold back a continuous whimper. The horizon blurred with tears he could barely keep from spilling over, and he didn't think he could last any longer.

"Come on, Roy," Hughes whispered in his ear, and he felt his friend's reassuring hand graze his back. "You can do this."

If he got caught, Hughes would too. He couldn't ruin both of their careers. Mustang gritted his teeth and kept marching.

Five long minutes later, Mustang was barely keeping his footing. Every step felt like it could be his last. He couldn't understand how the men around him hadn't noticed, surely they could see that he was barely stumbling at this point, much less marching. The wound in his shoulder throbbed sickeningly, and he felt like he was perpetually a little off-balance, like the world kept shifting beneath his feet. He groaned slightly.

He felt his boot catch in something, some sort of microscopic crack in the ground. His balance was shot, the fever and the swirling in his head doing a number on his ability to catch himself. Before he was even entirely aware of what was happening, his knees hit the ground. He felt a shock of pain go through his legs, quickly followed by his palms as they hit the pavement too.

He was too disoriented to push himself to his feet, or even realize what had happened for a few seconds. He peeled one of his hands off the rough ground and peered at it, watching the blood smear across his palm from several shallow cuts. He blinked slowly.

"Get up!" Hughes said sharply from somewhere above him. Mustang started to turn his head blearily to look up at him, but before he could Hughes had latched one hand under Mustang's left shoulder and grabbed his collar with the other one and he was hauling Mustang to his feet. Mustang stumbled as he fought to catch his balance. And then Hughes was shoving him forward, and he was walking again.

"What the hell happened?" someone behind him whispered angrily.

"He tripped," Hughes said, spinning part way around, removing his hands from Mustang's back.

"Maes-" Mustang whimpered. He could feel blood dripping down his legs now. His head was spinning.

"Keep walking," Hughes hissed. "You're almost done."

Mustang kept stumbling forward, almost grateful for the pain in his shoulder because it distracted nicely from the pain in his knees and palms. He tried to look at the wounds in his hands again, bringing his left one up a little to examine it.

"No," Hughes whispered firmly, grabbing Mustang's hand and pressing it down at his side. "Stop that. Just...keep moving forward."
Mustang obediently kept walking, trying to fall into a rhythm and not let himself think about anything but moving. He kept his hands pressed into the fabric of his pant legs, hoping no one would notice the bleeding. He just had to keep walking forward, one foot and then the other, just a little farther….

"Roy!" Hughes hissed. He realized there was a hand grabbing the back of his uniform. Then he realized that everyone else had already stopped walking. He stopped too. His legs almost buckled, but he kept his footing. He shook his head to clear it, wishing he were less dizzy.

"Sorry, can't stay and listen to the speeches," Hughes was saying to the other soldiers. He started to push his way out of the crowd, pulling Mustang along with him. "We have very important preparations to be doing, very important, yeah…."

"Important," Mustang echoed dumbly, stumbling along in Hughes' wake. He followed Hughes back through the doors of Eastern Command, towed along by Hughes' hand on his wrist. Hughes swept through the halls, nodding at everyone they encountered, but not giving them any time to start a conversation. Mustang did his best, but nodding his head just made him feel more off balance, and he didn't want to fall again.

Finally, Hughes stopped walking, and Mustang leaned gratefully against the wall and closed his aching eyes. He focused on breathing, letting the dull pain in his shoulder intertwine with the sharp stinging in his palms and knees. The pain swirled inside him, and he breathed with it and let it wrap around him. It was almost peaceful. If he could just stay here….

"Roy!" Hughes said sharply. His friend's eyes remained closed, and Hughes reached out and shook him slightly by his non-injured shoulder.

"Roy, come on. Let's get you cleaned up," Hughes said gently, and Mustang's eyes finally fluttered open.

"Yeah," he muttered, and trailed after Hughes into the locker room. It was deserted, all the soldiers occupied with the parade and the speeches. Hughes steered Mustang toward one of the long benches that ran across the length of the room and sat him down. Mustang blinked up at him vacantly, and Hughes swore under his breath.

"Hey, Roy, I know you feel awful, but you gotta try to keep it together, alright?" Hughes retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet in the corner and returned to Mustang. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," Mustang said, nodding firmly. Then, his expression wavered, and he dropped his eyes.

"I don't know, Hughes," he said, voice trembling. "I couldn't even march in a damn parade. What...what if I can't do it?"
Hughes pulled Mustang's left hand toward him and swabbed it out with antiseptic, pretending not to notice Mustang's hiss of pain.

"You can do it," he told his friend, wrapping gauze around Mustang's palm. "Everything else is sitting and talking. That's easy."

Mustang didn't look convinced, and Hughes switched hands, trying not to pull on Mustang's injured shoulder.

"You'll be fine," he insisted with a certainty he didn't feel. "All you have to do is pretend every diplomat is one of those girls you charm into hanging around. You'll have them eating out of your hand."

Mustang chuckled weakly, and Hughes smiled at him. "See? It's all gonna work out. Even the parade went ok. We're gonna do this."

Mustang nodded, more firmly this time, and Hughes finished bandaging his right hand. "Alright, let's have a look at your knees."

"Maes?"

Hughes looked up, and Mustang took his eyes from his bandaged palms and locked his gaze on Hughes.

"Thanks."

Hughes smiled slightly and rolled up Mustang's pant legs as gently as he could. He did his best to wash out the wounds, but there were microscopic bits of blue fabric from Mustang's uniform stuck in them, and he couldn't get them out without making the whole thing start bleeding all over again. He put a few adhesives over the deepest wounds, then tugged Mustang's pants back down. By the time he was done, his friend was almost asleep. His eyes were fluttering, and his face was greyish with pain.

"Alright," Hughes said, trying to sound confident. "What else do we need to do? I can help you get everything done, but I just need to know what all your duties for today were."

Hughes knew that Mustang had been working for months to get everything ready for the diplomats, and many of the logistical responsibilities were on him. He didn't know exactly what Mustang's jobs were, but he knew he would have a role today, and if it didn't get filled people would get suspicious. Making sure the all the various ceremonies and meetings were taken care of was probably the most important part of keeping Mustang out of trouble.

But Mustang was shaking his head. "I...I can't do all of it like this. I need to meet with people, and I need-"

"Just tell me what you needed to do," Hughes said. "I'll take care of it, don't worry."

"I...I don't remember," Mustang said miserably.

"You don't remember?"

"My head feels…." Mustang gestured agitatedly. "I can't.…"

"It's alright," Hughes said. He could tell Mustang was distressed, and he didn't want to make it worse. But at the same time, he had no idea how they would get through today if he didn't even know what they had to do.

Mustang murmured something that Hughes couldn't make out.

"What was that?"
"It's the Lieutenant," he said. "I need her. You need to get her."

"Hawkeye?"

Mustang nodded. "The Lieutenant will know what to do. She'll remember."

Hughes frowned slightly. Of course Riza would know what Mustang's duties were, that was her job, and she had been working alongside him the whole time he had been trying to get this ready. But Hughes still wasn't sure it was the right call to involve her. Riza didn't know that her superior had been the one to antagonize the diplomats the week before, and he didn't think she would react very kindly if she found out. She took the law far more seriously than either Mustang or Hughes did, and there was a small part of Hughes that was afraid she would just turn them in on the spot.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Hughes asked.

Mustang nodded, as firmly as he could given his current state. "Just get her," he whispered. "Please."