A/N: PLEASE READ THIS! And I do apologise for the length...
First of all, again, I'm hugely sorry about taking this long to update, but I've genuinely been working really hard at it, trying to get it to sound right...
I think I've failed.
Originally, this chapter would have continued for quite some time, but because of how long it was taking me to write it, I had to cut it down. But fear not! Everything that would have been in this chapter will be in the next one- with much in the way of Eddy goodness!
I'm pretty certain I've mentioned this before, but because I'm not going back to check, I'll say it again: this is manga-verse! That means that there is absolutely no correlation between Amestris and Germany! None whatsoever! In this story, Amestris is a part of our world, roughly around the Eastern Europe area, but I won't go into any specifics as to its exact location, because frankly, it wouldn't work. Sadly, fanfiction and the real world don't mix quite that well.
However, there are some countries that will be related to ones in our world: Xing, as will be made plain at some point, will simply be the Amestrian word for China, and Drachma the Amestrian for Russia. Things are just simpler that way.
When you read this, please, please, pleeeease don't hate me or ask me to change it or anything like that, because I have already warned that Ed wouldn't be the only main character in this, and I wasn't kidding! This chapter is purposefully slow, and I'm sorry if anyone gets bored, but it really had to be that way, and I couldn't cut it because it's rather vital to the storyline...you'll see why...one day...
I basically needed this chapter to act as a contrast to the last, and to the next, as there will be a significant number of fast-paced chapters within this story, and I need to even it out a bit.
I guess my main hope is that no one who reads this hates Ling Yao...
Chapter 2: At Dusk, At Dawn
It was hot.
Too hot.
He lay splayed against the cool concrete of his apartment wall, a pile of colour-drained cloths pushed into a structure resembling that of a crushed sofa, wrinkling to fit every crease of the decrepit flooring and cushioning his reclining figure from the unpleasant solidity of his surroundings. His head was pressed against a small of stretch of the vertical surface, the tip of his nose only just spared from the tired glare of the sun, its rays slinking into the cluttered space through the narrow opening above his legs.
The air was so heavy it was almost tangible, dust and the air-born seeds of parasitic plants swirled in a sleep-drugged haze about the window, rising on feeble gusts of wind that barely brushed his face and drifting lazily to the floor when that breeze died. His glazed eyes followed their steady wheels across the room, one olive-toned hand tugging limply at a twirl of loose white thread that fell from his frayed shirt, not the least bit mindful of the effort it would take to repair the now dropping hem as he wrapped the cord around his finger.
Even had he considered it, he would have felt no remorse: the clothes were plain, uninspiring: a white, short-sleeved shirt and black trousers; no footwear to speak of and no accessories. The only extravagance he could lay claim to was his hair, black, healthy and unusually long, the locks unbound and left to fall freely over his back, framing a long, clear-skinned face and arched brows.
The string, wound so tightly that it turned his flesh cream and red, had become painful. He removed it.
A groaning creak sounded from his right, and barely sparing a glance in the rotting door's direction, he heard the light steps of his retainer ghost in, side-stepping the heaped bundles of weapons, discarded clothes and cooking utensils and moving to the furthest window, where she remained for some time.
Probably checking for snipers, knowing her.
There was a shuffling; something was dropped to the floor, clattering before it settled, and shifting between invisibility and his peripheral sight, Lan Fan slipped over, joining him on the makeshift furniture out of the heat's reach. She did not sit: her knees were pushed tightly under her, and her back was kept straight as she faced him, her schooled expression reserved beneath her flop of dark hair.
As per her custom, she dipped her head forwards.
"Please excuse me, Young Master."
His eyes, a rich violet-black, rolled sleepily to hers, and with a look that said more than his amused exasperation ever could, he raised the long, fine-boned hand that had pulled at his clothes before and flapped at her to sit down.
Beside him, the creased sheets sank beneath her weight, and he returned to staring mindlessly out of his little window.
He could sense Lan Fan watching him still, probably with her usual mix of anxiety and attentive rigidity, searching for signs of displeasure so that she might be offered the chance to apologise for any non-existent misdemeanours committed in her grandfather's absence. But he, as he was so very proficient at doing, ignored it. Reassurances generally had no affect on her, much in the same way that punishment never had any on him, and so, pretending to be ignorant of her silly masochistic urges seemed to him by far the best option.
At the angle he was, he could see only a sliver of the city through the rough stretch of wall, and even that was obscured by greedy shards of light, entering low enough that they reached the opposite wall with ease, lengthening shadows and casting a slow amber glow over anything they touched. The grey flickers of birds would occasionally cross the bright sky, disturbing the otherwise stationary scene of towers of concrete and crumbling brick. Those moments never lasted long enough; he was tired of lifeless urban views.
He had been in Amestris for three years now, and far from it being a country of wealth and power, he had found it filled with poverty and degradation; districts such as this one being hidden from the public eye, but just as real as the politicians that had made them this way, neglecting the welfare of the city in favour of their own petty comforts.
This was West Central's outskirt town: an area renowned for housing the homeless, the dangerous and the criminally insane in its ruined complex and it certainly wasn't due to lack of trying that it hadn't been purged of said offenders. The building in which he and Lan Fan currently sat was one of the better ones: firm walls, floors and a ceiling were hard to come by, and he had been surprised when they had found it empty. But then Fu had reminded him that it was only one block away from real civilisation, and therefore the armed forces: no one with half a brain cell and a criminal record would ever consider living there.
Obviously, this was why Ling had insisted that they move right in.
He stirred uncomfortably. The back of his neck felt sticky, a few strings of hair clinging to his moist skin and irritating it further as he raised an arm and pushed a clump of its weight across his shoulder, running a hand over the damp pores in an effort to cool himself. The movement, though minor, was enough to cause heat to prickle over his body, and sighing, he stretched his neck away from his collar, hoping fresher air would be able to reach his confined chest and lessen the sensation.
It really was too hot.
He generally considered himself to be a man of tolerance, and indeed, there were many things that he could endure: three-hour long meetings to discuss the prosperity of local agriculture certainly grated against the ear, but he found that he was perfectly adept at feigning interest for extended periods of time. The Yao councillors, in all their great wisdom, had yet to notice that his shading his eyes with a hand was not a gesture of deep concentration, but rather a convenient means to disguise the fact that he'd zoned out within five minutes of being spoken at. Considering his position, it wouldn't be entirely unreasonable for him to simply leave, but, as always, he stuck it out 'til the very end.
So yes, he was tolerant.
But never, not once in all his short seventeen years spent travelling some of the hottest nations there were, had he discovered the ability to stand overwhelming, intense heat.
He blinked slowly. He had remembered something.
"Lan Fan."
His low voice hovered in the air, and it was a few moments before she realised she was being called for, her clouded eyes snapping back to intensity with a fevered unease, her lips already forming an apology. More than used to this, Ling, so as to be blatantly obvious, raised his gaze to the ceiling, a sighing smile lifting his slanting features. She halted, unsure, and hesitantly faced him, forgetting to bow and forcing back her original words.
"Young Master?"
It was such a timid sound; her mouth hardly moved when she spoke.
His smile broadened, and she shied in confused embarrassment as he leaned closer, heavy eyes glittering mischievously and an excited tension stiffening his strong shoulders.
"I was just wondering what you were doing: on your little walk, I mean." Ling's knees bent, drawing up to his chest and away from the hungry beams of light as he shifted nearer still, his previously drowsy voice lilting amusedly. "You certainly took your time."
He watched as the muscles in her face flickered in confusion, clearly nervous of her answer - and rightly so: Ling's present mood was one they both knew would lead to unprecedented amounts of embarrassment. Very one-sided embarrassment.
"I-I am afraid I don't quite-"
"Oh, but you do, don't you, Lan Fan?" Quite suddenly, he turned from her, directing his face towards the light and raising a sweeping hand to his brow, his eyelids shut as though to shield himself from some great sorrow. A fresh burst of warmth broke out over his skin. He took no notice. "I knew the moment you left!"
"Y-Young Master?"
When he spoke again, still in the ridiculously melodramatic tone he had developed so carefully over the years, his eyes shot open, squinting as the sun's glare hit them and thrusting his arms to the heavens, the thick locks of hair that had rested on his white sleeves sliding to accompany the inky sheet at his back.
"Your greatest secret!"
A pause.
His vibrant, impish gaze found hers, and he couldn't keep the bubbling grin from twitching at his expression when the plans that had danced through his mind were released in a whirl of soaring gesticulations.
"Your illicit affair with a handsome, blond Amestrian soldier, fresh from the front line on the borders of Drachma and happy in knowing that you will-"
"No! I-I..." Her cheeks, pale for one of her descent, had flushed a dappled maroon, her face directing itself to the floor to best disguise her humiliation, fringe swinging across it. "Young Master!"
She hoped he might stop: spare her feelings.
But, of course, Ling was not known for mature consideration of that sort.
"-Leave me for the comfort of his arms and his striking blue eyes. His uniform-"
"Please, Young-"
"But, you know," And now Ling faced her again, falsely solemn, very still and very close. The areas of his skin that the evening's brightness grazed turned gold, his purple irises mixed with amber. She felt the colour rise to her ears. "What hurts me most is that my dear Lan Fan, who has been with me so many years..."
His head shook slowly from side to side, radiating irredeemable sadness and disappointment. "What hurts the most, is that she cannot trust me with this secret. You cannot trust me."
Now she was beyond mortified; the sun had lowered in past minutes, spreading to corners it had yet to touch, and the warmth coupled with her racing heart and burning head made her feel as though she would collapse from sheer disgrace, even though she knew- knew- he was teasing her.
"I-"
"No, it's too late now, Lan Fan. Perhaps..." Another exaggerated silence. "It is time for us to part ways."
"Young Master!"
His smirk was quick to form at the sight of her horror; stemming from both his behaviour and her own squeaking outburst, and his lips spread over his teeth further when a black-clad hand was clapped over her mouth, her grey orbs round.
"Yes, Lan Fan?"
He had tried, honestly tried, to school his features back into some semblance of seriousness, hoping to prolong the juvenile entertainment and forget the boredom of his heat-induced languor. But, on noting that the tips of her once crimson ears were now tinted a deep purple, and that she couldn't bring herself to even glance sparingly at his person, a full-throated laugh was pushed from his chest, echoing brightly around the humid room as his head knocked back against the wall.
Though he couldn't see her- his mirth had squeezed the skin covering his eyes too tight for them to fully open- he sensed her movement at his side and summoned an attempt at an apology, fighting to regain control.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! It's just-." A gasping chuckle. "-Sometimes, your face..."
Not the best he'd ever come up with.
He continued to choke back his laughter, teeth clamped down hard against his lower lip and arms folded around his curled body, the knuckles that gripped his elbows straining to keep their hold. Gradually, he calmed, muscles that he hadn't even realised were tensed relaxing as he allowed himself to sink into the bundled cloths beneath him. Lan Fan did the same, aware that she was unlikely to receive any more attacks now that he had run out of steam.
For a while, they were still.
The city was quiet; even the usually bustling streets of the markets, just a few blocks from them, were muffled; indistinct, the ringing voices of competitive vendors had not sounded even once. Perhaps it was too hot for business.
Ling's eyes tracked the progress of a long-winged insect across the room, its delicate veins flashing as it settled near the hollow shell of Lan Fan's mask, lying close to the furthest window. Dust-thin legs twitched slowly at the edge, and numbly curious, he flicked to her, wondering if she might have noticed, and if so, how she might react. But she hadn't seen: her focus was glazed.
He remained watching her, smiling wryly at the nearly-receded blush that still stained her cheeks, but Ling felt no compulsion to tease: he was content to merely look.
There was a harsh shout from below, the sound drifting from the cracked paths to their ears, loud yet distant.
Neither turned in its direction.
Ling's eyes traced the smooth outline of her profile, travelling along the curve of her jaw, the dark fabric that covered her neck, and finally halting at the start of gleaming metal, arranged in plates that reflected the sharp sunlight and that ended in blades, spikes and hardness meant only for killing. He frowned at it, hardly aware of himself. Ling had been the cause of its creation, of her pain, and now her numbness. He thought he understood, if only a little, how Ed felt.
Maybe she had needed its lethality today? Central was a dangerous place, and she would insist on wandering its roughest streets alone; all for the gathering of information that he wanted. He would go himself, but, without mentioning the particulars, both Fu and Lan Fan had persuasively 'advised' against it. It led him to wonder, on occasion, as to which of them was truly the more influential.
"So..."He couldn't help but ask: she rarely arrived back at dusk, and even when she did, it was always accompanied by her grandfather, in whose care Ling could guarantee her wellbeing. It wasn't as though he didn't believe her capable of defending herself – quite the contrary, as the occasional indignant slap had proved – but two presented a stronger front than one, and he would rather avoid the risk of his orders causing her further damage. "Why did you take so long?"
His sombre tone had roused her quickly this time, and she fixed her most attentive stare on him, her expression sinking. Her answer came with inflections that matched his own: laced with a knowing quiet.
"There were more rumours."
Dread seeped through him.
"The same?"
She bowed her head.
"Yes."
He looked to his raised knees, glaring as though they might give advice should he push it from them, and drew his hands up his shins until they lay flat at his folded joints, fingers tapping rapidly.
It made no sense: this state's actions. Were they trying to declare open war on his country? Did they not realise the scale of sheer devastation that conflict with the Xingese Empire would create? Amestris would not survive it. But of course, they knew; what else had they been churning up since its founding? Blood was in this country's name, and it would remain so as long as they lurked below its gutters.
Groaning, he dropped his head, too filled with trepidation to even wince when his brow collided with his own limbs, lifting his arms to wrap about them and hide his troubled reflections from Lan Fan.
"Anyone we know?"
The words were muted; spoken into his legs.
He could hear her ironic smile:
"There aren't many here we do know."
A hollow laugh blew through him.
"True."
Ling found himself unable to summon enough strength to move, so he remained where he was, almost thankful of the protection his head received from the sun at the expense of his arms. Lan Fan was stirring again, and he felt burning steel through the thin material of his shirt as her arm pressed lightly into him, the dull scrape of coarse sheets sounding as they shifted with her body.
"Young Master..."
Her pitch had lowered, and he sensed that her question would be a serious one. He wasn't sure he wanted to deal with more seriousness.
"Are we safe here?"
His eyelids, once closed to cool dry orbs, slid open to stare dully at blackness, the only light shining through cracks between crossed arms and legs. He was surprised she hadn't asked this sooner; when they had first heard the stories.
He answered the only way he could.
"About as safe as we can be."
"But these rumours," He could hear her hushed frustration at his evasiveness and his own temper bubbled irrationally in response, joining his worry in its relentless gnawing at his stomach. "Some of the things I hear on the street-"
"If they are true," He sat upright, the muscles of his back taught; coiling along with the roiling pit of his insides. He glared directly ahead, concealing his glower behind his over-long fringe, parts of which were tangled from being flattened against his knees, and refused to turn to her. She didn't like it when he was angry. "If they really are hunting Xingese people, then I don't think there's anything we can do; not without being caught ourselves."
"But-"
"I know," He pushed himself swiftly from the floor, hardly noticing his legs carry him to the far window until he leant his weight against it, arms locked and palms crushed to the jagged concrete, his hair spilling over his shoulders. The ally below was dark, the sun too low now to reach past the rooftops and illuminate its constricted path. It was empty. "It isn't safe."
Lan Fan had nothing to say to this, and Ling was glad: the silence allowed him time enough to calm down; to explain himself with greater clarity. He carefully removed his hands from the window ledge, frowning at the furious red lines that scored the centre. They took a long time to fade.
Turning slowly, he stepped to the wall beside the window, allowing his back to rest against its cooler surface; there was hardly a spark of light left in the room to preserve its blistering heat: only an indigo glow, barely enough to see by. He looked anyway, straight into Lan Fan's eyes.
His voice lost its edge.
"But we can't help, we can't fight, and we can't leave. We need to lie low, and even if we could cross the desert and alert my father –which we can't," And here his expression grew fierce once more, as though daring her to challenge him. "Because your arm would burn you to death- it would take several days of travel without transport, and by that time, they would have found us. If an opportunity to help arises, we will take it, but for now, we don't exist."
He knew that she understood; that she realised how difficult it was for him to say this. They were his people. Whether or not they belonged to his clan, if he were to become Emperor – and it was that which he strived for daily – he would bear responsibility for all of them; it would be his job to protect, to punish and to direct, and for him, the former was of greatest importance.
But, if he were to be captured, or killed, or subjected to whatever this country was doing to his people, all of it would be in vain. The title would pass to one of his siblings, whose duty it would be to aid only their own clan, as that was what they had been raised to uphold. The other clans could be destroyed at the new regent's whim, and at the very least, any rivals to the throne could, and would, be disposed of.
They absolutely could not risk discovery.
Lan Fan had risen from her corner at his words, her steps tapping louder the closer she drew. He watched her walk, face blank and back slightly hunched; his eyes unblinking as she drew to a stop before his still frame. She was determined: her mouth was set in a firm line, her eyebrows almost severe, and when she addressed him, it was not as his servant.
"It's my duty to protect you, Ling. My Grandfather's too. Even if my arm did burn me, I would cross that desert. It shouldn't be your job to concern yourself with my safety; I must be concerned with yours. I don't think it is safe here."
Ling's face cracked into a soft smile.
"I know. But that doesn't change anything."
The room was quiet again, seemingly empty but for steady breaths and the occasional shuffle of feet against the film of dirt that lay on split concrete, the grime sticking to the pads of Ling's unprotected toes. It itched. He pushed them together, unconsciously rubbing the grains from his skin and back to the floor.
It was darker now, and his sight, keen though it was, had yet to adjust to the gathering gloom; he shut his eyes, glad of no longer having to strain to make out even the simplest of details.
"How are you feeling?"
Ling imagined she must have misread his action as one of fatigue, and turned slowly to face her presence; feeling rather than seeing her corporeal form and shooting her a tight grin to prove her otherwise. Her presence smiled back: a frowning smile, he decided.
"Hot."
He sensed a bland look from her next, and, smirking a little, he reiterated.
"...I'm fine." A foot shifted. "So far, there have been no problems."
"Good." Lan Fan did not seem entirely satisfied though, and the focus that had once been held by his face shifted lower. The back of his left hand tingled. "What about him?"
Despite the years that had passed since his possession of Ling, her disgust for Greed's very existence had not lessened in the slightest.
"The same as yesterday."
"You're certain of this?"
A rush of air left his mouth, supposedly a laugh.
"Of course; look at my eyes; look at my hand!" His lids parted; the dimming violet colour boring into her grey before switching to the said shadowed skin, a faded red symbol, writhing, vicious and devouring its own tail, only just visible on its surface. "And anyway, he told me himself."
The way he said it suggested conviction, as though with that, the matter was concluded.
She disagreed.
"But are you sure he was telling the truth?"
"He never lies."
There was no hesitation; only sincerity.
They both knew that however much she disliked the monster that had nestled avariciously into her master's blood, that this was an indisputable truth.
She still waited for an answer, and he gave one after a time, sounding out a heavy monotone that bordered on a drawl.
"...But, yes. His presence is weaker, he no longer even attempts to take control, and sometimes," His foot scraped across the floor again, and he watched the dust rise in a flurry beneath it; thoughtful. "I can't hear him when he's trying to speak."
Lan Fan caught his meaning the instant it was given, and she stepped closer, peering up to his face warily. It was carefully unreadable: eyebrows straight, mouth relaxed and jaw loose, yet the skin around the only eye she could see was stiff, gaze directed to the floor.
"Does it upset you?"
He seemed to consider, his head rising only to roll back into the wall, his lashes flickering 'til they touched his lids as he glanced over the ceiling's many cragged imperfections. His hands, now trapped between his back and the hard surface, pushed, rocking him to and from it, swaying steadily.
"In a way, maybe." He swallowed, clearing his throat, and his voice grew minutely clearer. "I'm used to him: all his snide comments and his rants..." A pause. "He's been there a while now, and I think I'll miss him."
Her eyebrows twitched: he noted the hidden concern with dry humour and halted his rocking, his hands still once again.
"But then I remember what he is, and what he's done, and suddenly, the idea of losing him doesn't seem quite so bad."
She made a sound that resembled relief disguised as amusement, the faint evening light and the glow of early city fires glancing off the glassy surfaces of her eyes.
"I should hope not. I look forward to the day that my Young Master's eyes return: it might be the royal colour, but I've always preferred black to purple."
He smiled gently and looked away, his hair dragging its way over his shoulder to hang towards the floor.
There was silence again.
The sky, or what Ling could see of it, was a wash of purples and dark blues, the horizon dyed a sandy brown where it touched Amestris' buildings. It was not yet dark enough to reveal the stars, and the moon would not travel to their window for some time as it rose from a point a way to the right. Inky blackness could be no more than half an hour from them, though, and Amestris knew it: with each passing minute another spark blazed through the growing gloom.
Lan Fan made a slight movement, her elbow, thankfully the softer one, nudging him in the rib as she faced the door.
"Grandfather's on his way."
He gave a nod.
"Mm. I can feel him."
The familiar presence was indeed growing nearer, a small flash of security that strode casually through meandering streets, gradually making its way towards the tall, mud-coloured building in which no fire was lit, and no sound clamoured.
Ling grimaced, turning slightly so that his left shoulder, rather than the broad stretch of his back, was pressed against the wall. The movement caused Lan Fan to glance up at him, searching as his frown deepened and lips parted, the edges of his teeth glimmering as a lamp flared to life in the building across from them.
"While you were gone, you didn't happen to hear anything of Ed, did you?"
She blinked, realising why he had asked.
"No, I didn't."
He looked to the floor, a finger reaching to the falling hem of his shirt, fiddling until the string zipped across the edge, unravelling further. He twisted it again.
"...Maybe we go the date wrong."
"We didn't."
He considered a moment more, twirling the thread around his finger as another stitch came loose, and another, and another.
"He forgot?"
Her head shook; breath puffing as his once hopeful face sank comically, knowing that he understood how pointless a question it had been as he dragged his long fingers over his scalp, pulling back the fine, weighty threads from his still-hot crown. But when he reached the back of his skull, he paused.
Lan Fan threw a confused frown at his distracted expression, as, shoving his free hand unceremoniously into his trouser pocket, he crossed the floor lightly to his bundled sheets, squinting with purpose as he went.
Bewildered, she trailed after him, nearly tripping over what she could barely identify as a water flask and wondering whether her questioning his peculiar actions would be even slightly productive.
She doubted it.
Ling, having finished scrabbling about in his pocket, instead set about wreaking havoc with the occupants of the floor; tearing through the pile of ragged cloths, flipping past his long-neglected shoes (to which he made a noise of mildly surprised recognition) and even scraping empty cans of cheap food from his path in his agitated search.
This, perhaps, meaningless destruction having continued for several minutes more than it should, Lan Fan was steeling herself to ask the dreaded; to cut across the prince's mad scuffling, clanging and general din when he, without any prior warning, straightened from his crouch, a clenched fist punching the air in mysterious triumph.
"Yes!"
Before she had a chance to react, he was standing, a hand passing over his face as he turned to her, and, gaze centring on his lips, she discovered the source of his enthusiasm.
She sighed.
"Young Master, it might have been easier to ask. I knew where it was."
"Yes," His words slurred through clenched teeth, the thin strip of white caught between them twitching as his mouth moved; his hands busy dragging his curtain of hair to the nape of his neck. "But that would take the joy out of the hunt. You wouldn't want to be a killjoy, would you, Lan Fan?"
Ribbon removed from his lips and wrapped firmly around the slippery locks, he cast an accusatory look at her, as though there were no crime more heinous than that of being a 'killjoy'.
"Certainly not, Young Master."
Her sarcasm was promptly discarded.
Ling turned away, padding back to the window with an easy gait, though she realised that his mind had wandered off-topic again: he hadn't sought to continue their game and his quiet was contemplative.
Lights had flared across the city now, the frame in which he stood brighter than before and the shadows of Ling's straight face manipulated through means available only to the night. He looked different.
"Ed's never missed a meeting before." He glanced to her briefly, his voice sober, before his eyes returned to the mass of fiery concrete. "I can only assume that he's been issued some inconvenient orders."
"Yes."
He huffed, his shoulders and back shrugging as he leant down a little further, his elbows folding over each other and chin sinking to meet them.
"I guess it'll have to wait 'til he gets back."
The corners of Lan Fan's mouth lifted at the sight and, unconsciously, her thoughts turned to food: the finding, making and consuming of. She hadn't eaten for hours.
"At least he'll have some good news, for once."
His answering smile was evident.
"Hm."
Barely discernable past the sounds of emerging nightlife, the jangling of pans as they were knocked together and the relaxed exchange of meaningless conversation, the familiar tread of Fu was heard echoing through the black alleyway.
The first thing to register in Edward's mind was that the rain had stopped.
The rumbling crash of trembling water and air against the weak structure in which he slept had ceased, his ears, now oddly accustomed to its drumming ferocity, ringing with a new emptiness, unsure of what might be left to fill them. There was not much: only a gentle, slow tap of falling droplets, their wet forms clinging desperately to the edge of the little window before they could grip no more, bellies grown too fat from absorbing their companions and plummeting, silently, to the sill. He watched them drop through bleary, hooded eyes, rogue clumps of hair obscuring his vision and tickling at his skin.
At some point during the night he must have grown cold, because now, rather than resting against the pillow, as the average sleeper might, he was instead curled tightly under his pile of blue blankets, head poking reluctantly towards the less exhaustible supply of oxygen in the open room rather than suffocating in comfort.
He was less comfortable now: he could not clearly recall when or how he had fallen unconscious, but it had obviously happened before the removal of his clothes, all of which had twisted in disagreeable positions over the lines of his aching body.
He shifted groggily.
Not only displaced, it seemed; the layers that touched his feverish skin were almost literally glued in place and immediately after realising this, he discovered an urgent need to rid himself of them.
He loathed the sensation of being unclean.
If Drachma had taught him anything, it was that hygiene was a thing to be treasured.
He moved again, this time with a little more energy, and groaned into a hunching crouch, the blankets tangled about his tattered frame and hair both knotted and matted to his skull – quite the achievement for one not normally so a violent sleeper.
The light, although dim since the sun had yet to rise beyond rolling hills of grass, burned into his sleep-ridden, dilated pupils, clamping the lids shut until he assumed they had contracted enough to be usable.
A perfunctory blink.
They had.
An unpleasant taste lingered at the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly, running his heavy tongue over his teeth and grimacing at the rough, cloying feel of a mouth that had neither eaten nor been washed out in hours. He really needed to find a bathroom.
Shrugging off his overcoat and struggling out of his constraints with enough drowsy gusto that the bed springs creaked, Edward slipped his legs to the floor, rumpled socks surfing over unrefined floorboards in search of his boots, only realising he had happened across one when his foot made contact with something solid, the push prompting it to topple sideways.
There was a thud.
And then, quite suddenly, there was a grunt.
Edward froze at the sound, one foot still poised above his shoe, and realised – cursing himself for having taken so long to remember in the first place – that this was not his own room; that this house belonged to complete strangers, and that the person in the other bed was not one he had even spoken to before now.
The figure grunted again, jerking under the sheets in agitation, and for a moment of irrational panic, Edward feared it would wake up; discover him sneaking away and feel obliged to start asking awkward questions. Edward hoped it wouldn't: it was far too soon to be practicing a foreign language.
Much to his eternal relief, however, after kicking one long, hairy leg from beneath the bunched cloth, the flailing being saw fit to return to its previous slumber, leaving Edward to swipe scuffed boots from the floor, grab his battered suitcase from beside them, and attempt to cross the squeaking panels without falling over, his eyes still half shut.
It was only after the fourth step that he realised he was limping.
He stopped at the door, a hand waiting to open it, and searched for the source. There was no pain, although he realised there had been plenty the night before; enough to cause dizziness and a tender stomach, but when pressing his weight onto his left foot, he realised the problem. His leg was numb.
This was not an unusual after-effect for him having been exposed to a storm, but it was an inconvenience: full mobility often returned after nearly a whole day, and in his opinion, that was a day too long. Especially when that lack of mobility could cause shaking, loss of balance and stiff extremities.
It was for these reasons that his luggage exchanged hands, items being placed carefully into his right as the stiff, metal joints coiled around them, not quite as securely as he was telling them to. His left reached for the handle, turning gently, and feeling for the sudden pressure that would have iron planes grating against each other in a dream-shattering screech, changing the angle at which he pulled when he knew they touched.
But then the door opened, and groaned.
Loudly.
He was through it before the unidentified occupant could so much as toss in annoyance; latch clicking shut behind him and toes catching at the edge of his trousers, one of the legs dragging since the material had managed to ride down his hip. He stumbled slightly, but righted himself, muttering angrily about clothes coming in 'indecent proportions' and hobbling past the row of pale windows to the dark passage of the stairs.
Aside from his own uneven footsteps, the house was silent, apparently still resting despite the ever-brightening glow that filtered through dusty glass and the lively cries of birds as they saluted the dawn. Edward spared a brief glance through the rippled transparency, admiring – though he used that term lightly – the dull green patches of forest that littered the horizon, trunks bent by the wind and colour faded to one not dissimilar to that of the sky; water-grey and sallow.
The colours of Amestris had been so much bolder, so much brighter.
He turned away.
The stairs moaned under his tread, but he found he was no longer concerned by the sound; he was trying to remember his directions. The plump woman – Molly, if remembered rightly – had mentioned the bathroom the night before, but the comment had been passing, and his pain-fuddled brain had been too occupied with thoughts of sleep to comprehend the noises rushing past her mouth.
'One floor down, first on the left...'
He was relatively certain that these had been her words, and now having arrived on said floor, the corner of his suitcase digging ruts in his thigh, he was comforted to discover the compact but practical space he had been searching for, hidden neatly behind the first door to his left.
It, like the rest of the house, was coated thickly in an off-white paint, the surfaces raised in areas where the plaster had been laid unevenly and mottled by odd stains of water or chemicals where close to the sink. Its layout was simple: one bath (rusted at the feet), a lavatory, a lop-sided cupboard and a mirror above the basin. There was little light, the only source being a rectangular window above the door, seemingly opening into the hallway to steal the beams from there and throw it over the white tiles at his feet.
He supposed that it could have been similar to his own back home, were it not for the medley of brightly coloured bottles, sponges and varieties of soap dotted about the minimal surfaces, some of them sporting molten rings at their bases from careless hands neglecting to fasten the lids; contents having spilled over the sides.
Fleetingly, he smiled.
Her bathroom was definitely the messier: coated in oil and besieged with wrenches, bolts and wires – the latter of which he was quite certain should not have been there – and that wasn't even close to the worst of it. Edward had known he had a reason to worry when he had tripped over a half-assembled limb in the middle of the night, the monstrosity having been propped up by the towel rack, but he knew better than to confront her on the matter; wiser to hope that it disappear than chance another dent to his skull.
He swore the last had left a bump.
His thoughts lingered a moment longer, happy with wallowing in peaceful memories of sun and smiles.
And then he remembered the present; why he was here, and what that meant.
His smile faded.
Throwing his possessions to the tiled floor, the contents rattling piercingly, he wrenched the door beside him shut, uncaring of who slept nearby and how much noise was made as the key was turned swiftly in the lock, snapping firmly into place. He stood there, motionless and tense, his eyes focused on the gloved, twitching hand of his automail as it remained hovering where it was, his bottom lip pulled under his teeth and brows curved anxiously.
He shouldn't think on it; he mustn't think on it. He could not afford the distraction.
Edward spun sharply, ripping white material from his fingers and flinging it down as he strode to the cluttered sink to glare at his reflection, arms braced at either side as he leaned in close.
He was a mess.
Ashen, drawn features stared with a dead intensity from beneath dirty cords of hair that fell loose over his shoulders and shadowed jaw, sticking to his damp neck and forehead. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, the irises glazed and sickly and the tissue beneath was bruised blue, shining unhealthily; gaunt.
The surfaces of them burned.
His collar was undone, the shirt translucent where it was stuck to sweat-soaked muscles and had been dragged across his torso until his collarbone was revealed, hard and protruding.
His flesh hand reached up to the first button that clothed his chest, his right still gripping the basin, clumsily popping it through the hole and allowing his wrist to fall to the next one, usually nimble digits working impatiently. The garment was peeled off; thrown to the side, and without pause, he twisted the tap-head and thrust his palms beneath the stream of water that gushed out, splashing it over his face and trying to ignore the icy trickles that wormed their way through his scalp.
One drop hit the floor.
The splash was drowned as the second tap turned.
Yeah...I know, it's nowhere near as tense or exciting or anything as the last one, but please be kind, and please review! I tried so hard with this to get it done quickly...but it didn't work...
I'm sorrrrryyyyyy!
Don't hate me...
