Magnet

by Militsa M

They were Scientists; this was Nature. They were Modern; God is dead. Edward Elric x Alfons Heiderich, romance and intrigue in Munich. Featuring the poetry of R.M. Rilke. Pre-CoS.

[Munich 1923]

Schematic designs showed how things were constructed, showed where every rivet, every groove, every channel fit together. Perfect and harmonious, a complete machine was a thing of beauty. If he allowed himself to get carried away-and he did, in his mind, sometimes-he was like a God himself, bringing form and substance to an idea.

He was perfectly aware of the arrogance in that, thank you. It was the only thing that he had ever felt he could take pride in.

"Good work, Heiderich," said Klaussen, running his eyes over the schematic for what seemed to be the twentieth time. "You're so accurate, that's what I like about you." Klaussen rolled up the sheet of paper and tucked it under his arm. "That's enough for today, you look exhausted. Go home and get some sleep. We'll start working on the propulsion system design tomorrow."

"All right." Alfons Heiderich reached for his coat and watched Klaussen as he turned back to the drafting table. "Aren't you going home? It's nearly ten o'clock."

"Oh, I don't get tired," Klaussen said. He turned to Alfons and gave him one of those thin-lipped smiles that Alfons was never sure whether to take as sincere. Klaussen had thin lips, narrow teeth and a wide mouth, giving those smiles of his a feral look. His long, thin fingers drummed on the surface of the drafting table. "You go on now."

Alfons muttered a guten nacht and left the dockland warehouse that served as an improvised rocketry lab for AstraTechnologie AG. He always left Klaussen feeling sort of dismissed, disposed of. Klaussen often abruptly decided that their work was over, as if he had suddenly gotten his fill of him, and then he would send him on his way.

He told himself that he should be flattered, that Klaussen had chosen him of all the team to work closely with, that he thought he showed the most promise. But when he had asked Klaussen to sponsor him for a government job, he had said he couldn't.

He boarded the tram and watched Munich pass by as he made his way home. These late nights with Klaussen were becoming a nuisance, and something didn't feel right about it. Hardly more than a month had passed since Metzger, the project manager who had hired them for his invisible boss Herr Gottschalk, Director of Astra, had come into the lab to announce that Klaussen had been permanently hired, and that the rest of them, as casual workers, would now report to him.

As soon as Metzger had left, Klaussen began reminding everyone that he could now hire a team as he liked, and if they were all nice and proper to him he might just hire them.

"You're not going to take us, Klaussen?" said Becker. He regarded Klaussen darkly.

"I don't think so. You haven't brought anything particularly new to our work here in quite a while. I just may have to look elsewhere." Klaussen pulled himself up to sit on the surface of one of the work benches. "The lot of you have been a disappointment in terms of innovative ideas, except maybe for Heiderich there. Metzger said that Gottschalk recommended we keep him on."

Alfons' stomach flipped at the mention of his name. "Gottschalk mentioned my name?" he asked.

"Sounds like a load of shit to me," growled Reinert. He looked over to the drafting table where Alfons and Edward were both bent over the schematics. "What do you think, boys?"

Edward completely ignored him, but Alfons could never pull off being rude. Compelled to find something pleasant to say that wouldn't annoy either Klaussen or Reinert, Alfons thought for a moment before saying, "I'm sure he didn't mean for Herr Klaussen to sack everyone. Metzger wouldn't do that, wouldn't he?"

Reinert snickered.

Klaussen slapped the wooden table with his hand. "See? What was I saying? Reinert, you're insubordinate. But you're a politician, Heiderich. You'll be the first one I hire."

Alfons half-smiled and turned back to the table.

"Just because you went to university doesn't mean you can lord it over us, Klaussen," Reinert continued to grumble. "You think you're better than us because you have a degree, but you didn't get your skills in combat like me and Becker did. While we were out rigging up bombs in the trenches and fixing planes in airfields, you were sitting on your ass in the library at Heidelberg, you fucking pussy."

The insult was jarring enough for Alfons to look back at Klaussen, but the man was smiling his crooked, thin-lipped smile.

"I have fallen arches. And now I have a degree, you stupid ox." Klaussen slid off the table onto his fallen arches. He crossed the room to the drafting table and came to stand behind Alfons and Edward. Alfons tried to suppress a chill that ran down his spine, and ended up shuddering when he realized that Klaussen had spread his arms and put one over each of their shoulders. "My boys," he began rhetorically. "Under me this team will reach new heights! We'll be doing exhibitions for the government, the world's fair in Rio, the sky's the limit, eh, boys? What do you think?" He squeezed them then; Alfons ducked away but Edward pushed Klaussen's arm away forcefully.

"Congratufuckinlations. We're working here," he said testily, never taking his eyes off the table for a moment.

Alfons suppressed a smile as Klaussen backed off.

"You're working with me this evening, Heiderich," he said as he began to cross the warehouse. "We're testing fuel composition in the induction engine."

"Yes, sir." Alfons looked down at the paper and halfheartedly moved his pencil but didn't make a mark; his hand felt cold and numb. He was tired, and as much as he loved to work, he didn't cherish a late night with Klaussen.

Since then, Alfons had spent more late nights than he cared to count, alone in the lab with Klaussen. Even Edward couldn't bear staying so late, and everyone left while Alfons sat with Klaussen's hand clamped on his shoulder.

"Tell me everything you did with Oberth," Klaussen had said. "I want to know everything he's been working on. We'll use that as our base, and improve upon it."

"But, sir," Alfons had said. "Some of what I did with him was for his thesis, and that's his property, isn't it? I don't know if I-"

"What's the matter with you, Heiderich?" Klaussen had said then. "Don't you want to do the best work we can? Don't you want us to be successful? To keep Germany at the forefront of technological development? We're not doing anything wrong, building on others' work. This is science. It's our obligation to go as far as we can." Klaussen had caught his eyes then, and held them. "Am I right?"

Alfons had said, "Yes, sir," but he wasn't so sure. Giving him Oberth's formulas, the designs that had come out of his lab team, didn't feel right. He felt like he was betraying the man who had given him the opportunity to be his apprentice, with nothing more than a high school education. Oberth had encouraged him to go to university, but when he had come to Munich, he hadn't had enough money to study and had been seduced by paying jobs. One day, he'd go.

Until then, he'd do the best he could. He held a fair bit of power in the small universe of the Astra laboratory. As Klaussen's favorite, he got to do all the most interesting projects. Nobody begrudged him, as far as he could tell. Maybe they knew what he himself suspected; if they saw him trying to catch his breath when going up a flight of stairs, or if they knew that he was no longer capable of running even a short difference-maybe they cut him some slack.

Everyone, that is, except for Edward.

"That's the fifth night in a row that you've come home after ten," he said, throwing a ceramic bowl down onto the only table in their flat, which served for eating, working, and anything else. The empty bowl clattered and spun several times before coming to rest. "Huh, look at that torque...I made soup but it's all fucking cold now. I couldn't keep reheating it because I ran out of matches to light the stove." He tossed a spoon onto the table and left the room.

"That's silly. You could have asked a neighbor," Alfons said, following him into the bedroom.

"You could have remembered to bring some home."

He stood in the doorway and smiled at the scene; Edward sitting on the bed, undressing. He liked coming home to this. This and his work; he was so happy. Life seemed a balanced equation: he had his work, and he had this, at home. It had only been a couple of months since their friendship had grown into something else, but it was difficult not to be pleased with himself; it had been what he wanted. Although he had always been told, Pride goeth before a fall.

In the book on the kitchen table, there was a poem that fit him like a jacket:

And if this should be arrogance, so let me

arrogant be to justify my prayer

that stands so serious and so alone

before your forehead, circled by the clouds. [1]

If he left this book open, just so, the pages fell open there, and these were the words. He underlined them in pencil, because he liked them; he was a scientist and not a poet, and he certainly didn't know how to say things as elegantly as that.

He wanted Edward to see.

They couldn't speak very well with one another, because they were young, and they weren't Romantic, and words that weren't scientific didn't come easy to the mind or to the tongue. Words never just slipped off his tongue, not in this foreign language, unless he happened to make a childish grammatical error, he never said what he did not mean, and didn't want to be mistaken.

This book had appeared on their kitchen table, just innocently lying, waiting in the stack of otherwise scientific books. When Edward discovered it, he had been looking for something else, of course.

Never, never in his life had he so much as even read a poem, let alone a whole book of them.

Edward found the German tongue inelegant, and elegance was not something he was used to appreciating. At least his native tongue had soft elisions and musical tones; he'd never bothered to notice that before he had had to try to master Deutsch. He spoke like a foreigner, he knew he made errors and could only imagine what sort of accent he had; he couldn't detect it himself. Speaking a foreign language all the time was frustrating; sometimes he felt as if it was impossible for people to understand him, even if the words were correct. He wasn't sure how to be funny in German, and rarely tried it. He had no cultural references for humor or sarcasm. Sometimes he wondered if it appeared that he had no personality at all, although Heiderich seemed to like him. Even more than he deserved, he thought.

This is the equation for calculating rocket thrust:

F=mVe + (pe - p0) Ae [2]

It is one of the first things an engineer or physicist learns when designing rockets or aircraft.

Thrust is produced by Newton's Third Law of Motion: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Thrust is also produced when Alfons puts himself inside Edward and tries to make himself come. Similarly, thrust is also produced when Edward is inside of him. He likes applying the thrust himself, he thinks, because usually it means he can put his hands all over Edward, because he likes to do it draped over him like a quilt. When Edward does it to him, they sit facing each other, and Alfons has to sit on Edward's lap with his legs on either side of him, or they stand, he, facing the wall or draped over the bed, Edward behind him. Because he can't touch Edward when they are doing it this way, it's not his favorite.

Thrust is also produced by less strenuous exercises; for example, if he happened to touch Edward's nipple with the tip of his tongue, he would get a smack on the head; but soon after, he would usually get something equally exciting, like Edward's mouth at his ear, whispering his name.

It had never been particularly hard for him to immerse himself in the seamless grace of this relationship. Everything about it tasted right; Edward's mouth, skin, even the way his hair smelled after not having been washed for days. There wasn't anything to question. They were Scientists; this was Nature. They were Modern; God is dead.

Well, that's what Alfons tried to tell himself, anyway.

Twitchy. That's how Edward felt the first time he let Alfons touch his body. The hands held the back of his neck and then slid down his back and then pulled his shirt out of his trousers, then the hands wandered up the bare skin of his back and he had spasmed like he had had an electrical shock.

They were kissing as this happened, and Edward had found his left hand grasping at Alfons' short hair. He had never really touched someone else's hair before, and was marveling at that. His right arm just hung at his side, he didn't know what to do with it, all he knew was that he didn't want to touch Alfons with it because--because he just didn't.

He twitched when those ten fingers met at the base of his neck, under his collar, and then again when they went off down his back, meeting the hard surface of the contraption holding his arm on, then kept going down to meet the waist of his trousers.

"Do you want to get undressed?" Alfons had asked in his ear. His voice was different, raspy, urgent.

He hadn't known until that moment that he was self-conscious of his body, not just hiding it because it was a secret-because it wasn't to Alfons---but because of how it had gotten that way, and because it was not like everyone else's, not how it should be, not harmonious according to the rules of aesthetics. He had read in one of his father's books that

Beauty = Symmetry

that the faces and bodies of people considered most beautiful actually conformed to metrics that demonstrated near-perfect proportion. According to that law, he must be horrible to look at.

"I don't-" But Alfons had stopped him with an unexpectedly aggressive kiss on the mouth.

He wasn't vain, he wasn't, but all he could think when he was peeling off his clothes was Don't look at me.

Alfons was perfect; pale and white and smooth and perfect, not a mark on him. He felt like he didn't even deserve to touch him with his one stupid hand. He kept on his artificial limbs, not ready to be entirely naked.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Alfons reached out and touched his fake arm. He tried to relax as Alfons ran his fingers along the straps and then rested on the buckle fastening the harness.

"Don't you want to take it off?" Alfons said, sounding uncertain.

"Not really," Edward said, looking away. He felt utterly exposed now, and he had never in his life felt like this, so naked and imperfect. It had never mattered like this before. What had mattered was how he was able to assimilate and dominate his disabilities, but when he suddenly found himself undressed for someone...not a doctor or a mechanic, but someone who was going to really touch him...he wanted to disappear, and if that was a trick he was capable of, he would have done so. He was disgusted with himself for being shy. He had always thought himself better than that. He had always expected, when the time came, that he would have been braver.

"Don't...it's all right, it doesn't bother me," Alfons said. His voice had contained in it a hint, a timbre of something, pity maybe, or maybe it was some high emotion that had made it soft but thick, and he had almost whispered, that quality of voice people use on the sick to soothe them. Or to lie.

"Fuck this. Just forget it," Edward found himself saying, and at the same time found himself pulling his shirt on. He couldn't look directly at Alfons, but he saw him sitting close to him with his mouth hanging open. Edward got up and left the room.

He was appalled at himself; he didn't know what else to do but stand in the darkened kitchen, look at the shadows on the floor, feel himself burn with shame, and think What the hell is wrong with me? A wide yellow plank of light from the street lay across the table where several books and dirty dishes sat, but only one book was open, and the light was on it. Ed stepped closer, leaned over to see the book. His eyes scanned the lines on the page, and one stuck.

It said:

"Being apart and lonely is like rain." [3]

Ed thought, "What's that supposed to mean? It doesn't mean anything. Poetry is just stupid." He leaned over the book and turned the page, scanned the lines again.

You make me feel alone. I try imagining:

one moment it is you, then it's the soaring wind;

a fragrance comes and goes but never lasts.

Oh, within my arms I lost all whom I loved!

Only you remain, always reborn again.

For since I never held you, I hold you fast. [4]

His mouth twisted to the side. Even the words embarrassed him. It was so damn...sentimental. He didn't like sentimentality. His father was getting sentimental, and it sometimes made him seem deranged. Being sentimental led to feeling lonely and sad, here. It was a weakness he could bloody well not afford.

He read the words again though, his eyes and mind dwelled on them, turned them over. He spoke them aloud, at the lowest volume possible, and tasted the words with his tongue.

For since I never held you, I hold you fast.

He felt an unfamiliar pain in his stomach, like it was being squeezed or like he had swallowed a handful of nails. Then, arms came and circled him from behind, a body came close and pressed against his. A mouth's soft lips against his ear.

"Is this all right? Please say it's all right."

Edward let himself lean back, tipped his chin up, his head on Alfons' shoulder.

"It's all right. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm sorry," Alfons said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings...I don't know how to say it right..."

He let himself be supported by Alfons, reached out and flicked the book closed. Alfons laughed softly.

"What?"

"It's your turn to apologize," Alfons said, but his voice was light, soft, on the edge of laughter, teasing.

"What the hell for?"

"You swore at me."

Like magnet to metal, it had happened like nature, like physics, like it was how the Universe worked. It was in response to a natural law. It was surprising, how their flesh fit together. Edward had not expected it to feel so natural. There were a thousand things wrong; they were both men, they were just friends, they had never said anything special to each other. And the face of Alfons. There was that. It was both a torment and a pleasure to look at. If he were being honest, he would have to admit that he wasn't entirely sure that Heiderich actually really did look like his brother.

It seemed that he did. The shape of the face, the eyes, but not the color, not the color of the hair, either; not the precise shade of skin...but it had been so long since he had seen what his brother looked like, he couldn't be sure. He suspected that he might be delusional about this; he suspected that he might be delusional about a lot of things, among them that Alfons Heiderich actually liked him.

Because there was himself. So imperfect as to be a joke; not just his body, although he started out in a state of disbelief that anyone could find him appealing with his clothes off, but also everything that came out of his mouth. He knew he wasn't lying, but he also knew that Alfons thought he was lying, that he was crazy. How did he know that he wasn't? Isn't that what insanity is, not knowing what's real and what isn't?

It worried him. At any moment the whole thing could come crashing down; the dream-state could be shattered as easily as he awoke from sleep. Suddenly, it would all be gone. He'd be alone in this world without anything, without anyone. Although he never said anything about it, secretly he was clingy. Every time they parted ways, Edward felt some anxiety about whether Alfons would come back to him.

Reinert grunted as he lifted a defunct engine from the neighboring worktable and carried it over, setting it down gently before Edward and Alfons. The engineers studied their failed work before Edward handed Alfons a screwdriver.

"Might as well take this one apart."

Alfons hmmed in agreement and they set to work. Together they removed screws before separating the engine's components.

There were other men in the shop, so it was difficult to do something that put them so close together. Edward could feel the heat of Alfons' skin as they bent over the engine together. He would have liked to lean forward and kiss the creamy white skin behind his ear. It was torture, but it was also nice, nice to know that they would go home together and later, later, he could have anything he wanted.

Later than morning, Metzger entered the warehouse pulling something, covered by a piece of oilcloth, in a small cart. He set it in the middle of the largest worktable and dramatically removed the cloth, as if he were revealing a magic trick.

"Here it is, as promised. Gentleman, the electromagnetic generator!"

Their assignment was to develop a way to use an electromagnetic field in a rocket's mechanism that would enable the operators to control the rocket from a distance. This was a tantalizingly difficult puzzle. The engineers were salivating over the opportunity to play with the magnetic field. The generator stood less than a meter high, but it was quite powerful, and for a while the team played with the machine by throwing coins, belt buckles and other small metal objects at the wand. A coin, when tossed at the generator, would stop in any trajectory and almost hover in mid-air for a moment, before being drawn in the straightest of lines to the wand with a snap. Everyone whooped with delight, like children at a carnival.

It had taken Alfons a while to notice that Edward wouldn't go near the thing. He hung about the edges of the workshop, far away from the machine that had attracted everyone else like a sideshow. Of course, he told himself, he's avoiding the magnetism. He felt stupid for not realizing it. Eventually the others noticed too and starting imploring Ed to join them. He begged off, shaking his head and moving toward the door. Alfons wished they would all just shut up and turned to wave his hand at them. When he turned back to the door, Edward had already slipped out.

The workshop was one of several along a pier at the edge of the city. Outside there wasn't much to look at but a dull, industrial section of river, polluted by factories or out the back, the road that led back into town, which here was populated only by a few automobile repair shops, breweries and warehouses.

Alfons walked along the waterfront, until he saw Edward sitting on the end of a pier, looking out over the river. It was an unusually warmish, early spring day and Alfons was already flushed with the excitement over the magnetic generator. When he sat down next to Edward, his face felt hot and having to clear his throat, he coughed into his hand.

"Come back in," Alfons said. "Everyone's wondering why you left."

"I can't be near that thing," said Edward. " There's too much metal on me."

Alfons said, "Becker claimed it would pull him in by his steel pocket watch, and he wasn't exaggerating."

"I know! I saw him hold it up from three meters away and it jumped out of his hand."

"It's amazing!" Alfons enthused. "I've never seen anything like it."

"It's brilliant, I'd love to play around with it," Edward agreed.

"So come. You don't have to get too close."

"I can't."

Alfons seemed to give up and he shrugged. "Well, we'd better get back, we're still on the clock, you know," and stood up. He reached down and offered Edward his hand. "Come on, if you make me wait another minute I'm going to fling you at that magnet, I swear."

"Do not tease me, or you may not live to regret it."

They were paid at the end of that week, and Edward and Alfons joined the rest of the team as they all treated themselves to a proper meal, and two rounds of beer at the biergarten. Everyone was drunk and cheerful, pleased with themselves-they patted each other on the back for a successful start to their electromagnetism project. The first draft of plans seemed to work well with the model they had designed.

Metzger left early but Reinert and Becker were severely drunk when the group rose from their table at eleven o'clock. As they all tumbled out the door, Becker fell to the ground, and stayed there on his back, laughing about how drunk he was. Big Reinert bent down to help him stand, throwing Becker's arm around his broad shoulders, he began dragging him home.

"Goodnight boys!" The other men waved and hooted as Alfons and Edward started off in the opposite direction. In an uplifted, sated mood they ambled home, not feeling the cold. They walked side by side, Alfons longing to take Edward's hand, but contenting himself instead with watching his friend in a good mood, whistling to himself. His cheeks were red and his eyes bright from the cold. Under the gaslit streetlamp, Edward's eyes were an otherwordly color, dark gold and shiny, and Alfons wanted more than anything to kiss him.

But they didn't dare do that on the street. They couldn't even touch on the street, unless they were wasted drunk and hanging off each other's shoulders. It was funny, what people would accept. The rules made no sense, but Alfons knew them intuitively. He also knew how important it was that they be followed.

Alfons felt the roll of bills in his trouser pocket, thinking that they would give Miss Gracia the rest of the rent tomorrow. They'd be all caught up-that would be a first. He glanced at Edward as they walked, smiling. He felt like celebrating some more.

"What?"

"Nothing." Alfons moved closer, bumped his shoulder and stepped away again.

When he was in those moments, caught up in the act of making love, every part of his body sang with the best kind of stress-the exertions made his skin warm and his breath quick but regular, so he could forget how it sometimes hurt-in a disconcerting, unfamiliar way, sharply, deeply, like something foul had buried itself in there, or burnt the delicate lining of his insides, around that precious space where the heart beat and the lungs took air-lately it often hurt to take a deep draught of air outside. But here, inside, in their bed, where it was warm, nothing hurt when they were doing this. When he ran his mouth, his tongue over Edward's pale gold skin, he didn't think about what might be wrong inside him.

Making love made him feel like he thought he should: strong, attractive, young.

Edward was on his front, his knee bent under him so that little behind was up in the air, his arm stretched out in front. Alfons took a moment to appreciate how his loose hair spread across his back and over his shoulders, how his fingers kneaded the sheet like a cat's paw, how the blond hairs on his arm seemed to be standing up in anticipation.

"Come on!" he urged, his voice raspy and begging.

Alfons couldn't help throwing his arms around Ed's middle, laying his head on his back. He squeezed him, overwhelmed with affection.

"Are you going to---"

"Yes, yes. Be patient," admonished Alfons. Before pulling away he kissed the smoothe curve of Edward's spine. "I was just enjoying the view."

"The view of my butt? Damn, Alfons, you are weird."

Later, Edward was asleep next to him, but the exuberant feeling of making love had been followed, in Alfons, with a feeling of over-exhaustion. Every part of his body ached and twitched, and his chest hurt. Lately, while Edward slept like the dead, Alfons had found himself waking from an unsatisfying, shallow sleep, bathed in sweat. He would get up and go into the kitchen, pump cold water into the sink and rinse his face. Tonight he found himself hunched over the sink, coughing, coughing, and for the first time he felt like he would bring something up. He waited to vomit, but nothing happened. Another wave of coughing convulsed him and he felt like needles were embedded in his lungs as he strived for a satisfying breath. His heart beat too quickly; he was panicking.

Oh my God, my God. Make it stop.

Unexpectedly, there was a feeling of movement in his chest and liquid in his throat. He coughed again and expectorated into his hand. It was dark; he held his hand up to the light coming in through the window.

It was red.

It took him a while to calm down enough to get back into bed. He drank some hot water while sitting at the kitchen table. The book was open, and he flipped through its pages.

When he returned to bed he was shivering. As if sensing his need but without seeming to wake, Edward moved close and slammed into him, still snoring. He was so warm. Alfons lay next to him, waiting for the dreadful shivering, that was so violent as to make his teeth chatter, to subside.

It was Saturday and they didn't need to get up for work, and so they stayed in bed until nearly noon. Edward woke first, and took a quiet moment to secretly appreciate Alfons' sleeping face. Today he thought that Alfons didn't look like Al at all, maybe just a little, the shape of the face, but that was it. It felt almost liberating to believe this; he was plagued by doubts about those doppelgangers. It felt like a trick, and the world was forever looking for ways to fuck him up.

He stretched and then rolled over Alfons to the edge of the bed, where he sat and then leaned down to grab his leg, lying on the floor, then attached it without even looking. He could never do the arm that quickly, though, and often put off wearing it inside these days. Alfons was used to him without it now, and it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, to have that contraption strapped around his chest all the time. He picked a discarded shirt up from the floor and pulled it on, making his way to the kitchen.

He heated water for tea and went to the icebox, hoping for eggs or even perhaps, a little remnant of that precious butter for toast. It turned out that he had been too sanguine about the butter, it was gone, but there were three eggs, enough for them to share, and some strawberry preserves. As he left the eggs to soft-boil on the stove he idly picked up the open book on the table.

Ah, that dumb poetry book again. It was open to a page, and he realized that a stanza had been underlined in faint pencil.

Why is it that I am always neighbor

to those lost ones who are forced to sing

and to say: Life is infinitely heavier

than the heaviness of all things. [5]

Deciding that his brain was equal to the challenge of understanding a few lines of poetry, he read it again to himself, this time aloud, and tried to discern the music of the language that was still so foreign to his ears.

Life is infinitely heavier than the heaviness of all things.

Not exactly an uplifting sentiment. And yet, he knew the feeling. He tried every day not to fall prey to it, to let it crush him. He didn't want to feel that way. He didn't like to carry so much baggage. Had Alfons been the one to underline this? He hadn't noticed any notes in the book when he had flipped through it before. It seemed rather deliberate that it had been left out. If he had...was he trying to tell him something?

Edward wondered if he was one of "those lost ones". It irritated him that Alfons seemed to take a certain skeptical position toward him sometimes, in particular when he was trying to reveal his deepest secrets. He knew, he knew how ridiculous some of it must sound, and it hurt quite beyond what he was willing to admit to think that what was real to him might seem a deluded joke to someone else, someone whose esteem he valued so much. Not to mention that it made him question his own sanity.

He began to turn the pages, looking for something to answer back with. It was amazing, how this guy-the poet-could say so much like this, with so few words. It was almost like chemistry, or mathematics, like coming up with the perfect equation, with something that made perfect sense, that provided an answer to a question you hadn't asked yet.

Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting

still has a shape in the kindgdom of transformation.

When something's let go of, it circles; and though we are

rarely the center

of the circle, it draws around us its unbroken, marvelous

curve.[6]

The circle, of course, and the image of it being drawn around one, was irresistible. It was almost as if the writer knew him, when he wrote this. This had never happened before, this feeling that something that had nothing to do with him, was in fact crafted in secret for the specific purpose that one day he should see it.

He used the pencil on the table to underline the poem, left the book open to that page, with the pencil lying in the crevice of the open spine.

"If you want to start leaving messages, there you go," he said, addressing the book.

On Monday at the warehouse laboratory, the team continued their work with the electromagnetic generator. Edward had secured the job of draftsman; he had the worst hand of the group, but everyone else was fixated on working with the machine and more than happy to leave the schematics to him. Also, he could sit at a table at a distance from the machine.

As the others hovered around the generator, Ed leaned his head on his hand and watched Alfons, watched his eyes widen as they tested the properties of the machine, watched them narrow like they did when he was thinking about something complicated, watched how his lips parted and his tongue came up to touch his front teeth when he came up with a thought that inspired him.

The Germans loved their machines, that was certain. After they had reluctantly turned off the electric power supply, they reverently examined its simple construction, marveling at it, while at the same time praising its inventor, a dead Englishman called Farraday, and his fantastic induction ring, upon which this generator was based.

It was all very nice, Ed thought, but it had nothing on the beauty, the perfection, the power of alchemic science. He ached to draw an array on the paper he had before him, but it wasn't cheap and he couldn't waste it on what everyone else would consider crap. They had no idea how powerful alchemy could be, how it would blow that stupid fucking electromagnetic generator out of the room if he could use it.

Don't dwell on it, he told himself. There's no point. You'll just feel homesick. Again.

It was midday break and the men all left to buy coffee and sausage on the pier. Edward remained at the table, pencil in hand, his thoughts swirling with alchemic reactions and the taste of ozone in his mouth, the green of his homeland's countryside and the blue of the sky. He didn't even feel it, at first, when Alfons came up from behind and squeezed his shoulder.

"Lunchtime! Aren't you hungry?"

"Yeah, sure I am." Edward pulled himself back through his mental Gate, landing, as usual, with a dull thud. He slowly got down from the stool he had been perched on, feeling unbalanced from all that daydreaming. Alfons caught his arm.

"Hey, are you all right?"

Ed made an effort to stand up straight, said "Yeah. I'm fine" and reached for his coat.

"You sure? You seem...you had that look again." Alfons knew better than to press. Edward forced a smile.

"See? I'm fine."

He moved to go but Alfons said, "Wait" and came close. "No one else is here and I've been dying to do this all day." He threw his arm around Ed's neck and kissed the side of his mouth.

Before he could pull away, Ed grabbed Alfons' wrist and held the arm across his shoulders as he leaned toward Alfons' neck and kissed that spot behind his ear above his neck that he couldn't help looking at. Alfons squeezed him close and laid his cheek on Ed's hair, while Ed pressed as far into his chest as he could, as if he wanted to be absorbed, and Ed could tell that Alfons was intentionally pressing his crotch into his hip, which was not a nice thing to do in a place that wasn't safe...

Edward heard a creak emanate from somewhere behind him; he became rigid, and pulled away from Alfons before his heart took another beat. As they separated, Ed felt every cell in his body sting with disappointment, and his skin prickled in irritation. His component parts were singing, Hey, not fair.

Alfons whispered, "What?"

"Sssh! I thought I heard something." Ed was looking behind him but saw nothing.

Alfons pressed his hand to his heart. "God in heaven, don't scare me like that."

"Sorry," Ed said, but his skin was still prickling.

Alfons' heart persisted in beating faster than he liked for the rest of the day. His skin felt like it was burning; was he ill or was he just ashamed of himself? How stupid, to be so careless. He tried to dismiss the thought-he was being paranoid; Edward was the one who always thought he recognized some stranger, or thought people who had nothing to do with them looked like they were "up to something". Alfons preferred not to entertain thoughts like that; he wasn't interested in what strangers were up to, he had plenty of his own business to attend to.

But, he thought, perhaps Edward hadn't been being silly, when he noticed how Klaussen was looking at him that afternoon. They had all gone back to what they had been working on; he and Klaussen were experimenting with fuel composition, while Reinert and Becker examined the wiring of the electromagnetic engine, and Edward began working on the schematics for a twin cylinder propulsion mechanism.

He didn't think he was imagining that Klaussen kept glancing over at him, and then at Edward, hunched over the drafting table. But every now and then he had the uncomfortable sensation that eyes were upon him, and when he looked around, Klaussen's head was whipping around, or Klaussen's eyes were wandering away from his general direction, and once, Klaussen was looking right at him, his face expressionless, but his eyes had an appraising look, like he was trying to figure out the value of what he was seeing, or at what price it could be bought.

Alfons shuddered.

By the end of the day he felt ill; it was the worry at the pit of his stomach, already released a couple of days before with the blood that had come out of his mouth. And now this, he didn't need it, but here was a new worry to claw away at him and disturb his happiness. He didn't want life to be complicated. He knew what he wanted and he had it in his work, and with Edward. He didn't need all of this other complicated shit.

On the tram he fell prey to motion sickness and nearly lost his lunch before the journey's end. Edward noticed how pale he looked and, in a rather amusingly commanding manner, asked someone to give Alfons their seat. It was a sweet little thing, and Alfons had to smile from his seat, up at Edward standing over him. He looked all handsome and commanding and very adult; for a moment Alfons imagined that all of what Edward had told him was true, he could see him fighting demons and monsters and criminals and outlaws or whatever those things were that he would have fought when he was in that interplanetary Armenian military, or whatever it was.

When Edward looked down and winked at him, he winked back, like he believed it all, like he was in on it all.

He didn't know what else to do or how to say it, so as he and Edward sat at their table that evening over their supper, he just blurted it out.

"I think it was Klaussen-today at the lab-I think he knows." His soup sat cooling on the table in front of him, but he didn't feel like eating.

"Knows what?" Edward plunged his spoon into the bowl, lifted it, held the full spoon in front of his mouth. He stuck out his tongue to test the temperature, then blew on the spoonful.

"You know what," Alfons said. He looked down at his own bowl, but his appetite hadn't returned.

His mouth full, Edward chewed that over, seemingly unconvinced, or unconcerned, Alfons couldn't tell.

Edward swallowed. Mechanically, he went in for another spoonful, eyes averted.

This wasn't good. Their intimacy was so hard-won, Alfons felt the slightest thing could destroy it, separate them again, and bring them back to that point just a few months ago when their friendship had been acutely, physically painful. He couldn't be separated from him, he couldn't.

"All afternoon, he was acting weird, he kept looking at me, and at you." Alfons tried again.

Still concentrating on the soup, Edward said, "I'll keep an eye on him tomorrow."

Alfons felt slightly nauseated. He pushed the bowl of soup away.

"You're not going to eat that?" Edward asked.

"I'm not hungry right now."

Edward looked at the abandoned bowl even as he ate from his own.

"You want it?" Alfons asked sharply.

"No I don't want it, idiot," Edward growled. "I want you to eat it."

Alfons smiled in spite of himself, and picked up his spoon.

Later, in bed together, their skin touching, their sanctuary from the winter, the world, known and unknown. Edward was reading in the dim lamplight, the book held close to his face. Alfons watched him for a while, watched how his eyes scanned quickly back and forth across the page, and his mouth even moved a little, as if devouring the words.

Alfons couldn't help but lean over and bite him gently on the arm.

"I told you you'd feel better after you ate," Edward said, preening with satisfaction at being right. He was responding with genuine happiness to Alfons' advances. It was so warm in the bed, with both of them there.

He wouldn't surrender this, he decided. If they had to run away, so be it. Alfons pressed himself against Edward's back, shoved his knees behind Edward's leg, and breathed into Edward's hair.

He couldn't help it: he had to lick Edward's ear. Edward's hand flicked back to slap him gently.

"Stop it, I'm reading" he said lazily. Alfons pulled himself over Edward until he was straddling his hip, and then pushed him onto his back. Edward's collarbone asked to be kissed, and Alfons obliged.

Alfons hovered over his lover's face. As was often the case, he was seized with the impulse to be silly in the most carnal ways. He wanted to bite Edward, or pin him down, he was even seized with the impulse to lick his eyelashes-which he did-and Edward let him, but he could never tell him that.

Oh, God, I think...

It was disappointing, really, Alfons thought, how neither of them were particularly brave about this.

He hovered over Edward's body, above him on his hands and knees. The eyes were looking right at him, gazing at him through half-closed lids, trusting and anticipating. Alfons loved this, the proximity but not touching, the promise of something not yet crystallized. It was a metaphor for their whole relationship-about to become something more; at least, that was what he wanted.

So he hung there, arched over his lover, in a stance both protective and predatory. He thought Edward liked it too, because he always tilted his head back, bared his neck and belly, totally vulnerable, with an expectant smile on his face. Alfons knew that when aroused, Edward's skin became almost unbearably hot, like he had a fever. He loved to bury his face in his neck.

He imagined saying things to him: I think you're the best person in the world. I've never felt like this before...

Oh Lord, how Edward would laugh at that.

"What?" Edward said. "What's with that face?" He reached up and slapped Alfons on the cheek.

Alfons laughed, let himself collapse on top of Edward.

"Nothing," he said, still smiling to himself. "Nothing."

Stupid secrets, Alfons thought to himself as he struggled to breathe through Edward's thick hair. I hate what I'm hiding from you. I wish you trusted me. Alfons organized and repeated these thoughts in his head, as if he could transmit them, unspoken, to Edward, when he was so close, when their skin was touching. He would be content with what he had.

Until Edward bit Alfons' shoulder, hard enough to elicit a yelp, and then Edward's breath was in his ear.

"Let's do it, now."

He loved it when Edward talked dirty.

Alfons was up in the night again, that sharp pain tearing through his lungs, making his eyes water. At the kitchen sink he spat up an alarmingly thick globule of his life's blood. He examined it a moment, even poked at it with his finger as it sat like a spot of crimson venom on the white porcelain of the sink. It was viscous, as if it consisted of mucous and plasma together, disgusting. He gave a few vigorous pushes to the water pump to get it to disappear down the drain.

Again with the sweats and the bone-shaking shudders, and the feeling of abrasion deep inside. The misery this caused was at present low-grade, but it had a distinctly premonitory character. This is what it will be like, Alfons thought. But a thousand times worse. This is what it will be like before I die.

He had heard it said, we always hurt the ones we love. But how was it that a thing he loved could hurt him? It was almost worse than considering that he had just contracted tuberculosis somehow; no, it was a hundred million times worse-because he had brought it on himself.

He knew the exact period that had brought this on: the summer before last, when he had apprenticed himself to Oberth in Transylvania, when he had spent day after day concocting and testing fuel compositions in model engines. It hadn't bothered anyone else, but it had made him cough constantly, right then and there. He had had to keep going outside for fresh air and water, and his throat and eyes were constantly burning. It had made him feel weak, but he had always had a weak chest. His family physician had strongly advised him against apprenticing as a train engineer-something he had fancied not long ago-and suggested that he go to university. But nobody gave physical examinations to scientists. His mother had happily seen him off to the Carpathian mountains, convinced that he would come back tanned and strapping.

When he had left Transylvania for Munich, his condition had improved, and he had thought it was fading away. Instead, apparently, it had continued to eat away at him in secret. He had been putting off the inevitable: going to the hospital for an examination. Although he felt he knew what he would be told, part of him was just as sure that it was really nothing, that it would pass, and then he could go on living like he should, eighteen years old and free of the fear of death. Even the less morbid idea of being slammed into some sanitarium for who knew how many years filled him with dread.

The book was on the table; it wasn't open but a pencil was stuck between pages. He sat down with his water and pulled the book to him with shaking hand. Yes, Edward had caught on, had left something for him. He heart banged for a moment, with joy at the recognition. If they couldn't speak to each other, really, then here...he was so moved that Edward had agreed to play his game that his eyes swam with tears for a moment. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, laughing at himself for being so emotional.

It's because I'm sick, he told himself. I'm not so sappy as that.

He read what his friend had chosen to tell him. Circles, circles, the kingdom of transformation. His head was too spinny to parse it, but he did feel one thing: he felt he had really connected with Edward. So these were the words and images that moved him, that made music for him. He loved knowing that, and that was enough, although this particular poem, he didn't really get.

Once his mind had cleared and his breathing no longer caused pain, he meandered through the pages and scanned the words. At first he had been looking for the word "death"; then he had thought better of it. There was no need to be so dramatic, and anyway, he felt unsure of it and didn't want to telegraph such desperation. The feeling he preferred to go with was wonder. As in: What happens next?

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,

I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness

of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.

As if I didn't exist.[7]

It was loneliest in the pre-dawn hours; everything around him was asleep and he was alone with his scary thoughts. He went back to bed but persisted in wakefulness, oppressed by an abiding sense of unease, a sense of something quite literally eating away at him. He couldn't take a deep breath without a sharp pain in one of his lungs, specific and deep. He pictured it as some sort of gaping, bleeding hole.

Edward slept, quite peacefully, face all smooth and relaxed. He wanted to touch him but thought better of disturbing him. There was no point in both of them being exhausted for the day that was coming. It would be selfish, Alfons thought, to wake him up out of neediness. And he wasn't quite sure that even if he did wake Edward up, that he would get what he needed.

He thought of his family; he missed his father, who had died in the war. His mother was a no-nonsense sort of person who insisted that Alfons stay away from their dull, unhealthy coal town outside Essen, encouraging him to stay in Munich and writing every so often to urge him to apply to the University, where she thought he belonged. Alfons was all she had, and so he could not under any circumstances reveal to her that he might be ill; she would come to Munich and interfere with everything, or, even worse, make him come home. He missed her, and thinking that he might not see her again made him miss her even more. He tried to push the thought away, but he could not expel a vision of his mother weeping over his grave, and then imagining his own body rotting in the ground, his own flesh decomposing...

It was such a horror that he had to push the thought from his head. He looked at Edward, curled up beside him, nothing visible aside from his sprawling hair and his mouth, slightly open.

He thought again of the poem that Edward had underlined in the book, all circles and curves being drawn around one, and he didn't understand what that meant to Edward, and still couldn't parse it for himself. That it spoke to Edward, he found slightly disconcerting. What makes sense to a madman...he thought. He played with the ends of Edward's hair, the only part of him he could touch without disturbing him.

This night was long. He felt sorry for the both of them.

At the laboratory, Klaussen cornered Alfons by the basins and whispered into his ear, "I'll be expecting you to stay late tonight."

Alfons didn't eat much at lunchtime. In fact, Edward noticed, he didn't eat anything at all. They had walked to the pier to get coffee and rolls and soup; it was cold but the soup was hot and fairly tasty. They had sat themselves down on what appeared to be sacks of unmixed cement arranged as the stall's dine-in area to eat, but Alfons had just sat holding the tin bowl and gazing at the river. Ed didn't particularly like how chalky-white he looked in the daylight, or how red his mouth looked, as if he had just been punched there. He hadn't been right since yesterday on the way home on the tram.

He'd had a peek at the book this morning; at first glance, he had liked the sentiment. As he thought about it later, however, there seemed a certain desperation in the choice. The pencil mark had been much darker under the last bit, "As if I didn't exist", that didn't sit well with him now. Sure, he was fairly familiar with that sentiment, the world-all worlds-kept turning wherever he was, and, he hoped, life went on without him (he hoped, he hoped), but for Alfons...why would he think about that?

The sense of unease lingered. Last night when they had kissed, there had been a strange, disagreeable taste in Alfons' mouth; blood, iron, bile, something strong and ever-so-slightly nasty and pernicious, like vomit but not quite. It had thrown him a little because one of the things that he liked so much, enjoyed so much about Alfons was the taste of him, his mouth, his skin, but this had been strange.

The sun beat in Ed's eyes so he held the side of his hand at his brow to shield them as he studied Alfons' profile. He got that damn ping! again. Al's profile, almost exactly, as he had last seen it, years ago. It wasn't the coloring, but the shape of the features, the face, the curve of the nose, the shape of the eyes. He could see his brother's face for a moment, superimposed on that of this virtual stranger. Ed gazed, and Alfons sat still, unaware and allowing himself to be studied. So this is what Al would look like now, Edward thought, and couldn't help from smiling, even as part of him acknowledged that Al might just as easily be gone from the world, any world.

Alfons moved and turned to look at him with those wide Al-eyes.

"What are you thinking about?"

Far away again. It was getting more frequent lately, that Edward-day-dreaming look, the abstraction, the hang-dog sad-face. If Alfons was being honest with himself he would have to admit that he was finding this irritating. Aren't I enough for you? he wondered. It frustrated him sometimes: his father was dead, and he was separated from his mother, and on top of that he was feeling ill, but you wouldn't catch him crying about it. This was life, this was being an adult.

Alfons stood up and tapped the tin bowl with his spoon. "Come on, the half-hour's up."

"I think I'll stay out here for a while, maybe go for a walk," Edward said.

"You'll be missed. Klaussen's already remarked about you slacking off," Alfons said, anxious. This was true, lately, and he worried that Edward might be dismissed from the project.

"Tell him I wasn't feeling well, or whatever," Edward said, and he stood up and began to walk along the riverbank in the direction of the city. "I'll be back!" he added over his shoulder with a brief wave.

Well. Alfons stood and watched him go before returning both of their plates to the food vendor. Tell Klaussen he wasn't well? Because he was feeling moody and wanted to go for a walk instead of work? Reinert's insult to Klaussen came back to him and Alfons muttered it under his breath:

"Fucking pussy."

Idiot. He didn't care enough about the project, about the team, about what they were doing. Everyone could tell, it was getting embarrassing. It was only a matter of time before they stopped paying him, and he doubted Edward would work for free, like he had when he had first met him in Transylvania. Then he would have done anything to be a part of the rocketry field, he had come with almost nothing except a strong grasp of physics and a keen, intuitive knowledge of chemistry that had helped with the recombinant fuel program. That and whatever had been driving him, his professed desire to go into space had somehow withered over the past few months, to the point that he barely showed any enthusiasm for the work anymore.

It was disheartening, and even more so when Alfons felt his own enthusiasm growing. He wanted, no he needed this; he needed to have an impact on the field, to do something great, for his country, for himself, for posterity. He wanted people to know, when they turned that key, that Alfons Heiderich had wrought that, he wanted to be usefully immortal, like Farraday, like Edison, like Tesla.

Inside the laboratory, Becker and Reinert were already setting up the twin-engine quarter-scale model, the disembodied rotors attached by a single coil, they were going to test the fuel composition in the engine with an electromagnetic power generator to determine if they could control it remotely. With this, they could eventually create an un manned rocket that could be steered from the ground, or that was the idea.

Klaussen came striding over to him, "Come on, let's go! We're waiting on you, where's Elric?"

"I don't know, he-"

"Ach, fuck him, let's go-- attach the fuel cables and let's see how this baby purrs!" Klaussen shouted as Alfons went for the cables. Klaussen certainly was pleased with himself today. Cables attached, Alfons moved as far as he reasonably could from the engines before shouting:

"Shouldn't we open the front, for ventilation?"

"It's fucking cold outside," said Reinert, reeling in the extra length of cable.

"And we don't want anyone spying, now do we?" said Klaussen. He smiled at Alfons as he passed him by. "Start the engine!"

Given the job of siphoning the spare fuel out of the engine casing-it was more expensive than gold these days-Alfons felt the burn in his eyes and throat, even in the lingering odors in the lab, despite the hangar-high ceiling, he felt himself poisoned, now that he knew what it was. Tears fell onto his hands as he worked, but they were only from the toxicity-Oh, God, this is killing me.

The rest of them had gone outside for a smoke-how could they smoke cigarettes while he could barely breathe? It wasn't fair, for the millionth time. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and then gave himself over to a round of coughing. He brought something up into his mouth, some viscous substance, but just swallowed it.

He said to himself: Don't give in. Do not let them see. They'll take me for a consumptive and throw me out.

Edward had decided to take a long walk, a walk long enough to wear him out and cause his body to hurt, a welcome distraction from the malaise of the spirit that had threatened to infect him. He was losing interest in the rocketry lab; something was wrong with Heiderich; he was tired of this place and its horrid interminable gray winter.

The walk led him to the gates of the University campus. His father had a small office he shared with others in there, although he hadn't been there for a while. The last time he had seen Hohenheim, the old man had kissed him on his forehead, something he hadn't done since Edward had been a tiny child. He hadn't really been saying good-bye-he hadn't thought so then-but the more time passed...the more it seemed possible that he had, maybe, passed through the Gate again. It was his secret hope. Maybe he would find a way to come get him, too, and he could go back home, escape from this exile.

He hated it, but he missed the old man.

It was a silly dream, maybe, but it was all he had this winter. That and Heiderich. And maybe, not really Heiderich. The unfamiliar, un-Alfons taste still lingered in his mouth as he crossed the campus toward the physics department; he climbed two flights of stairs in the dusty old building, and meandered down the narrow hallways, not in any particular hurry to meet with what he knew would be disappointment.

A man he had met a few times before, Hyser, a thin, gangly person who seemed all teeth and legs and large hands and feet poking out of his too-short cuffs, was in the small, cluttered office. He gave a friendly smile and said, "Ah, Hohenheim the younger! Come on in!"

Edward could barely move through it for the four desks crammed in there and the piles of books and papers on the floors.

"Uh, hello." Ed couldn't shake the feeling,when he was here, that he was regarded as someone's kid, and felt accordingly young.

"Any word from your esteemed father?" Hyser asked, still smiling, but his eyes already showed sympathy, as if he expected news of his death.

"No...I was hoping..." Ed glanced at the desk he knew to be his father's. It was a mess, but undisturbed, as far as he could tell, since the last time he had seen it, more than two weeks ago when he had come on the same pointless mission. He had already been through the papers, and found nothing that gave away his possible whereabouts.

"No, sorry, haven't heard a thing," Hyser said regretfully, rising from his seat. He took two steps toward Hohenheim's desk, bent down and opened one of the drawers. He pulled out a bottle and looked at it. "I gave this to him last Christmas. It's too good to leave sitting around here; someone'll pinch it sooner or later. Here, take it. Have a drink with your old man when he gets back." He held it out to Edward. "Take it. Napolean brandy, Courvoisier. It's very fine. People would kill for less these days, so take care."

Ed took the bottle and turned it in his hand. The bottle said, Napoleon brandy, ten years old. He thanked Hyser, shoved the bottle into the outer pocket of his coat, and took his leave.

He walked all the way back to the piers, the bottle weighing heavy in his pocket.

Everyone else was leaving for the night-and, much to his annoyance, Edward hadn't come back-- as Alfons washed his hands at the row of sinks along the far wall, lingering as the cold water washed the traces of petroleum and kerosene and phosphates from his skin. It felt nice, but he only wished that it were hot, and he could feel cleaner, and also, so that he could breathe in the steam and soothe his throat and lungs.

"Heiderich." Klaussen was beside him. Alone with him for the first time since the day before, his stomach quivered. Klaussen craned his neck to look around the shop as if to confirm that Becker and Reinert were gone. "I want you to help me transcribe all the fuel formulas we tested today. There were a couple that I'd like to work on further." He turned and looked to catch Alfons' eyes. "I think that one of those must have come from Oberth, no? Why don't you show me how you arrived at it. It would be a shame if we failed to replicate it."

Alfons stopped. "I told you, I'm not stealing Oberth's work. It wouldn't be right."

"Oho," Klaussen growled, turning to face him. "I've had enough of your goddamn schoolboy ethics. You'll tell me what you did with Oberth."

They were in one of the farthest corners of the large space, a niche behind wooden bookshelves on which rolls of schematics, piles of paper and bound books were stored. In this corner, where it was cool and dark, they stored the containers of chemicals and petroleum.

"Come on now," Klaussen coaxed.

"No."

Klaussen was a tall, thin man, much the same as Alfons, but at about twenty years his senior, he seemed stronger and commanding. Facing him now, Klaussen relaxed his fierce expression into a dry smile, and changed his tone accordingly. It was unctuous and coaxing, but a thin veneer over what Alfons now realized was an implied threat.

"Heiderich, I want to speak to you about your prospects. It's true that Gottschalk mentioned your name to me; he thinks you're promising. He thinks Astra can get a government contract and I'd like to bring you with me. The thing is, my boy, you really must be more cooperative."

"What about the others?" Alfons asked, knowing he should be flattered, but feeling otherwise.

Klaussen huffed. "We don't need them. Becker and Reinert are a couple of grunts, I can replace them like that-" he snapped his fingers-"but you, you're smart, you're inventive, we could go far together."

"What about Edward?" Alfons had asked the question before he had even thought about it.

"Elric? He's an adept theoretician but he's no engineer. And he's not even German...I'd be reluctant to trust him with secrets. Besides, his heart's not in it, not like you and me. This is our destiny."

Alfons held his breath. It was true; Klaussen understood. His invitation was seductive. Still, he hesitated. Ditching the rest of the team-and Edward-didn't feel right.

"I-I'll have to think about it. Thank you for your confidence in me," Alfons said stiffly. He tried to stand up straight. "I don't think I can accept, but it's an honor to be asked."

Klaussen crossed his arms and worked his mouth, head cocked to the side.

"What's holding you back, eh? Is it your attachment to Elric?"

"We're friends, I'd hate to abandon him to find work on his own..."

"You've been propping him up long enough, don't you think you should let him find his own work? Hmm?" Klaussen took a step toward him. "But it's more than that, isn't it? We both know no one would give good work to that little foreigner ...you're protecting him...but also, he's servicing you, isn't he? Isn't that how he pays you?"

Alfons' heart nearly stopped. He'd never heard anyone say anything like that...his face heated up instantly and his throat threatened to close up.

"Yes, I saw you two," hissed Klaussen. Now he was close, he grabbed Alfons' chin with his fingers and squeezed, yanking his face up towards his. He pushed him backwards so that the back of his head hit the wall, causing him to see sparks for a moment. "You two little faggots can do whatever you want together, only, you give me what I want, or I'm reporting you." He squeezed harder, then Alfons felt a hand clamped on his crotch. "And I don't think either of you would last long in prison. I'll protect you, as long as you give me what I want." Klaussen leaned in and, letting go of his crotch, grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back further, before kissing him hard on the mouth.

Shocked, Alfons tried to pull away. Hadn't he just....

"I'm not a sodomite, and I don't have anything to prove. You can service me, whenever you want...and you can get rid of Elric," Klaussen breathed into his ear.

"Get off!" Alfons shouted but Klaussen's hand clamped over his mouth.

His mouth came hot to his ear. "Do we have a deal?"

"Mmmf!" Alfons tried to say no into the palm over his mouth.

"What was that?" Klaussen purred, removing his hand.

"Get off!"

After a moment, Klaussen released him and Alfons raised his arm across himself protectively, ready to strike at him if he tried to touch him again. He tried to take a deep breath but his heart was racing, his throat was tight and closed off, he felt himself about to choke. He wheezed as he held up a threatening fist.

Klaussen had the grace to laugh.

"I am in terror. Listen, boy, the deal is done. We'll be good together, and don't forget-" he held up a warning finger-"I've got your number." He moved forward and put his hands on Alfons' shoulders.

"Now, Heiderich, have a seat and I'll get you a glass of water. Then you're going to write down your answers to everything I ask you. It'll be just like an examination, nothing more, I promise."

Alfons sat, about to heave, and accepted the glass of water with shaking hands.

"Where's Heiderich?" Edward asked Klaussen when he found him alone in the laboratory at seven o'clock, hunched over the drafting table yet again.

"Elric, where the hell have you been?"

Ed stopped and turned. Klaussen was getting up from the drafting table and striding toward him.

"Do you know where Alfons went?"

Klaussen crossed his arms and drew himself up, making himself seem tall and, Edward imagined, he must have thought he seemed authoritative. There was no way he could keep working for him if he was going to be like this.

"I have no idea. It's a wonder you even came back here. Don't you have work to do? The schematics aren't finished." Klaussen handed him the pencil he was holding. "You might as well get started. That's your job."

"Yeah but I-"

"What is it, Elric? Just sit down and finish your work. You've been gone long enough."

Ed looked over at the drafting table. He felt that he couldn't face sitting down and working on that fucking useless drawing for another four hours. He just couldn't. His spine tingled with unease at Alfons having left; it wasn't like him at all.

"Are you not fond of being paid? I can easily replace you with someone who actually wants to work, you know."

"I'm sorry, I have to go." Without pausing to listen to what Klaussen was shouting behind him (it was probably, "You're sacked") Ed spun on his heel and hurried to home.

Alfons was there; he could tell the moment he pushed open the door to the flat. The place smelled like someone had been sick and he wasn't surprised, when he glanced at the kitchen basin, to see the signs of hastily rinsed, rusty-looking vomit. He threw off his coat and hurried to the bedroom.

He was on the bed, still dressed but for the suspenders pulled off his shoulders and shoes kicked off, curled on his side and facing the window. From the door, Ed could see his ribs rise and fall, and heard his breath come short and shallow.

As he entered the room, he pulled the bottle of brandy out of his pocket. Setting it down loudly on the beside table, he said,

"Look what I got!"

Getting no reply, Ed sat down behind his back; Alfons didn't turn to greet him. Ed looked down and picked at a bit of straw coming through the mattress; the sheet had partially come away, exposing the stained blue and white ticking. He leaned over to confirm; yes, the eyes were open, staring at the window, although there wasn't much to see but the inner courtyard of the building.

He was never good at breaking their silences; there seemed to be some pressure to say something grand, and he didn't feel like saying, "How are you?" He sensed that something had happened. He broke a piece of straw apart in his left hand, crumbled it and let it fall to the floor.

Alfons coughed, briefly, and Ed rubbed his hand against Alfons' back.

"Are you sick?" Ed asked finally.

Alfons shrugged his hand away.

"Are you angry at me or something?"

Alfons didn't move. Tentatively, Ed tried again to soothe him and squeezed his shoulder.

He attempted levity. "You might have made more of an effort to clean up in the kitchen-"

"Will you stop touching me? I feel like shit," Alfons interrupted, in a voice so gravelly and low and miserable that Ed wouldn't have recognized it at all if he hadn't been sitting right there.

Ed's stomach felt squeezed as he withdrew his hand; something was very wrong. He felt stung at being rejected. Hey, he was trying here.

He compromised, leaning over Alfons' shoulder, he tried to get a look at his face.

"Did something happen at the lab?"

More silence. Ed waited for Alfons to whip around and push him off the bed-which is what he imagined he would do if he were in that sort of state-but he only just continued to lie there and stare at the window.

Finally, Alfons stirred and turned onto his back. He took a deeper breath and then another, but Ed noticed his eyes were wettish and bleary.

Ed didn't know what Alfons wanted him to do. Did he want him to pet him, take his hand, lie next to him, leave him alone? You could ask. No, I'll just sit here. Alfons still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"It's Klaussen," said Alfons. "I knew something was wrong...I just knew it. I should've done something, told Metzger, or something, just stop working there, I don't know, but..." He slapped his hand over his eyes. "He did see us. He's trying to blackmail me."

Ed took this news in stride. In reality, he had expected it. He had just known that someone had seen them. Of course it had to be the biggest asshole of the bunch. But what could Klaussen do about it, really? He guiltily realized that this would mean much more to Alfons; he was trying to make a career of this, this was his world, and even if Ed felt like he was living in a dream half the time, he was quite certain that Alfons didn't.

"That guy's a jackass. Don't worry about him. He's not brave enough to make good on any of his threats. Don't make yourself sick over this."

Alfons went, tch.

"What does he want anyway?" Ed asked quietly, but he suddenly thought he knew.

"Oberth's unpublished thesis...our work in Transylvania..."

"But you didn't," Ed said. He left Alfons space to agree with him. "Did you?"

"Edward," he said miserably. When he looked up, Ed's breath was nearly taken away. He looked so young, right then, like someone else, someone else he loved and missed more than anything, ever, and he looked so sad that it quite literally hurt to look at him. So he looked away.

"What the hell did you do?" Ed demanded, looking at the floor. "You sold out Oberth to that scum? Is that what you did?"

Alfons sat up, and when Ed turned to look at him he pale and shaking. "I had to!" he shouted.

"You fucking naïve idiot!" Ed shouted back.

"Don't judge me," Alfons said. "You don't know..." He shuddered so visibly that Ed nearly moved to put his arms around him; but, he had been rejected. Also, Alfons still smelled disagreeably like sick, and Ed was disinclined to cuddle him; and also, there was a strange feeling between them. Was it that he had wandered away today, in pursuit of nothing, and left Alfons to be harassed by Klaussen? Was he really that afraid of that petty, jealous middle manager?

Now Ed had a clear view of Alfons' neck and noticed a tiny, fingertip-sized bruise there. He leaned closer and examined Alfons' jawline-two more tiny bruises. And then it dawned on him.

"Wait a minute." He stood up, hand already in a fist. "He touched you, didn't he?"

"No, he....well, he did, he pushed me against a wall, held me there...he....yeah." Alfons hung his head, embarrassed, apparently battling speechlessness. "He put his mouth on me and said I could do the same to him whenever I wanted."

Ed stood beside the bed for a moment, mind crackling with white noise, then turned and stalked toward the door.

"Edward! What are you-"

He stopped at the doorway but didn't turn around.

"I'm going to kill Klaussen, or at least, make him wish he were dead."

"Don't, don't do anything that'll get us into trouble-"

He heard the bed creak as Alfons got up but he didn't stop to wait.

He had traveled all the way on the tram, and walked several blocks, thinking nothing but murderous thoughts about the man, and almost savoring the adrenaline rush. He felt angrier than he had in a long, long time, anger with a sense of focus. He felt fully capable of beating Klaussen to a pulp.

While he was fully prepared to use his mechanical parts to do the bludgeoning-they might not be useful for precision tasks but they were just fine for battering something-he couldn't help thinking about what he could do to Klaussen with alchemy. Transmute the concrete floor around him, pull up a spear from the floor and hold it to his neck, make him shit his pants, maybe slash his clothes off with his blade and maybe a little light abrading here and there, make him bleed enough to smart, but if he fought too hard, if he said something horrible about Alfons, if he laughed about hurting him, then maybe, maybe Ed wouldn't mind shoving that blade through his damn throat, no, in fact, he wouldn't mind at all.

He didn't pause to examine what feelings were animating him: all he knew was, someone had hurt someone he cared about, and that someone wasn't going to get away with it. He felt no fear for his person or his reputation. It was almost as if all he could feel was his heart beating, and his thought as he approached the laboratory building was only of what it felt like to lay his hand over where Alfons' heart beat, and feel it, under his palm.

You're dead, Klaussen. Dead!

It was already dark and getting late but he thought it a good bet that Klaussen was still at the lab. Of all of them, Klaussen tended most to stay late into the evening; Alfons would too, sometimes, especially lately. But he preferred it when they left together.

He wasn't surprised to find the door was still open, but when he stepped inside he immediately got an odd feeling, like entering a room where you expect to find people but the room is still and quiet.

He said, "Klaussen!" loudly, in a decidely belligerent voice. This was intentional.

He weaved through the laboratory, around the worktables and equipment, around small areas boxed off by bookshelves, but found no signs of him. Then he saw an unexpected thing, a dark, shiny puddle that he at first took to be machine oil, but less than a blink later realized it was something else. It shimmered darkly and when he took another step closer to the far worktable, and he saw the top of a dark head against the cement floor.

It looked like someone had beaten him to it.

Heart pounding, he drew closer. Klaussen was on his back and his eyes were open in surprise. There was a blackened bullet wound just above his right eye. A small stream of blood had escaped from his mouth, and one of his hands was at his neck, frozen into claw-like horror.

Unexpected, this.

Ed stared at the body for a moment, mind blank of anything except a kind of wonder.

Then he turned and ran.

After Edward had left, Alfons had dragged himself off the bed and to the door, but he was too slow to catch him and not steady enough on his feet to chase him. Returning to the kitchen, he coughed and retched up into the sink until the basin was filthy and his eyes were wet and sore. This time he paid attention to how he cleaned the basin and removed all traces of his sickness.

He reached for the bottle of medicine he had, leftovers from what a doctor had called a "chest infection" several months ago. It was a sticky foul-tasting syrup that burned going down and made him feel dopey, but it usually calmed the coughing. He pried off the cap and took a swig, retching from the taste. Its effects were pleasant, but barely outweighed by the effort required to get it down.

Then he scrubbed his mouth and his teeth and washed his armpits, certain that he smelled awful. He was momentarily obsessed with the thought that he stank of illness, medicine and the taint of Klaussen's hands and mouth on his skin. He couldn't stop replaying the moment Klaussen grabbed his crotch, or when his mouth pressed against his, his lips and his cheek. It had felt horrible, but the worst part was, he felt that he had behaved badly. He hadn't fought back hard enough-Klaussen had only laughed at him and he had been too weak to run away-and worse, he hadn't defended Edward.

He had never felt so young and out of his depth. It crossed his mind, as he sat alone and still at the kitchen table, that this was what he deserved, for playing at being a grown-up, for thinking that he could get away with what was essentially a sin and a crime-although it didn't feel like one, it was supposed to be one-and at the same time wanting to play with the big boys and work like an adult, playing at being a scientist and engineer. He couldn't even get it together to apply to the University. He was nothing; he was a joke.

He noticed that his hands shook; he was terrified for Edward. He couldn't imagine what he was doing right now; fighting with Klaussen? Being arrested for brawling? Being held by police while Klaussen exposed their secret; would they come for him too? Being beaten senseless by Klaussen...all the worst-case scenarios competed for dominance in his head. Nothing good would come of this, was all he knew.

His heart ached, quite literally. He thought he might have to go see a doctor.

Please, just come back to me. Please, please, please.

Then the dopey feeling set in, a kind of warmth that seemed to snake through his blood like a hot wire. It no longer hurt to breathe, and his mind buzzed pleasantly. He fought the impulse to go lie down and wrap himself in the quilt and have a dreamless sleep; but he knew that if he went to sleep now, and woke up in the morning and Edward had not returned, that he would regret it for the rest of his life.

He felt lightheaded but suddenly strong, pain siphoned out of his fingertips. Edward, Edward was going to beat up Klaussen, for him, for him...it was terrible and not a good idea and yet he felt himself immensely pleased, flattered.

He shouldn't let things get out of hand, though. If he didn't go after him, who would?

The door to the warehouse was slightly ajar, sending a shaft of light onto the now-deserted docklands. There was very little activity here, now that it was getting on for evening. Alfons ignored the giddy feeling that had nettled him all the way over on the tram; he anticipated some sort of excitement, some sort of drama, with himself at the center of it, it was rather distracting. The drug in his system sought to make him reckless; he even felt a little thrill of adventure as he pushed the door open.

Silence reigned in the warehouse laboratory, so he figured that he would just find Klaussen, alone at the drafting table; but somehow the whole large space, so filled with matter that he could barely see for the equipment and bookshelves and supplies, seemed strangely empty.

He stepped around quietly, not wishing to disturb the perfect silence.

Ed flung himself off the tram at Gärtnerplatz and broke into a full-on run back to the flat. It felt good to run-he never did it anymore, because his prosthetic leg wasn't made for it and what the hell did he have to run to, or from, anymore?-and even though it hurt and he slipped several times, it helped distribute the adrenaline that had been painfully quarantined in his chest up until he had been able to fly off the tram and let his feet pound the paving stones. All he wanted was to see Alfons, make sure he was all right, that old panic, that feeling of being chased and pursued and sought had come rushing back, and that feeling that he had to protect someone-Al-had returned with a clarity and intensity he had thought was forgotten. It wasn't quite the same, but yet it was similar enough to make him irrational. So he ran.

His heart sank to see no light in the window on the second floor, their window.

Alfons wasn't there. When he got upstairs, Ed sat down on the bed, heavily, and his spine collapsed, head bowed, he looked at the space between his feet.

"Where the fuck are you?" he said to the floor.

He pulled off his coat and let it slide to the floor, then lay down across the bed and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. He felt strangely betrayed, like Heiderich had done him a crime by being gone when he returned.

Being alone is like the rain. Dammit.

He hadn't realized he had been about to fall asleep, but he was awoken suddenly by a feeling of pressure on his abdomen. His eyes opened in shock, only to see his favorite face looming above him. Heiderich was straddling his stomach, his knees on either side of his hips, his hands on either side of Ed's head as he arched over him. He hadn't lit the lamps so his face was illuminated only by the orangey gaslight filtering through the curtains. In this light he looked not his usual pale self, but rather, lit from within. His eyes were wide and shiny, and his mouth was a hard, set line.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ed asked, a nervous flutter in his stomach. He had never seen Heiderich look so commanding. "I was worried about you."

Heiderich looked at him with that fierce face again.

"What have you done, you maniac?" he said, and Edward realized with a start that his voice was strangled by panic, that the shine in his eyes was tears. "I didn't want you to do that, for me. He was a bastard but he didn't deserve to be killed!"

Ed struggled to sit up, to get out of this suddenly vulnerable position, and push Heiderich off him, but for once Alfons seemed formidably strong, animated, he supposed, by fear and panic.

"I didn't do it, you idiot! I went there to kick his ass and I found him like that!"

Alfons sat back over Ed's hips and slapped his hands over his eyes. "Oh, my God, you're lying! You really are insane. Oh my God."

Ed reached up and grabbed Alfons' wrist, trying to pry it away from his face.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked. "You really think I could....?"

Alfons let his hands drop. He bowed his head but Ed could see that he was crying. He seemed dizzy and unfocused.

"I've never....blood was coming out of his head..."

"Yeah, I know..." Ed rubbed his thumb gently over Alfons' wrist. "I wish you hadn't seen it."

So many thoughts went through Alfons' head at this moment. The dead Klaussen, Edward, Edward....all the way back, after seen Klaussen dead....all he could think of was, How could Edward do this? He seemed such a good person, sometimes, and others, a coiled snake, a viper, a cipher...he hid so much from him, he didn't really know him at all. All those crazy lies...maybe some of them were true, or partly true. Maybe he had killed someone, maybe he had had enemies. It didn't seem possible, in his heart of hearts he thought him kind and good, and even if he rarely showed it, for real, capable of the love like he obviously had for that faraway brother-whom Alfons secretly assumed was actually dead-but maybe Edward really just was a raving madman after all. His head swam.

When Edward asked him to get off he felt a sting of obstinacy.

"No. I think I'll stay here." He felt a pang of satisfaction at his current dominance. Edward was obviously worn out, tired, and for once, he felt stronger, though he couldn't for the life of him explain where this sudden robustness had come from.

Provenance of his current state aside, he would no longer ask questions. He wanted to sit on top of Edward. He wanted, in fact, to savor the medicinal fantasy that he had been feeding for the past couple of hours, that being, that Edward was so crazy in love with him that he had killed someone to protect him.

He certainly had never been loved like that before. He felt a bit unhinged, and still under the influence, probably, of his medicine, which had those spiky traces of morphine in it that he found made him quite fearless when he overcame the torpor.

Edward made as if to protest but Alfons clamped his hand over his mouth. With his other hand he began to unbutton Edward's vest. He protested but then stopped soon enough, so Alfons removed his hand from his mouth. Already Edward's lips were parting, his eyes were starting to close; he fell under the spell so quickly, really he was so weak. The shirt was open and when Alfons touched his tongue to one hard pink nipple Edward squeaked and shuddered and Alfons felt a sweet little shiver of power. He was really just a simple little thing. He just liked to be licked. Alfons moved his tongue around the nipple, then worked it gently with his teeth. Edward moaned and shuddered again.

Alfons liked that, the shuddering part.

He began to work the buckle on the strap holding Edward's arm in place. This was strictly forbidden; Edward didn't like him touching the arm, afraid he would break it, he said, or hurt him taking it off wrong, but really Alfons thought it was because he had a little bit of lingering shyness over it. When Edward raised his left hand to stop him, Alfons slapped it away.

"I'm doing it," he said forcefully. The hand retreated. With the strap undone, the artificial limb still showed some resistance to being separated from the shoulder, and Alfons found himself holding it by the wrist, the rest of it still attached to Edward, until he would pull the harness off.

Edward looked up at him and his eyes were different from the usual: very, very soft, a little damp, Alfons thought. Wide, but not trusting.

"Go ahead, take it off," he said.

Alfons hesisted. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It would take a lot more than that to hurt me."

"Like what would hurt you, then?" Alfons asked challengingly.

"Nothing you could do to me." He turned his head to the side.

Alfons' body burned at that challenge. He felt incredibly aroused and bore down on Edward with his hips. His prisoner, however, seemed distressed. His face still turned to the side, his cheek was spread with red and his mouth set. Angry? Alfons couldn't tell. He found he didn't care either, and applied himself to removing the harness and the artificial arm, while Edward refused to look at him and didn't resist as Alfons moved his other arm, his head, pulled the thing off and flung it off the bed, and it landed on the floor with a clatter. He saw Edward's eye wince a little.

"If you break that..." Edward said in a low, threatening voice, but it tapered off as if he didn't have enough determination to finish the sentence.

"What? You'll kill me?"

Edward hissed and his mouth became a tight line.

"You are a liar," Alfons announced, squeezing Edward's ribcage between his knees.

"Is that so," said Edward in his faraway voice. His head was still turned and he gazed at the wall, as if he didn't care where he was.

"Yes. I can hurt you." He leaned over and pressed his chest to Edward's chest and his cheek to Edward's cheek. "I know I can hurt you." Alfons pushed himself up and ran his finger across Edward's collarbone and traced the spot on his right shoulder, where his arm should have been. "I know exactly what to say."

Edward closed his exposed eye, and Alfons rose up again. He began to apply himself to undoing Edward's belt and trousers, unbuttoning his flies in the space between his own legs, then rose a little to push them down Edward's thighs, leaned backwards and pulled them off by the cuffs. Edward's stockings sagged around his ankles, one real, the other that putty-colored rubber-looking thing that Alfons rather hated. He released the catch and pulled it off, letting it fall, he turned back to stare down at Edward.

"This is what I think of you: I think you're totally insane and messed up and it's just as well we can't let anyone know about us, because I'm embarrassed that all I can get is a fucked up cripple."

Edward's eyes came into focus and caught his with force. Suddenly his eyes flashed and his expression became fierce. He practically spit out his next words:

"I don't care what you think, you fucking loser. But no matter what you believe, I've NEVER lied to you."

Alfons sighed. "Then that means you're insane."

Edward huffed. "Believe that if you want. I don't care anymore. Now get the hell off me!" He started to buck and struggle, bringing his hand up to hit at Alfons, but Alfons caught Edward's hand and began to bend it back toward his wrist. Edward struggled some more, but his position was that of a butterfly pinned to a board.

"Get the fuck OFF!" Edward roared, nearly succeeding in pushing him off.

Surprised to find that he was still pushing Edward's hand back toward his wrist, Alfons felt his eyes begin to sting. How mean he was being! He let the hand go. He didn't want to cry. "I don't want you to be crazy," he said.

Edward panted and let his hand fall behind his head.

Alfons sat still on top of him, staring down. He suddenly felt terribly sorry for what he had just said. It wasn't really true, not all the time, but still...he knew Edward wouldn't like this, but he was suddenly moved with remorse and even pity for him. This didn't make him feel any less, it made him feel more. Protective, passionate, lucky to have him. How horrible he'd been! He moved off of him and quickly, before Edward could resist, put his arms around him and held him to himself. He half wanted it to be true, that Edward had killed Klaussen for him, but how awful...he felt so sick and weak and stupid, and sorrier still, for having said something so mean. He pressed his face into Edward's neck and grabbed at the back of his hair with his hand.

And then, he felt Edward's hand at the back of his head, pressing gently, and he felt Edward's breath on his neck.

And then Edward said softly, "It's all right. Don't worry, I'll stay with you."

Say it, Alfons told himself. Just tell him.

But all he did was squeeze harder.

Edward had never known Alfons to act like that. As he held him, after that ridiculous rant, he felt a knot of panic in his stomach. Seeing Klaussen must have really knocked him for a loop; he had to remind himself that Alfons hadn't seen the stuff he had, hadn't known before what it was like to see someone dead from violence like that, how horrible it was. But there was something else, and that dread that had been growing in him over the past several days had more of a shape now: he knew because when Alfons' face had been pressed to his, he had smelled what he assumed was that medicine that he had seen sitting on the shelf in the kitchen.

It hadn't been nice to hear, what Alfons had said to him; it was as he had feared. Still, he gave him a pass for obviously being on some kind of drug; but he also knew that it had probably just loosened his tongue. Still, he was mature enough to recognize that passion was ambivalent-sex wasn't always beautiful, and it was stupid to imagine that it was. It was probably the same for love.

Alfons clung to him like...he would have preferred to think "as if he loved him" but it was more like "as if he were drowning." He seemed to be wanting something. That feeling of being expected to say something important was palpable. Edward didn't know what it would mean for them to declare love to one another. Despite everything, it seemed, if not premature, odd. They were still two men. Didn't they really believe that ten, twenty years from now, they'd be married to wives and have children and be like everyone else, that this was just what his father might call "a youthful dalliance"? Wasn't "I love you" something people said to each other when they wanted to get married?

All he could manage to choke out was that he wasn't going to leave him, not right now, anyway. Not until they straightened all this shit out, not until Alfons was well, not until a Gate opened up in front of his face and he could leap through it and be shot of this awful, soul-sucking pit of a world.

But as they clung to each other, wrapped around one another, welded together by invisible forces, he could feel only the urgency of nature. Alfons fell asleep against him, and he didn't want to move and break their bodies apart. Like magnet to metal, they were seamlessly attached.

The sound that kicked Edward awake, while the room was still dark, was that of a bang, a clatter, a congress of footsteps that entered his dream but in a moment pulled him into the waking world. Alfons stirred next to him, but was obviously in a deep sleep, and he pushed him away from himself the moment the bedroom door flew inwards and banged against the wall.

There were shadows of men, three he thought, against the dark doorway. Edward nearly swooned with panic; there was nothing to be done.

"God in heaven, what a scene," one of them said, stepping toward the bed. He tsked a few times as he came closer. Ed decided that he could do nothing but sit up straight and look the man in the eye. It came as quite a shock when that man turned out to be Metzger.

"What the hell-" Ed began, but Alfons chose this moment to sit up and open his eyes. His mouth opened in shock, but nothing came out.

The two men by the door remained silent, but Ed was aware of their staring as he tried as hard as he could not to wither in their glare. Metzger looked down over them for a moment longer before releasing a sigh and stepping backwards and turning on his heel, striding toward the door.

"The two of you are such a disgrace I can't even look at you. We'll wait outside here while you get dressed. Then come out. We need to talk."

"Why the hell should we listen to you? We're not at work now," Edward growled.

Metzger turned in the doorway. Affecting bemusement-something that Edward found particularly irritating-he smiled and said, "I don't think you're in a position to refuse me anything. Just do as I say."

He pulled the door closed behind him.

Alfons didn't stir but sat, shocked. "What do you think he wants?" he finally said.

"I dunno." Ed fastened on his arm as quickly as he could, then reached for his leg. Alfons seemed to be moving in slow motion, buttoning his wrinkled shirt, pausing to look at his shaking hands. "Calm down," Ed commanded as he pulled on his trousers. Then he crawled across the bed toward the window. "We're not talking to them anyway. We're leaving."

"But they're going to try to stop us-"

Ed sighed. Alfons just didn't get it, he was no good at being spontaneous, and he was certainly no good at disobeying orders. As Ed pulled the window up, cold air rushed into the room, and Alfons shivered.

"Take your coat," Ed said, grabbing his own off the end of the bed.

"But..." Alfons stood at the side of the bed with his coat open, his hair sticking up every which way, a bright stain of red on each cheek. He looked feverish and conflicted.

Ed stood up on the bed so that he loomed over him. "Listen, you want to go out there and be accused of killing Klaussen? Or wait for them to drag us off somewhere? They're not the police, and they're up to something. Are we gonna let them mess with us, or are we getting the hell out of here?"

Still, Alfons paused. Ed felt like belting him across the face, but he felt sorry for him; he had no idea what to do with trouble. He reminded himself that he was also not feeling his best. He knew how that felt, how hard it was to rouse oneself when you're in pain and all you want to do is stop feeling, not go out into the cold and run.

Ed stretched forward and held out his hand.

"Come on," he said. "We'll be fine. I promise."

They dropped into the courtyard behind their flat and stood there for a moment. Ed had no idea where they were going, but he was animated by a strong sense of responsibility for Alfons, and also, that old friend, self-preservation. He grabbed Alfons' cold hand and pulled him along the alleyways between their building and the next, then pulled him through the narrow passage onto the street. The yellow gaslight lamps hissed and their flames danced in the light wind. It was cold, but not terribly so. Ed looked left, then right. There was no one around; it was late, probably right in the dead hours before dawn. Nothing would be open, no beer halls or restaurants to get lost in, no shops to dash into, no movie theaters, no nothing.

He knew no one in this city, he realized. No one who wasn't presently connected with the business at hand. Still, he ran, pulling Alfons behind him, in the direction of the University. He thought of everyone, everyone he knew, no matter how tenuously. If Hohenheim were here...His father's circle of acquaintance was quite large-but he didn't know any of them well enough to impose himself on them in the middle of the night. He thought of the physician who had cared for him when he first came to Munich, a friend of his father's, but again, he only knew where his surgery was, not his home, and it wouldn't be open for hours now. Listening to Alfons' labored breathing as he struggled to keep up with him made the idea of going to a doctor more appealing by the second. Alfons stumbled behind him, letting go his hand. Ed turned to see Alfons with his head down, hands on his knees, apparently trying to cough up a lung.

He couldn't even escape with him properly. It was hopeless. Part of him wanted to kick him, but sympathy triumphed over impulse and impatience. He put his arm around Alfons' hunched shoulders.

"Come on, we have to at least get out of the middle of the street. Come on." He took his hand again, but even as he conceded that he had to alter his pace to walking quickly, he still had to drag Alfons. That infernal cough made his skin crawl. He'd never heard anything like that, deep and sharp and it hurt just to hear it.

He stopped. Still holding his hand, Edward looked up at Alfons, who had stopped the coughing for a moment and was obviously struggling to take a deep breath.

"The hospital will be open now...it'll be warm in there, the doctors can take a look at you..." Ed said. He raised his eyebrows and tried to make a hopeful face.

"No," Alfons said. "I don't need that." He caught his breath and swallowed. "I'm fine."

That was exactly what Ed had wanted to hear. The idea of getting involved with the hospital was happily dismissed. Like a snake had been abiding in his stomach, something inside uncoiled like a spring, his pulse was beating in his head, but he was nearly elated, thrilled by the chase. It was like his former life. He grabbed Alfons' hand again and, pulling, launched into his ungainly run. It wasn't quite like it had used to be; he wasn't as strong, or as coordinated, as he had once been, and the person he was dragging along wasn't who it had used to be, but it was close enough.

They slowed to a walk after putting what Ed estimated to be three or four kilometers between them and Metzger. They were nearing the neighborhood of the University, site of the biggest library in Munich, location of his father's shared office, and, he knew, there was a gate to the campus that was always open, and an alcove just off the main entrance to the library that was shelter from the weather. He had waited there for his father sometimes.

They climbed the steps slowly, Ed still pulling Alfons by the hand; it didn't occur to him to let go. It felt so right to be attached. He was feeling awfully protective, and it felt right. A certain feeling of propriety overwhelmed him. Alfons belonged to him now, just as Al once had.

Breathless and exhausted, they huddled into the small space between two immense columns. There was a large marble trough here, that in the spring held plants, but the space behind it was adequate for huddling behind and by virtue of its tightness, was quite warm despite being comprised of marble. By necessity of all kinds, they were pressed together, close.

It was the first time they were touching like this, outside of their flat. Edward was sharply aware of this and it felt different, exciting. To have taken their relationship outside the flat made it seem like it belonged in the world, like they belonged, even while they were hiding in the middle of the night. They sat with their knees up and shoulders pressed close together, their heads bent together, gloveless hands clasping. Alfons reached for Edward's artificial hand and Ed let him take it. He couldn't feel the pressure of the other hand as it squeezed the mechanical fingers, sheathed in rubber. He wiggled them slightly, as much as he could, frustrated, as always, with how lame the hand really was.

But Alfons held on to both hands and leaned his head on Ed's shoulder. Ed buried his nose and mouth in his cropped hair; it was almost hard, spiky, sticky with sweat and sleep and whatever else.

He realized that he had never, ever been so physically close to anyone. Maybe not even to Al, aside from when they were very young. He had never wanted to crawl inside someone else's skin, to get closer than he possibly could, and he felt like no matter what he did, he could never get close enough.

The patch of sky that could be seen from their hiding space was turning from pitch to azure. The wind had died down to admit a still, chilly dawn. It really did feel like they were the only people in this world; and, Ed was surprised to find, that didn't feel too bad.

"I have something to tell you," he said quietly. His cheeks were already warming with embarrassment.

Alfons didn't raise his head from Ed's shoulder when he said lazily, "Mmm? What?"

"Well, you know me," Ed began, still embarrassed but pleased with himself for pushing forward. "When I read something a couple of times, it just gets imprinted on my brain. You know how I am."

"Yeah," Alfons said softly, his voice soft and gently amused, as if he knew what was coming. "I'm like that too."

"Yeah...so, I realized, without even meaning to...I memorized a poem from that book...that Rilke, on the kitchen table...you know, that one?"

They were being disingenuous, but it was out of shyness. Alfons raised his head and faced Edward.

"Ah, yes, I believe I know the one, of which you speak," he said with exaggerated formality.

Ed realized that he meant to be funny but he was still embarrassed. "Don't look at me," Edward said, gently pushing Alfons' face away with his hand. Alfons obediently turned to face forward, but Ed could not mistake the small smile.

"Understand, I'll slip quietly

away from the noisy crowd

when I see the pale

stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.

I'll pursue solitary pathways

through the pale twilit meadows,

with only this one dream..."

He paused for effect, and also because he was so overheated with embarrassment. But before he took another breath, Alfons' voice softly added the final line:

"You come too." [8]

That moment, that moment was great. Alfons couldn't have asked for anything more. He was in a morbid mood and therefore musing that he could die happy, now, now that he'd had Edward recite a love poem to him. Who would have thought such a thing could happen? Not only that, but Edward seemed so damned pleased with himself that he was practically glowing. He looked quite beautiful with the thin yellow light of dawn on him, his cheeks mottled pink and white with cold, his eyes shining, and his hair hanging all about him in an untamed mess.

He thought he would never, as long or as short a time that he lived, forget that face, and how he looked that morning.

But as day came, more unpleasant thoughts crowded out those precious quiet hours on the library's doorstep. Klaussen, dead. It was just last night that he had seen that, but it seemed that he had known that terror for years now. How had he made it this far in life, having lived through a terrible war, without having seen something like that, he just didn't know.

Thoughts unsettled him; Klaussen grilling him on Oberth's work, the taking of notes, the secretiveness of these sessions and his proposition to take him on, all this began to disturb him the more he thought about it. Why had Klaussen taken such an interest in him?

Edward gripped his hand and pulled him up. The library would be opening soon; now a few people could be seen moving across the campus.

"Some night, huh?" Edward said. He pushed his loose hair away from his shoulders. "I can't walk around like this." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small piece of the leather cord he used to tie his hair and handed it to Alfons. Alfons knew he would spend a few minutes every morning tying his hair back with one hand; his artifical arm didn't have the range of motion for his right hand to reach behind his shoulder. But Edward didn't usually like to be helped; today he didn't even ask, just handed him the tie, as if he did it every day.

"That was definitely more adventure than I'm used to," Alfons said, clumsily tying the knot with freezing fingers. His head felt more clear now than it had for hours; the medicine was wearing off.

Edward turned to look at him and grinned. He wanted to kiss him then, but now it was light, and they were exposed, in front of God and everyone.

They were waiting by the library doors when they opened. The two of them went inside and immediately sat down at a table, just to sit in chairs, like normal people, and get warm. Alfons noticed some dirty looks from the librarians, but he was too tired to care. He only wanted to put his head down on the table and fall asleep...

Edward was tugging at his wrist. He leaned close and whispered urgently.

"We can't stay here all day."

"Let's go home," Alfons said, knowing full well that Edward would disagree with him.

"Don't be stupid. Someone'll be watching the place."

"Edward, if I don't get to lie down soon..."

Edward's hand squeezed his wrist. "I know. I'm thinking..."

Alfons felt another hand, a much bigger hand than the one that was holding his wrist, clamp and squeeze his shoulder. He knew Edward was experiencing the same from the way he stiffened beside him.

"Here you are, boys," came the voice of Metzger from behind. "You're as predictable as I thought you'd be. How many times have you mentioned that you come here to study?" He clucked his tongue at them. "How amateur. Just come with me. I'm not in the best of moods, as you've kept me up all night."

Alfons really did not know how much more of this he could take, how much longer he would last before collapsing. He felt faint and shuddery as he and Edward were pushed gently into the motorcar parked just outside the campus gate. Metzger sat himself between them. The top was down and as the car sped through the streets towards the docklands, the sharp cool air tore at Alfons' eyes and ears.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Heiderich," Metzger said conversationally. Alfons closed his eyes and turned his face away. He was certain that he could not stand the pressure of being dressed-down by Metzger, or anyone else. "Of everyone on that team, I would have thought you least susceptible to Klaussen."

Alfons turned to look at him. "I don't understand what you mean."

Metzger gave a small laugh. "I suppose you really don't."

If this entire thing was designed to make him feel stupid and small, it certainly was working a charm.

They were standing in the laboratory, on the spot where just hours ago, they had both seen Klaussen's body sprawled, with the two men Metzger had had with him the night before. They were gathered around the pool of blood, flecked with what Alfons took to be bits of brain. It was still there, left to congeal as a grisly souvenir. Alfons felt dizzy looking at it; standing close to it, he had a fleeting, panicky thought that he just might step into it, on purpose, and shock everyone, including himself.

Edward had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears, that little crease that appeared between his eyes when he was angry or worried deep and apparent.

"Klaussen was spying for the English," Metzger said. "I'm going to assume that neither of you knew this, or I'll have to have you shot in the head too." He looked Alfons right in the eye, and he had to look away, then at Edward, who didn't. "Gottschalk can be credited with setting the machine in motion, finding out who Klaussen really was. He's been in Germany since the war, tasked with finding out secrets about our nation's technological development, particularly rocketry and weaponry."

"Under the Treaty of Versailles, sir, we are not permitted to develop weapons," Alfons said.

Metzger gave him an amused look and paced a bit to land in front of Edward.

"When we received warning that there was a spy here, naturally you fell under suspicion, Elric. It's well known you came here from London with your father; it's also well known your father has lately, and quite mysteriously, made himself scarce. When we heard that bit of news, we were certain that it was you." Metzger stepped away from Edward and moved back to lean against a worktable. He took a cigarette case from inside his coat and removed one cigarette, then snapped the case shut.

"But then, it came to our attention that Klaussen and Heiderich here had begun spending time here together, off hours, late into the evening. What I found particularly odd was that I could find no evidence of any extra work being done when I came in to poke around in the mornings." Metzger lit his cigarette. Alfons' heart was beating so fast he thought he would swoon. Metzger tapped ash onto the floor.

"Did you know, Heiderich, that Klaussen was passing your and Oberth's formulas on to the British?"

Alfons let his head fall. He looked at his worn shoes, the fraying cuffs of his trousers, and at the dirty concrete floor of the laboratory, which began to spin.

Then he went down.

He came to in a new place altogether. He took his bearings as his eyes slowly focused and used his other senses to take in the room; he could feel smooth leather against his cheek: leather sofa. There was a large oriental rug on a polished wood floor. He could smell the odor of coal burning and feel the emanation of heat somewhere by his head: a coal-burning fireplace. When he tried to sit up the room spun around him and he let himself fall back down before trying again. Then there were footsteps and someone beside him, and he was being pulled into a sitting position. The dizziness was abating, and Edward's face was before him.

"Hey," Edward said. "Are you all right?"

Alfons nodded. Edward's arm snaked around his neck, hand squeezed his shoulder. No one else must have been near, because Edward then tipped his head against his own, and stayed there for a moment.

"I'm just glad you're okay. You've been out for a while."

"How long?"

"More than an hour. Metzger had his guys put you in his car. We're in his office right now. We've been banned from the lab."

Alfons lifted his head and straightened his spine. He had to know the worst right now.

"I'm such an idiot," he said. "You must hate me."

Edward withdrew his arm and seemed to blink in surprise. Then he looked down and was quiet for a long moment. What was he thinking about? Alfons had said that hoping, of course, for an immediate and consoling contradiction. He felt even more deflated. Edward did hate him...or at least, no longer respected him. And why should he?

"This is all very touching," Metzger's voice and person suddenly intruded into the room. He strode over to his desk and picked up some papers. "But I don't have the time for this crap right now. If you are quite conscious, Heiderich, you may take your leave."

Edward stood and hooked his hand under Alfons' armpit, pulling him up. Alfons rose shakily but he felt he was no longer in danger of making a spectacle of himself. He burned with embarrassment-what kind of person was he? A traitor, a sucker? He felt debased, but still, burnt by being used by Klaussen...he couldn't leave Metzger's presence without saying something in his own defense.

What came out of his mouth was: "You murdered Klaussen!"

Metzger sat down at the chair behind his desk and looked down at the paper he had before him, before even deigning to answer him. "I didn't do anything. I found him here, and we've dispensed with the body, and that's the end of it. The people who need to know about this will know. Otherwise, this goes away; Gottschalk prefers that this breech not be made public. It's best if you both forget all about it." He waved his hand. "If I hear any of this has gotten into the papers, I'll know it's one of you," he added coolly.

"But, all our work...Klaussen was the team leader, he must have everything somewhere, how will we continue-"

Metzger interrupted him. "Surely you realize that we can't use you at Astra any longer? You and Elric both, you're through. We're also letting Reinert and Becker go. We can't afford to have any of you who've been tainted by Klaussen."

"But we've done so much-"

"Alfons," Edward cut him off. "It's not worth it. We can find work someplace else." Alfons was dismayed to realize that Edward was still propping him up and pulled away.

"No!"

"Please control your wife, Elric," Metzger said dismissively. Alfons felt his cheeks burn. "You've gotten yourself into enough trouble as it is. Just walk away from this. I consider it finished. Just be pleased I'm not going to have you arrested for colluding with Klaussen." His eyes suddenly became more fierce. "I despair for Germany's future if you're the best we've got. A pathetic weakling, so desperate for approval you were easily seduced by a snake like Klaussen...and a degenerate too." His eyes flicked toward Edward and he shook his head. "Now get out of here and don't let me see either of you again."

Alfons stared at Metzger for a moment, shocked and disarmed, his mind searching for something to say in response, something sharp, something that would redeem himself. But he could come up with nothing. He finally turned to go, feeling kicked and defeated.

Edward followed him but before he passed through the door he stopped and turned back to Metzger, who seemed to have already immersed himself in his paperwork.

"Hey, Metzger," said Edward. "We're owed for two days' work."

"Get the fuck out of here," Metzger said breezily, not even raising his eyes from the papers.

Alfons was passed out on the bed beside him, his mouth open, snoring, but there were still streaks of dried tears on his cheeks. He'd cried when they had arrived home, he was so ashamed of himself, and so utterly exhausted that he didn't even bother to try to hide it. He had just flung himself face-down on the bed and buried his face in the pillow until he had fallen asleep, and Ed had just sat next to him and watched. What else was there to do?

There, there, he had tried, patting him gently on the back. It's not so bad. Fuck Metzger and Klaussen and all of them. We don't need them. Who cares what they think?

Ed felt somewhat responsible for that mess-up with Klaussen. He should have been more on guard, he should have seen what was going on. But he hadn't paid enough attention to what was going on around him at work-distracted by his own detachment, disillusionment with the rocketry work, his father's disappearance, and his relationship with Heiderich-and he hadn't seen what was going on. He felt like a fool, and a child, and it was not a feeling he liked. He didn't like being mocked. Did everything have to be so ridiculously complicated?

He smoothed Alfons' hair back from his forehead, but he snored on. Ed was utterly exhausted but he felt wired, still distracted. That was over, but it wasn't. Now they would have to find somewhere else to work. It's not like those types of jobs grew on trees either. And now that his father was missing, what little money he still had from the last time he had seen him had to be carefully budgeted.

Thinking of his father reminded him of the bottle of brandy on the bedside table. He reached for it and pulled out the cork; it had already been unsealed and opened, a couple of shots already gone, but it was still nearly full. He poured a bit into the cracked ceramic cup sitting on the table and downed it quickly; he wasn't much used to drinking liquor and coughed a little as it pleasantly burned its way down his throat.

He held the bottle close; he wished Alfons were awake. He felt very alone in this world right now. At least when his father had been around, he had felt somewhat protected and looked after, not that he needed it; he just liked it. He hated thinking about what really might have happened to his father, the man who had pretty much rescued him when he had come through the Gate. In some ways, he felt they were almost even-if it hadn't been for his mother...but his father had been very protective and attentive to him since they'd been trapped in this world together. He even had some fond memories, now, of how the man had gone to great lengths to make things up to him. He found it very difficult to believe that Hohenheim would have just taken off somewhere without telling him, even though he would have liked to believe that; he might even have liked to hate him for it. He couldn't stand to lose someone else. But in his heart of hearts, he knew something terrible had happened to him.

Another shot of brandy might obscure that feeling, for a little while, at least, and let him rest.

When he went back through the Gate, perhaps he would take Alfons with him. He could imagine that the cleaner air and the bluer sky of his world would heal him, that alchemy could fix whatever was broken inside him. As he fell asleep, Ed placed his hand over Alfons' heart and left it there, and imagined that he felt the tiniest remnants of the former energy he had once been able to command suffuse into his skin.

You come too.

Alfons hadn't dreamt at all that night, but slept deeply, bereft of dreams and glad for it. When he awoke in the earliest hours of the next day, he was immediately reminded of how he had failed, even as he opened his eyes. He found Edward's hand open and palm-down, fingers splayed open over his chest. Edward was asleep on his side, breathing slow and deep. Alfons put his own hand over the one on his heart.

Edward stirred and moved closer. His foot burrowed under Alfons' calf. He was so close that the only way to get closer would be to get under his skin.

"I almost took you down with me...I'm so sorry," Alfons whispered. The guilt was still sharp and new. He had never realized how bad it would feel to be so used. If Klaussen had made good on his threats...they were so fortunate that Metzger had better things to do...they had been exposed and clearly it could happen again...what did they think they were doing? Alfons stretched his arm around Edward, squeezed gently, felt the contour of Edward's body against his. It would never be the same with someone else; no one else would be like him, and he knew with a painful certainty that he would never be with anyone else, ever.

He kissed the top of Edward's head and gently pulled away and rose from the bed, leaving Edward to curl up into himself like a snail pried from its shell.

The book was there on the kitchen table. It had been more than he had ever dared to hope for, hearing the words of that poem come out of Edward's mouth. Forget anything else; he wasn't that romantic, he didn't care. He would probably die without anyone, ever having said Ich liebe dich... I love you. He so belonged to Edward that it was painful to think about, because sometime soon, he knew, one way or another, they would be parted. This wasn't for forever, because it wasn't really proper, it wasn't meant to be, because it wasn't right, because he was sick and Edward was crazy, because the world could come to an end at any moment.

My eyes rest upon your face wide-open;

and they hold you gently, letting you go

when something in the dark begins to move.[9]

He went through the book and underlined everything they had both marked in pencil with ink. This book belonged to the library, and it was long overdue. When they gave it back, at least, everything they'd said to each other would be there, indelible. It would be there long after he and Edward were forced to part ways, and probably long after he was dead; he would have to tell him, soon: they couldn't be together.

He felt the cough starting to take hold again, a knot of pain in his lung, and reached for his medicine. He was tired of being strong and pretending he didn't need it. He poured himself a tablespoon of the elixir and went back to bed for another dreamless sleep.

-End

____________________________________________

Endnotes

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) is considered by many to be one of the greatest poets of the German language and the key figure in the transition from traditional to modernist poetry.

Rilke spent several years of his youth studying and writing in Munich. In 1902 he wrote a (prose) monograph on the sculptor Auguste Rodin, who, coincidentally, is the creator of the sculpture "The Gates of Hell" upon which The Gate in FMA is modeled.

1Rainer Maria Rilke, "Dedication"

2 This is actually an equation for calculating rocket thrust

3 RMR "Loneliness"

4 RMR "Song"

5 RMR "The Neighbor"

6 RMR "For Hans Carossa"

7 RMR "[ignorant before the heavens of my life]"

8 RMR "Pathways"

9 RMR "To Say Before Going to Sleep"