TEMPTATION
He hasn't bothered to measure the hours, but this is the second time the sun has dipped behind the skyline of Central. Pacing occupies most of his time, broken by the occasional filling of a glass of water in order to refuel his agitation or setting down a book he'd tried to read only to stare at the blank opening page. But no matter how he tries to distract himself, his gaze is drawn back to his bedside, to the emptiness staring at him out of Alphonse's eyeholes. It's been two days, and nothing. Not a single indication that the suit of armor will ever move again. In the last few hours, Edward has been tempted to open up the chestplate and examine the blood seal, but fear holds him back. As long as he doesn't look, doesn't confirm the worst, he can still hope. He can tell himself that Al will wake up any minute now. Ed clings to that idea, wraps himself in it like a thick blanket. Al is fine. Everything is going to be fine.
It's all well and good to tell himself that, but remaining in this room for another minute is going to drive him insane. If it's been two days since that morning, then it's been two nights that Ed has gone without a wink of sleep. But he can't rest, not here, not when Alphonse hadn't slept for three years straight only to—
No.
Stop. Stop right there.
Alphonse is fine. He's just angry with you. He's playin' d— still as a mean prank
Everything will be fine.
Shaking himself out of unwanted thoughts, Edward takes a final turn about the room, grabbing his jacket and the necessities like his pocket watch and some cash. Even though he hasn't had anything close to an appetite for the past two days, maybe getting away from here will fix that. And so, not knowing or really caring where he's headed, Ed leaves the hotel.
The streets are especially winding today, but perhaps that's due to Ed's lightheadedness. He can't help but feel as if the alleyways that he stumbles down are trying to get him lost, and that suits him just fine. As he wanders deeper into unfamiliar sectors of the city and the concentration of streetlamps gets sparser and sparser, black laps at his vision, whether due to lack of actual light, exhaustion, or because an increasing part of Ed's weary heart (the part that knows he's lying to himself by believing Al will wake up) wants the darkness to swallow him.
It's only after he's reached that point that it catches his eye. A little joint, not ostentatious by any means, but it draws him nonetheless. Maybe it's the name of the place that strikes a chord with him: The Butcher, drawn in large red letters about a foot above the single door. As Ed approaches it, a plaque on said door comes into focus.
Out to kill some time or cut off the things in life weighing you down? Look no further. We've got the distractions you need.
Distraction… That is what he needs. He needs to forget about everything for a little while, about Alphonse. What can it hurt to try? he tells himself. Of course, that's what he'd thought about committing the taboo, and look where that had led. But reasoning it out only leads his thoughts back to Al, only emphasizes to him his longing to numb himself.
So, his decision made, Edward grasps the knob, twists it, and pushes into the unknown depths.
+.+.+
Night's been dry as low tide, but, in this business, the surge inevitably returns. (Damn, that had actually been pretty clever; maybe he should write it down.) Doyle Boucher balances a cigarette between thin lips as he lays stretched on his favorite couch — it's the only one long enough to accommodate his lanky limbs. The girls are chatting at the bar while the keep wipes the counter down for the fifth time, and though Doyle does appreciate time to repose, he'd much rather have customers.
Speak of the devil: is that the door? Doyle sits up, an eager grin stretched across his face, but surprise disarms him. It's… just a kid. Early teens, short, blond hair — seems to have a thing for black leather, from what he's wearing. What's a mere sprout doing in a place like this? Then again, on a night this slow, Doyle will take all he can get in the way of business. Well, here goes.
"Hey there." Sliding one hand into a pants' pocket, he extends the other in greeting to the boy, for all the good it does when the kid doesn't offer his own hand to shake. Okay, strategy recalculation. "Name's Boucheh', I own this establishment. What can I do you for, little masteh'?"
The child exhibits a sort of twitch, as if being addressed in such a manner offends him (Doyle makes note; it won't do to insult a customer.), but the harshness quickly fades from the young expression. Something's eating this kid; that's for sure.
"Lookin' for anythin' in particular?" he rephrases, coming alongside the kid and subconsciously guarding the exit. The boy simply shrugs.
"A distraction." Damn, even the sprout's voice sounds beaten-down and dry, like the kid's had all the life sucked out of him. If Doyle were the pitying type, he might be moved. "That's what the sign outside said."
"Right you are, young masteh'," and the man gives a little bow for dramatic flair. Good, it would seem "young" doesn't aggravate the boy the way "little" does. "As long as you can pay, you're welcome to any o'my bar's considerable services." Because though the place may not look like it contains anything considerable, the presentation is — as appearances often are — deceiving.
"I can pay," the kid assures Doyle, pulling out a roll of bills in evidence. Okay… wait, holy shit! Are those the kinds of numbers he thinks he's seeing? The man's heart might just stutter a little at seeing that kind of scratch. This changes things considerably. He's got to have this boy's business!
"Well, all right!" With a hearty laugh, Doyle claps the youth on the back as forcefully as he dares — the kid looks like a simple breeze could knock him over right now. "I like a young man who isn't afraid to put his money where his mouth is. Shows spirit, determination!" Over the course of such flattery, his arm winds around the boy's shoulders. There is no way in hell that he's letting this golden goose out of here without getting him to lay a few eggs. "If you don't have any ideas, I can make some suggestions."
After a moment's thought, the boy nods in the bar's direction. "I've never tried alcohol before."
Kid, I'd be pretty damn surprised if you had tried anything we do here before. But, all's well that pays well. (Ooh, he should write that one down, too). "Then go for it! What's life without its share o'firsts, am I right, or am I right?"
The girls at the bar pass whispers and giggles as Doyle steers the boy in their direction, but they make welcome room for the two. "Since this is your first drink, we'll start you off with a regular beer, I think. Like with many good things, it's all about pacin' yourself. Go too fast, and you crash." For all this advice, Doyle is already plotting, trying to think how best he can not only get this kid to pay well today, but get him to be a recurring visitor. That's where real money is made. Well, the first thing to do is to get him talking. Talking will make the boy want to try a second drink, maybe a third, and then he'll be much more… persuadable. Maybe Doyle can even get him to try the junk he has caseloads of in back. Some proprietors would be content with getting a solitary customer drunk out cold and then snatching all he has, but not Doyle. He may be a pimp and a dealer, but never a thief.
"So, young masteh', you got a name?" asks the man, sliding the glass the keep sets on the counter an inch or so closer to his prospective prey. "Any name'll do, if you've got qualms about sharin' your real one. I'm hardly one to judge."
"…Ed."
"Ed~ I like it. Easy to remember."
"I guess…"
"So, Ed, why don't you tell me what brings you to my fine establishment? They say talkin' about this sorta thing helps, y'know?"
"So people keep telling me."
Damn, this is harder than he'd thought it'd be. "Ah, that's the rub, kid. Some things you just don't wanna bring up, I understand."
"Do you?" There might be a hint of a sarcastic laugh in the boy's voice as he finally lifts the glass to his lips. One sip later, the sprout's got a predictably scrunched expression, but he must not wholly dislike it, because he takes a second, larger swig before setting the glass down.
"That's the way," Doyle encourages. "But, let's back things up; what brings you to Central, Ed?"
"…My reassessment."
"Oh? A job, then?"
"Yeah. I have to renew my license every year, or they'll revoke it."
"Sounds like important stuff."
"It is. I need it. With their resources, I thought I might be able to—" But he stops there, quite abruptly, as if remembering something painful. Next thing Doyle knows, the kid's drained his glass and asked for a second one.
That's what he's looking for. Now he knows where to press.
"It's gotta be some job to pay you so well," he notes in casual tones, accepting a glass of wine from the keep.
"Yeah… for all the good it's done me."
"Oh? How so?"
"Well, there are plenty of people who don't like the military."
Doyle nearly sprays his drink. Hold up — this kid, this beansprout, is in the military!? That takes some major brain-wracking to make sense of. But, finally, a scrap of information comes to him. "You wouldn't happen to be from the eastern area, would you, Ed?"
"…Yeah, why?"
That settles it. With his ear so low to the ground, Doyle had heard rumors of a military star in the east — the youngest State Alchemist ever to be appointed: Edward Elric. To think such a person would stumble into his bar…
"No reason." Keeping his eye on the level of Edward's drink, Doyle thumbs his chin. "Military, huh? That can't be easy for a kid."
"It isn't. But it was the best option I had, considering…" There he goes again, fading mid-sentence in favor of downing his beer.
"Hey now, young masteh'. You're really knockin' 'em back. You don't wanna get wasted, do ya?"
Ed turns to face Doyle properly for the first time. For someone so young, there is a hardness, a weariness, in his eyes, which are a captivating color of gold, however dulled they may seem at present. "Would that be so wrong?" he asks, and there's a hitch in his voice. "People get drunk when they want to forget stuff for a while, right?"
Feigning a sympathetic expression, Doyle nods and pats the boy on the shoulder. "No, that ain't so wrong. Hell, helpin' people forget their troubles is what this bar is all about." With a wink, he adds, "Still, don't down 'em too fast, or I'll have to explain to a hospital why you're so slammed."
The small blond acknowledges this wisdom and pushes his third drink away after the first sip so as to lessen the temptation.
"So, when is this assessment o'yours?"
Edward chews on his lip. The kid's eyes become glazed, as if he's genuinely having trouble remembering (not surprising, considering his level of intoxication). "…Tomorrow."
"Damn. You're a gusty one." Doyle doesn't hold back a light laugh. What a fool this boy is; at the rate he's drinking, he'll be lucky if he can walk tomorrow, let alone take a test. But he claps the kid on the back in the spirit of encouraging his spending. Ed doesn't seem to think it funny; whatever's eating at him must really be a piece of work. "I like you, young masteh'," Doyle flatters. "You're welcome to my bar anytime."
That coaxes the tiniest of smiles from the kid, but it soon disappears as he takes another sip from his beer. Doyle can guess that he needs to give the youth a break from the talking in order to coax more out of him in the long run, so the next quarter-of-an-hour or so passes in relative silence, aside from the girls' background chatter. Edward has just ordered his fourth drink when Doyle nudges his way back into conversation:
"Hey, now, kid. You're pretty drunk already. A fourth one will put you out for the night. Why don't I have someone walk you home instead?"
Ed rims his empty glass with a finger, his features unfocused. The booze has got to be getting to him, considering how tiny he is. It's only because he's been sitting down this whole time that he hasn't felt the full effect. As Doyle suspects, however, the kid eventually shakes his head (an action that sets him swaying on his stool and forces the proprietor to steady him). Only then does Doyle give an approving nod to the keep to give the boy his requested drink. "So," delves the man, "You don't wanna go home?"
"No… home… burnt it." And, as he works through his fourth beer, Edward goes into a great deal — practically throws his life story at Doyle — all while fighting a losing battle against alcohol's lull. It's just as well; he won't remember telling the man any of it when he comes out of this daze. Though it's a lot to swallow, the dealer logs every scrap of it away — any piece of information may be of use to him in his dealings, especially if Edward will be returning to his establishment in future. So, the kid's brother had just up and left him a few days ago, after travelling for years together? That's cold, even by Doyle's standards. No wonder the boy doesn't want to return to a lonely hotel room where only a reminder of his sibling's absence is waiting for him.
"I understand," he condoles, rubbing circles on Edward's back. "You've seen a lot o'shit for a kid your age, Ed. To be honest, I'm impressed that you held off this long before givin' the bottle a try." At this point, he doesn't even know if the boy is listening to him. But with 56 or so grams of alcohol in his system, there's no way he's making it anywhere in the near future. "Tell you what: you can have a couch for the night, free of charge. You look like you need a good lie-down."
Edward nods and — the little fool — tries to stand up. At least Doyle is right there to catch him when the kid's legs refuse to hold him. "Easy, easy," he croons, managing the boy's weight without difficulty and practically carrying him to the nearest couch. Ed's eyelids are drooping by the time they get there, and Doyle tosses out a call for a blanket, which one of the bargirls provides. Soon, the kid is situated comfortably on the seat cushions, head elevated by a pillow. Doyle takes the precaution of setting him on his side and leaving a waste bin nearly, should the boy feel an urge to vomit upon waking. One thing's for sure, the proprietor doesn't envy the headache little Edward Elric will have in the morning.