Blood sprays from his lips as the soldier's heavy boot slams into his stomach; he winces as at least one rib gave. The hand across his face is a shock to his system, too much to deal with before the back of his head collides with the brick wall. He clenches his jaw to stifle the yelp. Spots dance across his vision, fireworks of agony going off behind his eyes and in his brain. It's a never-ending circle of pain and beatings, of vicious kicks, punches, and blows. He topples forwards, curling in on himself; this is the wrong move. Red-hot agony resonates through his back, and he feels warm blood trickle down his back from open wounds. A fist clenches his braid in a tight, merciless grip, and he's dragged upright before being slammed into the wall, hard; his teeth clacked together and he cried out.

"Please…" The whimper comes out barely audible, a single, shaky word passing his bloodied lips; he hates himself for begging, hates it with all his being. The hits just keep on coming, though—punching, kicking, slapping, more punching, more kicking, repeat, repeat, repeatrepeatrepeat. His bones creak under the abuse, and a rebellious cry escapes, earning him an extra hard slap across the face. Blood explodes in his mouth; he can feel the metallic liquid coating his tongue.

How long would this last before they left him to lick his wounds like a wounded dog?

How long had this been going on? He didn't know, it had all blended together into one long, endless series of blows and kicks.

Ruthless hands on his skin, holding him down and covering his mouth, holding back his screams and smothering him. Fists leave blue and black bruises, sharp nails break skin; every nerve is on fire. Ribs break under merciless attacks; taunts and harsh words echo in his ears, repeating, growing louder and louder until they drown out all else. He can feel it in his bones, in his very core.

Something inside his mind snaps, and he screams. He screams as he sinks to the floor, his world dissolving in a whirlpool of pain and darkness, black and red, black and red, round and round.

He bolted up in bed, a scream ripping past his lips, human hand immediately clutching his chest. His chest heaved with labored breath, and his bangs were plastered to his forehead with sweat; he felt unusually hot despite the chilly room. Where was he? This wasn't the cell! He lifted a trembling hand to wipe his face; it came away wet with tears. He could still feel the blows, his body shaking with phantom pains…and—oww—real, actual pain that wasn't in his head. Crying out and clutching his bandaged shoulder, he fell back against the bed, curling up on his good side. He swore he could still feel the blood dripping down his back, and he was shaking despite the heat.

Slowly, his breathing slowed to normal as his memories caught up with him. He wasn't in the camp anymore, he was in Central, back in Amestris; he was in the apartment above Winry's automail shop. He was safe…he was safe…he was safe. So, if he knew he was safe, why was he still scared? If he knew he was in Winry's apartment, why did he feel so alone? If the blanket was so warm, why was he so cold?

He knew why, but he wasn't quite ready to admit it, not even to himself. He couldn't. He'd been down that road before and paid the price. If there was an award for stupid choices, he'd surely already won it, and unless he was prepared to get his heart broken and cry his heart out, he had to be sure this time. He had to be sure if he was willing to face the consequences for a brief, frantic, rushed relationship that, with so much against it, would burn bright and fast, extinguished before they knew it. Was it worth being hurt like that again just for a chance with Mustang?

Because he didn't know if he could survive getting his heart broken again.

XXXXXX

He lay there for a while, staring up at a discolored, pockmarked ceiling, counting the watermarks and the various spots to pass time. His arm was on fire, but at least he had his automail leg back. He groaned and sat up, blinking against the light coming in through the window. Looking around, he examined the room; he was lying on the bed in a small room that had one window looking out over the street. The bureau, desk, and even floor were all cluttered with papers covered in alchemic arrays and equations; precarious stacks of books were everywhere, leaning like the Tower of Pisa, ready to fall over at the slightest provocation.

His heart twinged; it reminded him of his room back in Munich.

He stood up, shaky on his new leg, and tested his weight. It felt good to have automail again. The prosthetics Hohenhiem had made him were good, but just not the same as Winry's work. He found his clothes folded on the desk, and getting dressed was a trying task. He was sore and still weak from the operation, and his movements were sluggish and difficult. Trying not to show the discomfort, he pushed open the door and stepped into the main room.

Al looked up from his book as his brother came in, and he grinned. "Brother! You're awake. We were starting to get worried about you," he said.

Ed shrugged with his good shoulder. "I've been better, but I'm glad to have my leg back. Where's Winry?"

"Oh, she went to get breakfast from that café down the street," Al explained happily, "she'll be back soon."

Ed plopped down in the seat across from Al. "Good, I'm starving." He wasn't actually that hungry, but he hoped that if they dwelled on the mundane, they could avoid the complicated. No such luck.

"You know, Ed, I was starting to think I'd never see you again," Al said softly, not looking at him. Ed sighed.

"Yeah, I know how you feel," he said. "Don't ask me what happened over there, Al, because I won't tell you. All I'll say is that that world isn't so different from ours. The technology is different, and no one has the first clue about alchemy, but people are always the same. They're afraid of anyone different from them, and they start wars for stupid, silly, asinine reasons. I just…I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I paid for it. That's all." He looked down at his clenched hand on the table and blinked back hot tears. He wouldn't cry in front of Al, never in front of Al.

Al closed his mouth, apparently taking this warning to heart, and nodded. "Alright. Then why don't you tell me about the other world. What did you call it…Germany?"

Ed swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded, looking up at his brother with a forced smile on his face. He launched into an explanation of the last five years, but this time, he glossed over it. When he'd told Roy, he'd told him everything; almost everything, a snide little Voice in his head whispered. But he could tell Roy things he could never tell Al. How could he tell Al that he'd been beaten, starved, and almost killed because of alchemy? How could he tell Al that he'd been sleeping with Al's double? How could he tell Al that Envy was their brother, and by extension, the homunculi their nieces and nephews? How could he tell Al that the reason he'd been stabbed in the Underground was because he couldn't punch Envy when he was wearing Roy's face?

How could he possibly tell Al that the reason they could do alchemy in the first place was because they fed off the dead souls of the Other Side's deceased?

How could he?