A/N: Inspired by a 3-sentence AU ficlet meme on tumblr. The prompt -

railwayings: I'M BEING SO PREDICTABLE IN EVERYONE'S ASK RN. Also not technically an AU but a straight up crossover: Ed/Alfons (and/or Al and Mustang and EVERYBODY) in Republic City. Team Elric vs. Team Mustang pro-bending match?

but then my hand slipped oops. So there's this thing, which takes place in a very nebulous universe. I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm having fun doing it! Please remember that this is an AU for the first FMA anime, not Brotherhood or the manga. It's AU enough it doesn't matter much, but if you don't know who Alfons Heiderich is, you will be lost.

This first oneshot is the first I wrote and needs serious concrit, especially the first half because the pacing/writing in general is super awkward, I'm awful at action scenes. Tear it to pieces, please!

ALL READERS ARE LOVED AND ALL FEEDBACK IS LOVED :D

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[[and the winner is...]]

It was the tiebreaker round of the championship match between the reigning champion Central City Shirshus (try saying that three times fast) and the startup Resembool Pygmy Pumas (and Ed never forgave himself for letting Al name the team – it didn't even have that whole alliteration thing going on, what had he been thinking?) and Ed was losing his shit.

He'd told Alfons to skip the game but his idiot boyfriend refused, insisted on being there for the final match even as he coughed up roughly two-thirds of a lung. And then the dumbass volunteered for the face-off before either Ed or Al had the chance to stop him – the fuck was he doing? Was he trying to lose the tournament and their rocketry sponsorship all in one go? Because if he was, he was doing a spectacular job of it – Mustang kept him on his toes dodging rapid bursts of fire, leaving him no time to retaliate. The corner of his mouth was dark red with expectorated blood and in that moment Ed didn't care about the prize money, didn't care about besting Mustang, didn't care about anything except getting Alfons out of the ring and taking him home.

Alfons stumbled backward and Mustang lunged in for the kill ("KEEP YOUR FILTHY MITTS OFF MY BOYFRIEND YOU BASTARD!" "Brother, is this really the time?") but before the blow could connect Alfons was on his feet again. He blasted jets of flames from his palms directly at the ground and – what the fuck, was he flying?

Okay, apparently Alfons could fly now. The sudden burst of fire shot him up into the air, over Mustang's head, and Mustang's cocky smirk dropped into nonexistence when he remembered that an object in motion stays in motion, and he proceeded to motion himself right the fuck off the narrow platform and faceplant onto the arena below.

And then Alfons seized in midair, curling in on himself like a wounded animal as he coughed a thick red spray onto his uniform. His flames sputtered out and he fell.

The background noise of the screaming audience, the rapid machinegun voice of the announcer declaring the Pygmy Pumas the winning team, Al yelling frantically for a healer, all of it faded to a dull static buzz in the back of his head as Ed sprinted to the platform. Fuck the elevators – he earthbended a makeshift stone bridge across the pool to the arena but he knew he still wouldn't make it in time – and he didn't. Alfons hit the floor with a sickening crack and he crumpled into a broken heap. Ed reached his side in seconds and kneeled down to his level.

"Alfons – fuck, Alfons, are you okay?" he said, heart in his throat and on his sleeve. Alfons coughed weakly and that had to count for something, he had to be okay, he just had to be, he'd never forgive himself if –

"No, not especially," Alfons replied, vomited onto Ed's boots, and promptly passed out. Fucking typical.

And so it came to pass that Ed spent yet another birthday in the hospital, except this time he was a visitor instead of a patient. This would be a welcome change if it wasn't Alfons lying in the hospital cot, if it wasn't Alfons with his face worryingly pale even against the stark sterile white of the bedsheets. Just being in the room made Ed sick to the stomach with guilt but he refused to leave him.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he asked Alfons when he was well enough to answer. "You were dead on your feet, you shouldn't have even come to the arena that day but you went into a damned face-off like a fucking moron. How did you think you'd win, cough blood in Mustang's face?"

"Don't underestimate me," Alfons snapped, "What I did in the arena was my plan all along. And you really don't need to swear, there are more words in the world than 'fuck,' Edward."

"I do too need to swear, you almost fucking died." His words were harsh but when he brought his real hand up to cradle Alfons's face his touch was anything but. "Do you know how fucking scared I was when I saw you fall? It was...it was – just don't do that again, okay? Shit. If you have some sort of secret backup plan, tell me first before you give me a damn heart attack. Fuck."

Alfons leaned into his hand and smiled, a little wry, a little sad. "I'm sorry. You're right, I should have told you. But – and it's silly, but I wanted it to be a surprise, beating your ex for you in a one-on-one firefight. It was a good birthday gift, right?"

Ed could have said any number of things – he could have chewed Alfons out, he could have ramped up the guilt trip, he could have stormed out of the room – but Alfons's eyes were bright and wide and vulnerable, and in that moment all the hurt washed away and all he could feel was love. "Yeah. It was," he admitted, "The best."

"I'm glad."

They didn't say anything else for a while. Ed held his hand and stood guard while Alfons slipped in and out of a light sleep. The late afternoon sunlight moved across the room with the hours until it darkened and dimmed and faded altogether into a warm summer night, and the soft gold gave way to the full moon's faint silver blue. It wasn't until even the moonlight faded that Alfons said, "With the prize money, you'll have the yuans you need to finish the rocket. You and Al will be able to go home."

There, there it was, the camelephant in the room. Home – home to a world where Mustang was Roy and Roy was a Colonel, home to a world at war. Home to Resembool, the real Resembool, with Winry and Granny and the graveyard in the green hills where Ed's mother slept. Home.

"Yeah. I guess."

Alfons rolled over and stared. "You don't sound very excited about it," he said, and he didn't sound very surprised. "Getting cold feet? Well, foot. You know what I mean."

"We could go north," Ed said quickly.

"Huh?"

"North. The best healers in the world are at the North Pole. We have the money to afford them now."

In the dark, Alfons smiled, tired and far too old a smile for someone so young. "We could," he said, and gripped Ed's hand tighter.

They waited for dawn together in silence, pretending for just a little while longer that everything would be all right, ignoring for the night all the things they could not change. In the morning, they would accept the reality they'd been given. In the morning. Until then.