The funeral had been nice. Not as nice as Hughes', but still nice.
Colonel Mustang stood over the tombstone, alone in the empty cemetery and wondering faintly why he always seemed to be the last person to leave funerals.
The tombstone before him read:
Lieutenant Colonel Edward Elric
The Fullmetal Alchemist and Hero of The People
1899-1915
Roy smirked derisively and shook his head. Ed probably would have hated the tombstone... more than that, he probably would have hated—as the tombstone noted—that he had been promoted a rank because he had died trying to quell an uprising against the military. No one mentioned that the kid had most likely sparked that very uprising.
Ed's body had not been buried yet. It wasn't going to be buried here in Central at all, but sent back to Resembool in a few days so that he could rest in his family's plot. Both Al and the Rockbells had been furious to hear that they couldn't take Ed's body home immediately, but it was military tradition to hold services in Central and keep unburied bodies in the crypt for several days before letting their loved ones take them. It was a stupid, pointless tradition in Roy's eyes, but there was little that he could do about it. The military always had been a stickler for tradition.
So, really, the tombstone at Mustang's feet was more of a monument than a grave marker. Still, Roy felt the need to pay his respects to it even though Ed's actual remains were several yards behind him in the crypt, quietly decomposing.
Roy wanted to say something. He often visited Maes Hughes' grave and talked to him—not that he really believed that his friend was somehow hearing him from beyond the Void, but sometimes it made him feel better... but now with Ed, he didn't know what to say. The words just wouldn't come.
Finally, the colonel just sighed and put his hands in his pockets, wincing slightly as he jarred the splint that held his broken hand in place.
"See you around, kiddo." He mumbled, then turned and walked back to the car where Hawkeye was waiting for him.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It had become fairly quiet around the office. Not that Colonel Mustang really minded, for the silence was a stark contrast to the noisy chaos that usually inhabited these four walls... but it was also a little unnerving. He understood that his staff was still in mourning over Edward's passing—the funeral had only been the day before, after all—but Roy wordlessly wished that everything would just hurry up and go back to normal as if nothing had happened. He wished that Fuery would stop bursting into tears every five minutes... he wished that Havoc would stop getting up from his seat to pace the room agitatedly like a caged animal... but mostly Roy wished that Hawkeye would stop watching him out of the corner of her eye as if she thought that he was going to explode at any moment.
Hawkeye knew that Roy did not mourn well. That is to say, he didn't mourn. He would bury himself in work and other activities so that he didn't have time to mourn and then, when the grief was far enough away, he'd allow himself to reflect on it over a bottle of scotch. Typically, by the time he'd recovered from his hangover the next morning, he was more at peace with whatever tragedy he'd been faced with. Sometimes—more often than not, truthfully—it would take multiple sessions of heavy drinking over the course of a month or two for Roy to deal with his grief. He still found himself drinking with a heavy heart occasionally as he reminisced about Hughes, but Roy honestly thought that he would never fully get over that death.
The colonel knew that when he finally did allow himself to mourn for Ed, it was going to be bad and it was going to take him a long time to recover. But for the time being, he kept his grief securely behind a locked door in the back of his mind. He wasn't ready to face it yet.
Besides, he had a lot of paperwork to do and his broken hand was making it very difficult for him to make much headway.
"Do we have the Ingram files from Investigations yet?" he asked, raising his head to meet Hawkeye's concerned gaze. She quickly made her face carefully blank.
"Not yet, sir." she told him. "Major Higgins wanted to bring them over himself and discuss it with you face-to-face."
"Ah, yes." Mustang nodded, remembering. "When is his appointment? Four thirty, right?"
"I think so. Check your calendar to be sure."
He nodded to her again, pulling his date-book from a drawer and flipping through it until he found today's date. He slid his finger down the list of bullet-point objectives that he had to finish today and paused when he came upon a certain name. He stared at the name for a moment, feeling a brief stab of irritation... but then that ire quickly dissolved into a sick sadness that caught his breath and made his heart lurch unpleasantly in his chest.
"Sir?"
Roy raised his head slowly to look up at her. He could tell from her expression that she knew something was wrong—be it the suddenly wan pallor of his face that alerted her or the fact that he stopped breathing for a moment, Roy didn't know. Either way, ever-perceptive Hawkeye had seen the sick jolt run through him and wanted to know what it was.
"...Weirdest thing just happened." he said, managing a shaky, mystified laugh as he looked back down at his date-book. "I just realized that Fullmetal was due to give a report today at noon... and my first thought was: 'That little bastard is late again.' I guess I still can't believe that he's really dead." He shook his head wonderingly, running his thumb over the dead boy's name.
The colonel's throat constricted suddenly and he clenched his jaw, his vision blurring. He bent his head forward as if the weight of reality were dragging him down, slamming into him and knocking the breath from his lungs like a wave in a tempest.
"My hand hurts, Lieutenant." he mumbled to her as he stood up quickly and headed for the door, his voice breaking in spite of his best efforts to hide this sudden onslaught of grief. He knew that he wasn't fooling anyone, as his staff members were all staring at him now with identical expressions of pity. "I'm going home. Cancel my appointments."
He exited the room without waiting for a reply, rushing down the hallway as he desperately tried to regain control over his emotions.
"Colonel, wait!"
He cursed and walked faster, furtively wiping his eyes as he heard Hawkeye's quickened footsteps approaching. He felt a firm grip on his arm and allowed her to stop him. She turned him around to face her and looked up at him sadly. He kept his gaze averted from hers, embarrassed by the tears that he was only barely able to keep from spilling from his eyes. He knew without looking at her how concerned and sympathetic her face was.
"You forgot your keys." she said quietly, taking his uninjured hand in hers and placing the keys gently in his open palm.
"...Thanks." he replied after a moment, a soft, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as finally looked at her.
"Go get some rest, sir." the lieutenant told him, returning his smile faintly. "Just... don't do anything stupid."
He snorted amusedly at that. "Define 'stupid'."
She sighed and squeezed his hand. "Just be safe. I'll call you later tonight."
Roy's smile evaporated slowly and he nodded. "Yeah."
She squeezed his hand again and turned from him, walking back to the office with her shoulders back and her carriage erect; forever a soldier, forever trying to protect her colonel... from the world and from himself. He watched her go, half-wishing that she'd turn around and come back. He shook his head, wiped his eyes again, and exited the building without a backward glance.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Roy leaned back against the wall and tilted his head up, drunkenly watching a moth batter itself against the streetlamp outside his window. The thing's tiny grey body hit the smooth glass with a gentle, yet persistent plink, plink, plink that—while annoying—was not so annoying that Roy felt the urge to get up and shut the window.
He wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up on the floor next to his liquor cabinet... but he didn't really care, either. He wasn't uncomfortable and he had plenty of alcohol within arm's-reach, so what was the point of moving back to the couch? Getting up sounded like too much effort and the floor was fine for now. He could sit here forever, enjoying his scotch, watching the moth, and resolutely not thinking about Edward Elric.
The first thing that he'd done when he'd gotten home was pour himself three fingers of scotch. Then he'd sat down on his couch calmly, putting the glass on the coffee table in front of him. Then he'd lowered his head slowly into his hands and sobbed like a child.
He'd quieted himself quickly, but he knew that that tiny breakdown was only the first of many that he would be experiencing that night. He wasn't crying at the moment, though. He didn't even feel like crying. In fact, he felt pretty damn good. He was absolutely hammered and it felt fucking great, not to mention that his injured hand—which had been throbbing quite painfully all day—scarcely hurt at all. Roy loved alcohol—so much so that it actually worried him sometimes... but now was not the time for such thoughts. He knew that his mood was probably going to swing downward again soon, so he might as well enjoy his euphoria while it lasted... and it never lasted long.
The phone rang, filling Roy's chamber with its tinny, resounding voice. Roy looked over at it sitting on the end table next to the couch and promptly decided that it was too far away to bother with. The lieutenant had already called three times to check on him and had even offered to come over and drink with him... but he politely refused her. He wanted very much to be alone right now. That, and Roy was a lightweight in comparison to her. He had never seen her get more than a little tipsy and by the time she'd called at six 'o clock, Roy was already well on his way to being completely trashed. The last thing he needed right now was for her to soberly witness his drunken misery and the cathartic vomiting that was very likely to happen afterward. Thanks, but no thanks.
Instead he gave his attentions back to the moth, idly thinking that if the definition of insanity was "repeating an action over and over again and expecting a different result each time," then moths must be fucking crazy.
"But who isn't a little crazy these days?" he asked the moth companionably, talking over the ringing of the telephone, "We all do stupid, insane, horrible things from time to time... so who the fuck am I to judge?"
The moth, of course, gave no reply.
"I mean, look at me..." Roy continued, pressing his nearly-empty scotch glass to his lower lip, "I'm talking to a goddamned moth for crying out loud... I must be crazy."
Roy laughed at himself quietly and took a sip of his drink, savoring the smoothness of the amber liquid as it slid over his tongue. He was crazy, and every one he knew was probably just as cracked. Maes had been crazy about his family. Riza was crazy about her job. Fullmetal had been crazy about... well, he had just been crazy.
The colonel took another long pull at his drink as the bloodied image of Edward swam into his head, tainting the edges of his mind a violent red and stealing the bitter humor from his dark thoughts.
The boys should have never been sent to Merka. It was poor judgment on Roy's part, and now those poor kids were paying for it... Ed with his life and Al with his eternal grief. Roy couldn't even imagine what must be going on in Alphonse's head. His only family had been taken from him and now there was no way for him to return to his body; his journey was over. The Elric brothers had failed their quest and it was Roy's fault. By sending them to Merka so ill informed about the socio-political state of the district, Colonel Mustang had—in effect—killed Edward himself.
The phone stopped ringing finally, but the grating sound of those bells echoed in the room for a moment longer and emphasized the lack of life within the chamber. Roy suddenly felt very alone. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his cheek against his knee. How could he have been so blind? So careless?
His eyes misted over and he closed them, hating himself and the world that he lived in. It wasn't fair. The world had taken so much from Ed and Al... and when they had tried to take something back, the world just took more. When did they get to have something in return? Where was Equivalent Exchange when the odds were in their favor? If only Roy could take Edward back from the all-consuming Void, then the balance would return and everything would equalize...
If only...
Roy paused and slowly raised his head, his eyes wandering intoxicatedly over to the closet on the other side of the room. Within the closet was a small box that had been alchemically sealed and hadn't been opened in years. Roy hadn't intended to ever open it again, but what if...
"No." Roy said aloud, shaking himself. He could not allow himself to possess such thoughts while so inebriated, for he might actually be swayed to carry them out. He downed the last of his drink in one tragic gulp, dispelling his half-baked thought processes. Ed was dead and nothing could change that.
The phone rang again suddenly, jerking Roy from his bleak musings and sending his heart into a startled rhythm. He recovered himself and sighed loudly. Hawkeye again, no doubt. He really should answer it... it was still early enough in the night that she knew that he was still awake, and if he let it keep ringing she might be inspired to physically come over and check on him... and he certainly didn't want that.
So, with a groan, Roy braced himself against the wall and hauled himself to his feet. He swayed there for a moment, trying to get his bearings in the suddenly spinning room. He lurched forward drunkenly, banging his knee against the corner of the coffee table and eliciting a loud curse from his lips. That was certainly going to hurt in the morning. He made it to the couch and fell back onto the cushions gracelessly, deciding superfluously that the soft, overstuffed fabric really was much more comfortable than the hard wooden floor.
The phone rang again, reminding Roy of why he'd ventured back to the couch in the first place. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, then grabbed it and put it to his ear.
"I thought I told you to stop calling me." He said into the receiver, trying very hard not to sound as drunk as he actually was.
There was a long pause from the other end of the phone line, then a small voice spoke up, "Colonel Mustang? It's Alphonse Elric..."
"Oh. Alphonse." Roy said, a little taken off-guard. "Sorry... I thought you were someone else."
"It's okay. Did I wake you? You sound tired."
"I'm not tired... I'm just really drunk."
There was another long pause from Alphonse. It occurred to Roy that this was probably a little shocking to the boy who had only seen the colonel in the office, soberly dressed in his military best... it must be odd for him to imagine the stoic Flame Alchemist at home alone, drinking away his sorrows. But, to be honest, Roy didn't really give a flying fuck about what Al thought of him at the moment.
"Sorry to call you at home," the kid began again, "but I'm in the dorm going through some of the stuff that Ed kept here... There are a lot of books and theorems in some of the boxes, but they're way too advanced for me to ever use. I just wanted to know if you'd like to have them."
Roy opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again. He felt as if he'd swallowed a block of ice as a cold, solid weight dropped into the pit of his stomach. His vision blurred again and he worked his jaw to hold back the abrupt urge to weep.
"...Colonel? You still there?"
"I'm here." he whispered, only barely able to force the words past the tightness in his throat. "And yeah... yeah, I'll stop by tomorrow if you want."
"Okay. Sounds good."
Roy bit his lip, unsure of what else to say. There were so many words fighting for dominance on the tip of his tongue, but all of them were too painful to actually voice. Still, the words clamored around inside him violently, threatening to tear him apart if he didn't say something...
"I'm so sorry, Alphonse." he blurted finally, his words deeply lamenting and a little slurred by drink. "I've failed you. You and Ed both... and I can never make it right again. I should have never put you in that situation..."
"...I don't blame you, sir." Alphonse said softly, sounding entirely too old and tired for his young years. "We've been in worse situations countless times... this time our luck just ran out. It wasn't anybody's fault. It just... happened. And I know—" Al stopped for a moment, falling silent on the line as if to collect himself before continuing, "I know how hard you tried to save him after he got hurt. I understand that there was nothing more that you could have done."
"If I had just been there sooner..."
"You got there as fast as you could. Besides... it really doesn't matter now... There's no point in dwelling on 'if only'. It's over."
God, he sounded so grown up. Almost like a parent admonishing his child.
"If there's anything that I can do for you... anything at all..."
"I know. I'll call. See you tomorrow, sir."
Roy meant to wish the boy good night or to bid him some other form of polite adieu, but what spilled from his mouth then was decidedly not that. Scotch was one of the few things that could loosen Colonel Mustang's tongue, and unfortunately he'd had a lot of scotch that night. As drunk as he was, though, he still recognized that his words carried a terrible, dire weight that once said could not be retracted. And even as he was speaking he knew that he should just shut his mouth and keep his thoughts to himself... but he plowed on anyway, unable to stop.
"I can bring him back." Roy said, the syllables spilling from his mouth like a poison.
"...Excuse me?"
Roy licked his lips and half-considered just telling the boy goodbye and hanging up on him, but the words had been said and the offer had been made. He would not back down now.
"I... I can resurrect him, Alphonse. I know how."
A cold silence flooded the phone line then, flowing around Roy's heart and encasing it in a frozen mass. When Al finally spoke his words were slow and very precise, clearly biting back some terrible emotion than might have been anger or anguish.
"No. You can't. I can't, either. No one can."
"No, listen... I can—"
"Colonel, I understand that you've been drinking and that you might not know what you're saying..." Al interrupted, his voice tight with quiet injury, "but you're wrong. In case you've forgotten, Ed and I tried to resurrect someone once... There was no way for us to give enough of ourselves up to account for Equivalent Exchange. It can't be done."
"Yes, it can. I... I have ways around the laws of equivalency. I really can do it, I swear."
"...Goodbye, sir."
"Alphonse, wait! I—"
Click.
Roy exhaled and lowered the phone, gently placing it back on the hook. Well, that certainly could have gone better... not that he really blamed the kid for not believing him. He leaned back against the couch and rolled his head to the side, his eyes once more landing on the closet and imagining the nightmarish treasure within. Was he really willing to delve this deeply into human transmutation? Sure, the thought had fleetingly crossed his mind many times since the young prodigy had gasped his last breath... but the thoughts hadn't been serious until now... hadn't been really real until he'd said the words aloud.
Then again, he was very drunk and these thoughts were best entertained soberly. With some effort, he pushed the idea to the back of his mind and lurched to his feet.
He needed another drink.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was dark inside the closet.
The thin, pale light that crept in from the crack under the door was just enough to illuminate a tiny metal box in the corner. The box's smooth rectangular surface was caked with years'-worth of undisturbed dust, but the ornate alchemical drawings sprawled all over the lid could still be seen faintly under the grey layers of time.
Within the box, folded inside of a yellowed scrap of newspaper that documented part of the Eastern Rebellion, was a ring.
The ring's band was tarnished and dull, but the stone set into the middle of it was still as bright and smooth as the day it was installed. The dark stone glowed suddenly red, pulsing briefly as if it knew that its owner was thinking about it. But then it went dark again, still and silent in its tiny prison.
It was waiting.
