Sunlight was the first thing Roy registered upon waking as he pulled his face away from the hard, cold floor. Sunlight meant windows, and he'd been rather sure that there hadn't been any of those the night before.
His entire body ached, and when he reached a hand to his face, touching it to the tender knot on the bridge of his nose, he felt blood. It was caked under his nostrils and lower, along the corner of his mouth. His face felt swollen, like he'd been punched.
The cupboard, he remembered. The house going mad around him – his gloves, the doctors, Pinako's words…
Fear could feel so physical sometimes, so heavy. To Roy, it was a weight on his back, keeping his chest pressed to the floor, his neck craning up uncomfortably, swiveling his head around to try to see something, anything, that would explain what the fuck that had been all about.
There was nothing. It looked almost as if he was in an entirely new house. There were windows where there'd been none, the panes of glass replacing the front door, which seemed to be on the far side of the kitchen, now. He supposed that, were he to stand, the living room would be different as well. The only bit of familiarity was in the wall shelf, directly across from the kitchen doorway. It appeared to be the only thing that had remained where it was meant to be.
No word was powerful enough to describe this feeling, the terror coursing through him. He had to get out of there.
The second thing that his mind registered was that the phone was ringing.
Roy couldn't recall a single time that he'd used it – stranger still, he couldn't recall where he'd seen it last.
The ringing was insistent. It would go on and on, then stop, only to start again a few moments later. Roy lay still, listening, until he found the will to drag himself over to the kitchen wall and pull himself up.
Standing, he looked around for the sound. The phone was on the far wall of the kitchen, the area where it met the walls covered in strange, faded ripples, the trademark sign of a recent, hastily done transmutation. Trying to ignore the tremors running through his body, Roy walked cautiously to the phone, grabbing the receiver.
"Hello?" The word stuck to his tongue, his mouth dry.
"Mustang?" Pinako's voice crackled from the other end of line. "What on earth happened last night?"
Roy's stomach flopped at the sound of her voice. He still couldn't speak to her, not without remembering. Willing his lips to part, his mouth to function, he stammered, "I don't know what you mean. I have to go—"
"Wait," she said. "Just—just hold on a minute."
From somewhere outside the kitchen, Roy heard a now sickeningly familiar sound: wood twisting, changing, creaking into something new.
"No," he said. "I have to go, I have to go—"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" the old woman demanded. "I can't help you if—"
But Roy would never hear that 'if'. The crackling on the phone line picked up until Pinako's voice was lost. Just as Roy was about to hang up, the static died, the line going silent.
And then a voice spoke, clear as day: "What the fuck IS wrong with you, the fuck are doing—"
Roy slammed the phone down, heart stuttering in his chest.
It was the same voice, that eerie child-like tone.
He didn't stop and wonder. He didn't bother investigating. Roy Mustang, blood and bruises and last night's clothes and his gloves and all, walked very slowly, very calmly, to where the new door was, and he walked outside.
Nothing could make him stay in that house, not for another second.
Pinako met him halfway between his house and hers. She drove slowly, looking out the window as he walked down the road. When he didn't stop immediately, she called out to him: "Mustang! Get over here!"
He was tempted to keep walking, to pass her by and move on, right until the moment his feet couldn't carry him any further. He didn't, though. Roy slowed his pace, stopping when she pulled the car right up next to him on the road. Pinako leaned over and scowled at him through the opened window. She was about to say something, he could tell, but her face went from angry to concerned in three seconds flat.
"What?" he asked, his voice a croak.
"What happened?" She peered intently at him. "You get into a fight?"
Roy scowled and then winced as a sharp pain made itself known. Apparently, attempting control over his facial features was a bit beyond him. "No."
"Get in the car."
In the car? With her? Roy, knowing she wouldn't have asked if only she'd known, took a step back. "I'm fine."
"You're lying. Come on."
The car was stopped, the engine silent. If he walked away, there was nothing she could do. Roy had a difficult time imagining the little old woman chasing after him, on foot or otherwise. If he left, that would be that.
It made very little sense, then, that his hand was on the door, that he was opening it and climbing into the car.
"You're a mess," Pinako grumbled, restarting the car. The engine jerked to life, and she made an abrupt turn in the middle of the road.
Roy said nothing.
"Is this about," she paused, and Roy could clearly hear the guilt in her words, "what I said?" There was reluctance in her tone. He could easily see that she wasn't about to take it back, any of it.
"No," he said honestly.
"Then what?"
There was nothing to say. Except, perhaps, what he'd intended to say the night before: "Have you ever felt there was something wrong with the Elrics' house?"
"Why do you keep asking that?"
Roy looked out the window. "It tried to kill me," he said, understanding just how the words made him sound.
"The house tried to kill you?" Pinako echoed, brows shooting up to her hairline. "You been drinking again?"
"You asked what happened," Roy snapped. "I deserve to know—"
"About what?" Pinako asked. "Why do you deserve to hear about them? What business is it of yours?" They were pulling up to the house. Pinako drove the car into the front yard and put it into park, shutting the engine off. "Come inside," she said, quiet. "Let's see if I can't fix your face."
Roy, not knowing what else to say, simply followed her.
She'd rushed off to retrieve a first aid kit, gesturing for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. He'd taken one look at it, and the night before came rushing back.
He wouldn't listen to that conversation, not again. Roy went in the opposite direction and sat down on an old couch, the springs groaning beneath his weight.
When she returned, she popped her head into the sitting room, frowning. "That's not where I told you to wait," she said, dropping the kit on the coffee table anyway. "All right, where's the worst of it?"
"Here." Roy gestured at his face.
"Looks the worst," she agreed, an inappropriate hint of humor in her words. "What got you?"
"Cupboard door," Roy said dully. Why she bothered asking, if she refused to believe, was beyond him.
Pinako paused in dabbing alcohol onto a piece of cotton. "You walked into a cupboard door?" she asked, incredulous. "I thought you said you weren't drinking?"
"I wasn't," Roy snapped. "It was the house!"
"The house." She swiped at the jagged tear on his bottom lip, and Roy jumped at the stinging sensation. "You're telling me that a house assaulted you."
"I think it was an alchemist, actually," Roy said. "There have been – incidents."
"This is ridiculous," Pinako said, but something shifted in her eyes at the mention of alchemy. "What alchemist could possibly be there?"
"I don't know," Roy said, honest. "I was hoping to speak with the boy about it – Alphonse."
"I doubt he'd want to hear anything you'd have to say," Pinako said shortly, dropping the cotton and grabbing up a fresh piece, eying his nose critically. "Don't think you'll need any stitches, but the blood's caked pretty good. This is going to hurt."
Hurt was putting it mildly. When she rubbed the alcohol on, it felt like she was trying to rub the skin off his nose. Sucking in a harsh breath, Roy went rigid, trying to remain still, his eyes watering against his will.
"I was hoping," he said, teeth clenched, "that he might be able to make sense of—" a harsh breath, a stuttered curse, "the things that have been happening." When Pinako removed the cotton again, dropping it and picking up a tube of ointment, Roy sagged with relief.
"I don't know what to tell you, Mustang," she said, applying the ointment with gentle fingers that belied her harsh personality. "I don't think that boy'll look twice at you. He has enough on his plate."
"You can't help me, can you?"
Pinako dropped the tube, letting out a long, sad sigh. "I can't do much of anything, these days."
"I can't explain this to you," Roy said, "not in a way that will make any sense." Not since she already thought him insane. "But Alphonse, he was an alchemist. He might know—"
"How about I let you in on something," Pinako interrupted. "What do you know about Ed?"
"Ed?" Roy looked surprised. "I – nothing. He's dead."
"How?"
"How did he die? I—" Roy blinked. "I don't know. Why?"
"Alchemy killed him," Pinako said, and Roy felt a chill creep up his spine. "In that house. Al wouldn't come back for anything. And if you think he'll even stop to talk about that…"
"I have to speak with him," Roy said. "I don't have any other option."
"It won't do you any good," Pinako insisted. "But… He's in Dublith. Everyone knows that."
"Then I'll go to Dublith."
"Mustang, don't you make life harder for that boy than it already is," Pinako warned. "There are people who would see to it that you'd regret it."
"I understand."
She watched him for a long moment and then shook her head. "I just don't understand," she murmured, then, much louder, "I'll go put some tea on. That ointment needs to sit and not be messed with. You can leave once it's dried."
When she left, Roy settled back into the couch. She didn't believe him, that much was clear, but still… She didn't say not to go to Dublith, and even if she had, well.
At that point, Roy knew there weren't any other options.
The walk to town and back was a tiring one, especially with the news he'd received from the train station. The next train to South wouldn't pass through town for two days.
Roy didn't have two days, not the way things felt in that house.
He felt stuck. Stuck in Resembool, stuck in the house, stuck with his fear.
It was surreal. He'd been looking for an escape when he'd come to the town. Signing the deed to the house and shaking the realtor's hand – it had felt like success, however an insignificant amount. That it should turn out in such a way left Roy reeling.
Two days, and he had nowhere to go.
Pinako would let him stay with her, of course. He couldn't see the old woman, with that strange guilt weighing her down, refusing him, not when she believed him so in-need. But at the same time, he couldn't stand her disbelief, her inability to see what was happening. She thought him insane, and for the first time in a long time, Roy wanted the respect he'd had in the military, the quick compliance of those around him.
His team would have known what to do.
Tucking the train ticket into his pocket, Roy trudged up the hill. The front door of the house was closed, something he'd not done on his own. For that matter, it was in a completely different place, sitting directly where the windows facing out of the far wall of the kitchen should have been.
Two days of never knowing what it would do, of what the hell iteven was, would drive Roy mad. No, he thought, walking until he was one footstep outside the front door. He wouldn't sit idle for those days, watching over his shoulder and refusing to sleep. He would find something, anything, to show the Elric boy. He would prove that this was beyond his own mind.
It was real, the house and whatever was in it. He would find a way to make Alphonse Elric acknowledge that.
There was something soothing about falling back onto his experience as a State Alchemist. Roy had spent years in the position, climbing up in rank as he went from investigating small alchemical incidents to major crimes. He knew the signs of a recent transmutation, could tell the difference between skill and pure clumsiness.
The house, interestingly enough, was full of both. It was as though whatever alchemist had been behind all the chaos would slip on occasion, reverting back to old habits, those early mistakes in the days where drawing a circle was just as difficult as performing the transmutation itself.
Kneeling in the entryway, Roy ran his hands along the wall where the door should have been, where the house was meant to open onto the front steps. The wall was covered in strange, ridged areas, as if something was just beneath the surface – like a kind of molding gone wrong. It was the mark of an amateur, but Roy knew from firsthand experience that no amateur could have done what he'd seen.
The contradictions were maddening, just as much as the house itself was.
The vast majority of the walls were covered in the marks, littering them in formless patches. He couldn't find a single area that wasn't affected. The alchemist was, if nothing else, very thorough.
Or so he thought before remembering the wall shelf.
He could distinctly recall lying on the floor and staring at the shelf. Why it should stay in place, he hadn't thought to consider.
The wall shelf was, quite simply, a bookshelf built directly into the wall. The back of it wasn't actually part of the wall, being of a much darker shade of wood, but it was definitely attached. When Roy tried to push it aside, he could feel through the tension just where the nails held it fast – assuming it was held with nails, at all.
With that house, there was no telling.
Roy put an ear to the wall and knocked, two hard raps. It sounded hollow, the area behind it empty. With a start, he realized that there was something behind the shelf – a room?
The alchemist's room?
He had his gloves, Roy reasoned. Whatever the alchemist was capable of, he was quite certain he could match them. Anxiety clutching tight to his heart, Roy went back to the kitchen, to the drawer, and retrieved a pen.
On the wall, he drew a small circle and pressed his hands to it. The wood shifted immediately, an entryway opening up in the form of an arch, plenty of room for him to walk in.
He'd been right. It was a room, though clearly one that hadn't been touched in some time. There was a desk opposite the wall, and a large bookshelf adjacent to it, both covered in a heavy blanket of dust. The chair seated at the desk was pulled out just so, like someone had been in the act of taking a seat and left suddenly, forgetting about it altogether.
Roy stepped in cautiously. There was no one in the room, but the moment he set foot inside, he could feel a strange presence, a foreboding sensation. Above him, the wooden beams were visible, rotten and spilling sawdust to the ground. Every step he took kicked it up, his eyes itching and watering. Coughing into his hand, Roy stopped, looked around.
When he turned, more dust from the floor kicked up, uncovering something – a portion of some scrawled symbol in a fast-browning ink. He realized, his heart thumping in his chest, that it was a transmutation circle.
A very complicated, painfully familiar circle.
Roy's legs shook as he crouched down to get a better look. It was the same, absolutely the same. He could recall with startling clarity those dark months after the first massacre, of poring over books and creating the thing he hoped would absolve him of his sins. Human transmutation, Roy thought, reaching a hand out. Maes had stopped him, had beaten sense into his old friend, but Roy had the feeling that whoever had drawn this circle hadn't been so fortunate.
Just as his hand neared the edge of the circle, the dust around it began to stir unnaturally, big bold words, as though written by a child, covering the circle. He froze.
ROY MUSTANG, the writing said, the words appearing rapidly, IS A PEABRAINED LOSER.
The beams above him shuddered in warning, but Roy couldn't bring himself to move, to look away from his name, scrawled in that juvenile writing.
"What…" His throat felt thick, his entire body thrumming with adrenalin, with some unknown threat. "Who's there?" he asked, the words finally breaking through the fog wrapped thick around his mind. He should stand, he should move, he should be fucking looking for the person responsible –
The words abruptly vanished, the dust stirring angrily into something even more familiar.
Another circle.
Roy didn't have the time to react, didn't even have the time to register his surprise as a giant fist appeared from the ground and slammed into his chest, knocking him straight back out of the hidden room and onto his ass in the hallway of the house. He barely managed to avoid thumping his head painfully against the ground as he caught himself, but by the time he'd stumbled to his feet, fear giving way to fury, the doorway was gone, the wood crackling with alchemical energy.
And again, that voice. "You don't belong here," it hissed, just as the doorway sealed shut.
Roy, stunned, could only think, No, I really don't.
The train ride to Dublith lasted the entirety of a day. Roy had been at the platform a full hour before the train arrived, straight off two days of fear, frustration, and restlessness. The moment his back hit the seat, his eyes closed. He slept fitfully, waking every so often from a jerk of the train or the sound of another passenger stomping by his compartment.
When he heard the whistle, the train began to slow, the wheels screeching their reluctance. Roy looked out the window, unable to tear his eyes away from the small city. Dublith wasn't anything special. It wasn't much bigger than Resembool, in fact. It was certainly more colorful, though. Everything about South, he remembered, was.
If he was fortunate, Dublith would share Resembool's close-knit community. If everyone knew everyone, then it would be much easier to find the boy.
Off the train, Roy stood on the platform, feeling lost. He could ask anyone. It would make no difference. Feeling an odd squeeze of his stomach, Roy stepped straight out of the train station and onto the streets. He looked to be in the residential area of town, little shops lining the roads, people all around. It was noon, the sun high in the sky, and the people of Dublith all seemed to be out at one time, given the congestion in the streets.
Roy worked his way through a crowd, over to a fruit stand stationed on the side of the road. He bought an apple, his mind reminding him of equivalent exchange, and then said to the elderly man working the stand, "I was wondering if you might know someone?"
The old man set about putting Roy's money in a safe box, sparing him a single glance. "Who might that be?"
"Alphonse Elric," Roy said.
The man looked thoughtful. "Al lives down the road," he said, and Roy's heart jumped.
"Would you mind telling me where?" Roy looked around. "I need to speak to him."
A suspicious look, then the man snorted. "He's at work right now. The Curtis butcher shop. Just down the road thataway, on the left. Can't miss it."
It would have been very difficult to miss, Roy quickly realized. The butcher shop was large, two stories, and rather obviously doubled as a home. With trepidation, he stepped up to the door and knocked.
A woman answered. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Alphonse Elric," Roy said. The woman stared at him, suspicion growing on her face.
"Who're you?"
Her rudeness surprised Roy. "Roy Mustang," he said. "I recently—"
"Al's not here," she said sharply, cutting him off.
Uneasy, Roy tried again. "It's important," he explained. "Do you know where I could find him?"
"He's not here," the woman said again, louder, and leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And don't think I don't know who you are."
"Who am I?" Roy asked, fury budding in his mind. What the hell was wrong with her?
"A State Alchemist," she said, disgusted. "I've seen your picture around, and whatever you think you want with Al—"
"I'm not with the state," Roy said quietly. "Not anymore."
"What's going on?"
Roy turned around at the voice, and the woman looking over his shoulder. It was Alphonse Elric, had to be. The boy looked quite different than the picture Pinako had showed him, of course, a few years having passed. He was taller, the top of his head reaching just to the bottom of Roy's ear, his hair a dark blond, chopped short, sticking up unevenly. The warm smile Roy had seen in the photo was gone, replace by a guarded look. His eyes left him with the appearance of a man much older.
And then, there were his limbs.
Roy's eyes were drawn to them – an automail leg and arm. Alphonse was wearing shorts that stopped just at his knee, and below the cut of the fabric, his left leg was entirely metal. His right arm glinted in the sunlight where his long sleeve ended too soon before the white gloves he wore.
Before the woman could interrupt, Roy said, "Alphonse Elric?"
Al watched him quietly before inclining his head. "I am."
"My name is Roy Mustang," Roy offered. "I sent a letter a few days back, but—"
"You're the one living in that house," Al interrupted, his tone going flat. "I don't have any reason to talk to you."
What little hope Roy'd had shriveled. "It's important," he asserted. "Your house is—"
"It isn't my house," Al said sharply. "It's yours. Whatever's wrong, I don't have anything to do with it."
He pushed by Roy, and Izumi stepped back to let him inside. Roy reached out and caught the boy's sleeve, desperate.
"You have to listen," he said.
Al shook him off. "I don't have to do anything!"
The woman looked about ready to intervene, so Roy blurted, "Your house is trying to kill me!"
Al stared, and the woman froze behind him. "The house is trying to kill you," Al echoed, incredulous. "Are you mad?"
"No," Roy said, scowling. "I know this sounds – ridiculous, and I know this is none of my concern, but I think it has something to do with your family."
Emotion bled from Al's face, and he turned away. "Get out of here."
"I found a circle," Roy said, desperate to keep Al's attention. "In a room, a hidden one. It looked like a – a study of some sort, and the dust—"
Al started violently at that. He mouthed something, the word lost to Roy.
Feeling a bit more confident, Roy continued. "I think it might be something left over by your father," he said. "It was – I've never seen alchemy like that. And on the floor, I saw," he lowered his voice, reluctant to even speak the words, "a circle intended for human transmutation."
"That's enough!" The woman shoved Al in the house, giving Roy a look that would have sent a lesser man running. "If I catch you around here again," she said, "I will make certain you regret it," and slammed the door.
Conflicted, Roy made the decision to stay in town for the night. Another train was leaving in the morning. If he woke early enough, he'd have time to try to convince the boy once more before he left.
Roy couldn't bring himself to feel hopeful.
Don't think I don't know who you are, the woman had said. She'd hated him the moment she'd heard his name, and Roy couldn't even feel wronged for that.
The room he'd rented for the night was tiny, giving him barely enough room to take five steps in any direction. The bed itself seemed to make up the majority of the room. Frustrated, Roy collapsed onto it, slinging an arm over his eyes. He wondered, briefly, if there'd even been a point in coming to Dublith.
Alphonse did react though. From the hostility to his stark expression when he heard about the circle, the boy seemed to have some notion as to what Roy had discovered. It brought him some hope, if only a tiny fraction, that there would be a solution.
And really, it was just nice knowing that it wasn't all in his head.
Roy slept fitfully that night, jumping from dream to unpleasant dream. When the little alarm, an accessory of the room, chimed six in the morning as loudly as it could, Roy was torn from a dream of Central up in flames, and Gracia Hughes yelling at him in that woman's voice, and if I catch you around here again–
Shaking the thought from his mind, Roy rolled himself out of bed and went straight for the shower.
Gathering his single bag, he had the room paid for within half an hour of waking up. Roy stepped out into the streets, his stomach churning from a breakfast too heavy for his level of stress. By the time Curtis Butcher Shop came into view down the road, that churning had morphed into an acute queasiness.
That woman had been quite clear in that she wouldn't allow Roy anywhere near Alphonse again, and he had very little doubt that she would do everything in her power to refuse him if he bothered to knock on the door.
Though how she would make him regret it, Roy couldn't begin to guess.
Pulling his watch from his pocket, Roy flicked open the lid. It was a quarter before seven, leaving him plenty of time before the train began boarding passengers. If he was lucky, Al would come to him.
Ten minutes later, Roy was surprised at just how lucky he was.
"I know," Alphonse said, backing out the front door with a large box in his arms. "Three streets down, ma'am. I'll be back soon!"
Roy could hear the woman answering him but not clearly enough to make out the words. Instead, he turned his attention to the boy as he walked down the path. It was like night and day, the difference between Alphonse Elric of the previous day and the Alphonse Elric now walking briskly down the street. He looked calm, content. That guarded shadow was gone. Guilt sparked in Roy's gut, but he quickly stamped it down. There was a job to be done, and he couldn't afford to lose focus.
With a wary look at the front of the shop, Roy walked by, keeping his head down and followed Alphonse as he cut through a small break in the streets between two buildings. If he caught him there alone, the boy would have to speak to him.
Swallowing against the unsettling feeling in his gut, Roy cupped his hands to his mouth and called ahead, "Alphonse!"
The boy stopped on reflex, turning around with a puzzled look on his face. Roy took the opportunity to jog ahead, catching up with him. The moment the boy got a look at just who was calling him, that pleasant expression grew sharp, suspicious. He took a step back, and Roy held up his hands.
"Please," Roy said, approaching slowly. "Just hear me out."
Alphonse gripped the box in his arms tighter, looking very much like he'd rather run. But he stood still, inclining his head just so.
Roy, relieved, put down his hands. "I know this is strange. I know you don't want to be bothered—"
"Then why bother me?" Alphonse asked, his voice cracking at the last syllable, caught in some awkward place between boy and man. "I don't want anything to do with you."
"Or the house?" Roy guessed. "You know about the circle, don't you? About the room behind the wall?"
Alphonse said nothing.
"Some nights," Roy's voice quavered, "I hear someone – like a little boy. It's like he's crying." He watched Alphonse, the boy's face going utterly blank with each word. "Who is it?"
"Your hallucinations aren't my problem," Alphonse said, but something in his tone didn't match up with his words. There was nothing behind it, no rage, no disbelief. If anything, he sounded tired.
"What is it?" Roy tried again. "There's someone – or something – in that house, and you know damn well what I mean."
Alphonse refused to look at him, instead choosing to glare at the brick wall to his right.
"The circle," Roy said finally, reaching the heart of the matter. "It was for human transmutation. You know about that, too, don't you?" And, with a tremor in his voice, the horrifying possibilities leaving Roy ill, "Whose blood was it?"
Alphonse snapped. "I don't know anything about any of that," he spat. "I told you before. I have nothing to say to you! Whatever you think is happening—"
"I live there," Roy said, "it's my house, and I can't sleep for thinking something's going to kill me—"
"Then leave!" Alphonse roared, gripping the box so tight that the wood of the crate splintered beneath his automail hand. "You're the one choosing to be there!" The words drained from him, the alleyway went silent. The only noise was the sound of Alphonse's harsh breathing.
"You won't help me," Roy said. It wasn't a question. He already knew the answer.
Alphonse turned away. "Don't come back," he said tersely.
When Alphonse disappeared down the other side of the alley, fading into the streets beyond, Roy felt his last bit of hope vanish along with the boy. It seemed, for now, that he would have to discover the truth on his own.
Feeling bereft, Roy turned back the way he came. He had a train to catch.
