[Author's Warning] Strong language. Ideologically sensitive. Expect more of this in future chapters (well, those of you who know Edward and Envy's cursing shouldn't be surprised). Just a reminder of this fan-fiction's maturity rating. Thank you for the views, reviews (though I would like more if possible), and such thus far. Enjoy! [/Author's Warning]
Chapter 3 – Opened Floodgates
The door of Edward's locker shut quickly, narrowly missing his face. He did not have to look to know the student who closed his locker was Russell Tringham. "What do you want?" the upperclassman asked.
Russell tossed his head to the side to move his blond hair from his ocean-blue eyes and smirked. "I heard a midget got beat up by Mr. Falman today, so I came to see how bad he got you."
Edward snarled angrily, "You're so full of it!"
"Aw," he cooed sarcastically. "Did I hurt the midget's feelings?" Russell rest a hand on his vertically-challenged upperclassman's head. "Can you ever forgive me?"
Growling vengefully, Edward lunged with his right fist poised for impact. Russell sidestepped his opponent while Edward's younger brother yanked him backward by the shirt.
Alphonse attempted to calm the explosive temper with reason. "Please, brother! You can't get in any more fights this semester, remember?"
"I don't care! Let me go!" Edward flailed about in his brother's grasp in attempts to reach his target.
"Think about what'll happen!"
After a moment, Edward's movements ceased with a simmering grumble. Upon noticing Russell's smug expression, Alphonse pulled back a suspender strap from Russell's chest to allow the following painful snap to act as revenge. "Quit picking on him, Russell," Alphonse chided.
With a chuckle, Russell replied, "Ah, I'm just messing with him, Al."
"Well, don't." Alphonse declared, "Fletcher is waiting outside; let's go."
Edward tugged on his red calf-length coat and followed his brother. His mind drifted away from Alphonse and Russell's conversation, and his left hand burrowed in his coat pocket to rest. While the two spoke, Edward glanced up at the street to see Fletcher crouched down in the middle of the lane. The boy stared at the street lane in shock like a deer caught in a set of headlights. Russell saw the oncoming car first, calling out his little brother's name.
Thrown immediately into action, Edward outran Russell into the road. He grabbed Fletcher's frozen body in a football-esque tackle. The car whizzed by, oblivious to the near-catastrophe, while the boys tumbled to a stop at the curb.
Fletcher remained curled in a ball while Edward sat up. Russell passed Edward and fell to the ground in front of his brother. "Fletcher!" Russell called.
He began checking the elementary child for injuries before placing a hand to either side of Fletcher's face, forcing the boy to look at him. "What were you thinking?" he demanded. "You know not to go in the street!"
Russell stared into the moss-green eyes, shaking Fletcher's head slightly—whether he did so out of anger or as a result of the fear wracking his nerves, Edward did not know. "Why did you do that?" Tears filled the boy's eyes, and Russell shook Fletcher vigorously in hopes of arousing a response. "Answer me, Fletcher!"
"He's scared; yelling at him won't help," Edward defended.
Russell stared at his brother and saw Fletcher glance down. He released the boy to uncover what rest in his grasp. "What are you holding?" He pried the arms apart to reveal a tiny tortoiseshell kitten, the long fur sticking to Fletcher's sweaty arms.
At a loss for words, Russell sighed.
"Can we keep him?"
"Dad's allergic," Russell reminded.
"But we can't leave him here!" he begged. "He'll die!"
"His mother will take care of him." Russell glanced to the street to see a heap of furry road kill that resembled the kitten. He watched the kitten mew at the lifeless pile longingly and sighed. "Fletcher…"
"What if we took him?" Alphonse offered.
Edward stroked the kitten's head tenderly, deep in thought. Winter would arrive in as short as a month; and the kitten was not old enough to live without assistance, even without the cold. The kitten mewled affectionately and leaned into his touch. He released a deep exhale at the pleading faces of Alphonse and Fletcher.
"Just until we find it a home, and you have to make sure Dad doesn't find it," Edward acquiesced.
Winry skipped over to the small group. "What do you have there?"
"A kitten," Russell answered as he stood to take both of her hands in his. "And it's almost as adorable as you."
"Funny," she replied flatly.
Edward pulled Russell away from Winry by his suspenders, releasing with a painful snap. "Oh, yeah, really funny," he added sarcastically. "Let's go home, Al."
Alphonse accepted the kitten from Fletcher and stood to follow Edward and Winry for the long journey home. Winry agreed to ask her grandmother for permission to adopt the kitten as long as Edward provided shelter for the animal until she could do so. After determining the kitten was female, the three discussed possible names while she slumbered cozily in Edward's coat hood.
The group parted ways upon nearing home, as Winry had to walk an extra half-mile to reach her grandmother's house. Edward and Alphonse entered casually to not raise suspicion about the tiny stowaway. Passing the living room, Edward froze in his tracks as he took a second glance within.
His mother's chair was empty; Trisha was gone.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
"Can I go outside today?" Roy asked as he watched the children play outdoors.
His foster mother slathered the boy's back gently with burn cream. She could feel the congestion in his chest as he coughed black phlegm into his handkerchief. "You know you can't," she replied uniformly, "If you get sick, you have to go to the hospital again."
"But I'm bored!" Roy coughed violently into the handkerchief, releasing more soot-infused mucus from his lungs.
She proceeded to wrap gauze around his torso to protect the burn. "Read those books I brought you."
Once the coughing fit died away, Roy whined, "I don't like to read."
"Try it: maybe you'll learn to like it." She stood. "I have to go fix lunch."
Roy huffed grumpily and returned to staring out the window to watch the children play in the snow. The doctor ordered him not to leave the house until midsummer, even though he had spent months in the hospital. The boy's immune system was significantly lowered after the house fire, and the emotional stress of losing his family in the fire slowed his recovery. To add insult to injury, other children feared his burns and avoided contact with him.
He did not understand why a child would remain indoors willingly and jumped when he heard one enter. Roy saw a girl in a blue dress with long brown hair standing in the doorway with a warm smile. She tousled a curled-and-ribboned pigtail unconsciously in thought. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," her angelic voice chimed.
Roy blinked rapidly to be sure the eldest foster child of the house—less than four years older than he—was truly in his doorway. "Why aren't you outside, too, Trisha?" He wondered if, as she had not lived in the home long, she did not like to play with other children.
"They have enough people for tag, and you're all by yourself," she replied. "Besides, my social worker said he'd come by today. He wants to talk to me about my dad."
"Court date coming up?"
Trisha sat across from the boy on his bed, folding her legs in front of her and setting out her dress neatly. "How'd you know?"
He shrugged. "That's usually why social workers stop by."
As she pulled a few pieces of paper from a small pocket in her dress, he spotted a yellowing hand-shaped bruise on her forearm and a fresher bruise shadowing her neck. He frowned at the thought of anyone harming such a kind person. He did not feel self-conscious about his burns in her presence, because she behaved if she could not see them.
"Since you can't go outside, do you want me to teach you some origami?" she asked sweetly.
The dream faded as the vehicle slowed to a stop and a man nudged his shoulder. Mustang's eyes focused in the darkness on the statuesque man in the driver's seat. The bald head glistened in the dim glare of the headlights, shadows outlining the blond mustache and single curl where his widow's peak would be if he had more hair. The muscular arm withdrew.
"Colonel, we're here," the man muttered.
After checking his surroundings, Mustang replied, "Thanks, Major."
Both men climbed out of the car, and Mustang tugged his coat tighter around his neck for warmth. "We have to walk to the river," the muscular man notified, his breath visible in the chilled air until vaporized into the atmosphere.
"Lead the way, Armstrong."
The two stepped over the crime scene tape into the wooded area and proceeded until several more officers came into view. Most paused to salute the new arrivals and several scurried over to present reports to the superior officer. Mustang waved the people away with orders to report later.
He had to force his feet not to sprint to the river's banks to the largest cluster of people. His lieutenant stood when she noticed his arrival. "Sir, maybe you shou--"
"Out of my way, Hawkeye," he barked. He moved her to the side by the shoulder and continued. After a few strides, he abruptly halted in shock. Mustang grimaced. Although he could not see the face of the woman lying face-down in the river, he knew who she was.
"Colonel Mustang, let us handle this," Armstrong insisted.
"Are you finished analyzing the scene yet?"
"Sir, you look pale." Hawkeye suggested, "You should sit down."
"Hurry it up," Mustang commanded as he brushed off the woman's advice. "Get her out of that water."
The officers exchanged glances, neither wanting to ignore protocol nor disobey orders. A familiar lieutenant-colonel trotted through the crowd, hooking an arm casually around his superior's shoulders to furtively stabilize his old friend.
"Let them do their job, Roy," he declared. "Come on; let's go talk business over some coffee before you make the whole battalion jumpy."
When the man did not budge, Hughes tugged him along to his car. He drove while Mustang rest in the passenger seat, face buried in his hand. When the car reached a small house, Hughes turned off the engine. He watched his silent friend a moment before cracking the car door open.
"You coming, Roy?"
Hughes walked slowly to remain in step with the colonel once Mustang dragged himself from the car. The small house did not contain extravagant furniture: only the basics in each room. Unpacked boxes towered in dark corners with no signs of use in the near future. Hughes brewed the coffee while Mustang collapsed into the closest seat at his small kitchen table in silence.
"The autopsy won't be back for a day or two, but it looks like she drowned," Hughes notified. He carried two mugs of coffee to the table.
"She didn't deserve this," Mustang muttered.
"No one does," Hughes replied logically. He watched his friend attempt to hide his tears while staring at an old photo within his pocket watch. "You haven't taken a death this badly since the first time you had to shoot someone."
"It was a kid."
"He was a terrorist, and you were a soldier with orders."
"Trisha didn't do anything…"
"Listen to yourself, Roy! If you don't pull yourself together, you'll be taken off the case. Is that what you want? You and I both know that the only reason we were allowed to be on this case is because we assured them we wouldn't get emotionally involved!"
Mustang removed his hand from his face with a hefty sigh. "I know." He took a sip of his coffee, staring at the old photograph.
A young, nerdy-looking boy brimming with energy grinned into the camera. The taller boy beside him had been forced to bend slightly—equalizing statures—by the spectacled boy's arm position around his neck. The taller boy smiled at the camera, but he appeared unsure whether he should be smiling or not. He could be described as nervous of the informal closeness. Finally, a brunette girl stood behind the two with a hand on each head affectionately. Roy could still hear her laughing, telling Maes not to tease him and be cautious of the burns on his back.
Mustang had to use effort to not slam the mug on the table. "Do you have any idea how hard it was for her to testify against her father? She didn't want to be hurt anymore, that's why she married a soldier! Then this…"
"Do you think I don't know that? Did you forget I lived next door to you guys for how many years?"
Hughes glanced around the home from his seat and spotted a bottle of scotch resting on the kitchen counter. He sighed when he connected the alcohol with his friend's emotional state. "You should go shower. You have to be at the school in less than two hours, and you can't be like this when you tell the boys. You're not supposed to know her, remember?"
Mustang combed his fingers through his hair. "I know," he groaned. He slammed his fist down on the table, making the mugs jump and clatter. "It's all my fault!"
"You know that's not true--"
"Yes it is, dammit! If I hadn't introduced them--"
"We can't prove it yet--"
"How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I see it?"
Hughes stood and reached across the table to grip the front of Mustang's shirt roughly. "Nobody saw it! Now if you don't knock this off right now, we'll be taken off the case, it'll be given to somebody else, and they'll probably be stupid rookies that'll blow their cover in the first week! We need to stay calm or he'll panic and either disappear again or kill the boys," Hughes snapped.
"Even his old lab partner wasn't smart enough to escape the government very long. If we aren't careful, Hoenheim will slip right through our fingers and we'll never catch him. Just hold it together until we can get enough evidence to make sure he can't touch anyone ever again." Hughes released Mustang's shirt carefully, convinced the concept had reached his commanding officer. He sat to drink his coffee.
Hughes left when he finished his coffee so the two could report to the school routinely to not draw attention. Mustang remained numb until he was formally notified of the death in his office. With Hawkeye and Hughes at his heels, he proceeded to the freshman English classroom. He waved a hand from his place at the door to catch the attention of the mousy teacher with short brown hair and glasses.
"Principal Mustang," she gasped. "You startled me! How may I help you?"
"Good morning, Miss Schiezka," he replied. "I need Alphonse Elric to come with me. Bring your things."
Alphonse gathered his books and scurried out the classroom. He followed quietly to the sophomore mathematics class. Mustang leaned inside the door wordlessly. Several students turned to see the new arrivals while Falman continued teaching. Mustang summoned Edward quietly with a beckoning wave of his index finger.
Hughes eyed the brothers during the journey to the principal's office. Alphonse curiously glanced at Hughes, Mustang, and Hawkeye in turn. Meanwhile Edward resorted to staring at the floor as if avoiding tiny land mines in his path. He appeared on the verge of tears.
The five filed inside the principal's office; Hughes and Hawkeye remained in the back of the room while Mustang sat on the front of his desk. "Take a seat, boys," Mustang instructed.
Edward focused on his hands as his fingers tangoed in his lap. Alphonse's eyes darted about the room for clues to why he had been called to the principal's office. When he did not receive clues from the window, aloe plant, or bookshelf; he returned his gaze to the man before him.
"Boys, there's no easy way to say this; so I'll cut to the chase," Mustang began in a low and gentle voice. "Trisha Elric was found dead this morning in the river in the woods. I'm very sorry."
Alphonse's eyes welled up with tears instantly. After a few gasped breaths, he squeaked, "What? No! It's not true!"
While his brother continued to deny the news in tears, Edward bit his lower lip. Each of his brother's cries cut him like a knife until he had to stand and retreat to a deserted corner in the back of the room. Every ounce of his energy worked to preserve his composure, causing his body to quake with the stress.
Hughes maintained his distance with the knowledge people may lash out when approached in a state of grief. "Ed, are you okay?"
He could not form a convincing verbal reply, so Edward did not respond.
"Sit down," Hughes suggested.
"I'm going to be sick…" Edward whispered shakily. He leaned against the wall involuntarily.
A series of loud knocks echoed against the door until Hawkeye turned the door handle. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to come back later."
The door flew open to reveal two familiar figures scanning the room with an air of authority. "Edward," the woman called. "Alphonse."
Alphonse turned to Izumi, gasping for air through his sobs. "Teacher?" he croaked.
She smiled sympathetically at the boy before shifting her attention to Mustang. "Are you in charge here?"
"Yes; I'm Principal Mustang. And who would you be?"
"I am Izumi Curtis, and this is my husband Sig. We're taking the boys home."
"Are you a relative or guardian?"
"I'm their neighbor; and since their father can't take them home, I am."
Alphonse scuttled from his seat to Izumi, whom stretch out an arm upon his arrival. Edward approached stiffly like a robot, and she extended her free arm to him. He stopped just beyond her reach, gaze glued to the floor.
"C'mere, Ed," she coaxed.
When he looked up at her caring, motherly face; his emotional restraints burned to the ground and tears fell like she had opened floodgates in his eyes. Edward ran into her like a small child and choked a sob into her side. His defenses crumbled as Izumi's arm closed around him, and his body shook like her grip was the only force holding him together.
Mustang watched Izumi's kind face grimace with the weight of the boys' sorrow. He nodded to his subordinates to indicate departure so the four could have privacy.
After a long period of tearful silence, Izumi whispered, "Let's go."
Sig opened the door and stood to the side to provide room for the three to pass through.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Edward set his school bag next to his bed. Upon seeing the photo of himself, Alphonse, and his mother propped up on his nightstand; he tilted the frame forward to lay face-down. He glanced out the window to see Alphonse preoccupying himself with chores. Relieved by the fact his father's car was missing, Edward knew no experiments would take place as Hoenheim would be in town until late in the night. As Trisha's husband, Hoenheim was naturally summoned for questioning and was required to arrange the upcoming funeral.
A low growl echoed from Edward's stomach reminded him to prepare supper. He did not eat much for lunch, and what he managed to consume had been forced by Izumi due to the boys' lack of appetite. He trudged to the kitchen, exhausted from the emotional stress and hours of sparring at Izumi's house, in search of food. After he pulled a bunch of broccoli from the refrigerator, he opened the drawer for the appropriately sharp knife. He could not find the blade he wanted, however.
"Envy, do you know where the vegetable knife is?" he called through the house.
Turning toward the bathroom door, Edward noticed rays of light reaching out from beneath the door. He strode to the bathroom door. "Envy, are you in there?"
He knocked firmly before pushing the door open. He saw Envy standing at the sink, his back facing Edward. "Hey, have you seen the knife I use for cutting vegetables?"
The reflection of Envy's face in the mirror was pale with an agonized expression. "Get out," Envy barked.
"Are you okay?" Edward approached the sink.
First, Edward spotted the knife in question within Envy's hand. His gaze followed the knife's blade to where the metal met the skin on Envy's arm. Blood stained the edge of the blade that peeked above the flesh. The knife had not moved from entry point near the inside of the young man's elbow. The wielding hand shook violently in position.
For a moment, Edward could only gape at the scene. His brain thrust into motion and he gripped Envy's arm, jerking the blade away from the skin. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Let go of me, you stupid pipsqueak!"
Envy thrashed against the grip, but Edward held firm. "What will killing yourself solve?"
Pulling at the knife, Envy spat, "Don't you get it? He killed Trisha, and we're next! If I'm going to die, I want to get it done and over with!"
"You don't know that for sure," he retorted. "If everyone thought that way, there would be no one left; because here's a newsflash for you: everyone dies eventually!"
Envy slammed Edward's back harshly into a wall in the struggle. "What kind of life is this?" He beat Edward's arm against the wall in attempts to loosen his grip to no avail. "The only reason we're still alive is so he can do more and more tests day in and day out, and I'm sick of it!"
Edward's hand ached with the abuse, and he shoved Envy back. The two tripped so the high school sophomore landed on top of Envy roughly, still pinning his hands. The knife flew out of Envy's grip in the fall, and the two proceeded to struggle for possession of the weapon. Edward screamed for his younger brother who burst into the house in moments and kicked the knife out-of-reach.
Moving his grip to Envy's shirt, Edward drew back one fist and punched him in the face. While Envy recovered dizzily from the blow, Edward leaned down so Alphonse could not hear him speak.
"You are not leaving us here like that after my mother died after trying to make life better for your sorry ass," Edward hissed in Envy's ear. "Or did you forget she was the one who suggested you live with us after your mother disappeared, treated you like her own son, and confronted my dad when she found out about the experiments he was doing on you?"
Envy blinked as Edward's tears of rage and sorrow dripped on his face. As Edward faced the young man, he added, "It's the least you can do to not throw it away like yesterday's garbage."
Edward stood abruptly and returned to the kitchen.