Huge thanks to Kalirush for her genius, kindness and continuing support. Also mega thanks to disastergirl for the pep talks.

This is becoming a greater and greater struggle, so apologies for the wait.


Central City, 7th July 1908

To pigs! Still a boy, really. Waiting with the sun.


Summer. Full, hot summer. The air in Central was so thick you could almost walk on it. Spindly tables spilled from noisy cafes and out onto the cobbled streets. Pedestrians laughed as they stepped over slumbering, sun-drunk cat. Drivers sped by on their way out of the city, off to enjoy the lakes and mountains of the West. Central in the summer was a joy. There was no other city like it in the world. Of that Maes was sure. He sat, long legs stretched before him so that he was almost horizontal in his wicker seat, as he watched his friend at the bar. Though something of a household name in the shadow of the war, the newly-promoted Lieutenant Colonel looked utterly dwarfed at the bar. To his right was a boisterous collection of very beautiful, very intimidating women, while to his left was a group of swollen, guffawing businessmen, straight from the office. Between them, Mustang's tight frame and neatly-squared, beige-suited shoulders looked incongruous at best. Still, he could see the barmaid chatting with him amiably over her shoulder as she prepared their bottle; an 1899 Chablis that Maes had been eyeing up since before he met Gracia. Mustang excelled at that sort of thing, so it was a welcome, if unexpected, surprise.

Toeing the thin leg of the table, the major leant back in his chair and pulled in a heady breath of summer living. It was full of barbecue, perfume and that special metallic tang common to all cities. He closed his eyes and thought of his darling up North with her parents. He thought about how her father would question her judgement in marrying a soldier. He thought about how her sisters would be fawning over pictures of them together – for he knew the eldest at least had taken a fancy to him. As for the boy, well, he would be surly about having to dress up for the wedding on Saturday. He'd fought the idea of being part of the bridal party almost as much as Mustang had resisted the role of best man. Maes chuckled.

"What are you so happy about?" Mustang asked warmly, from behind.

Hughes cracked an eye open and looked up into a face altogether so happy he barely recognised it. Mustang's bright eyes danced, a light shining from within them. His teeth, a broad wash of perfect white, caught the sun like a mirror. Not for the first time in his life, Maes envied the man his obvious, effortless charm. His hair, for one, looked like it hadn't seen a comb all day.

"Me?" Hughes said at last, prizing the bottle of wine from Mustang's fingers. "Look at you! East City must be good for you."

Mustang sighed and snatched the bottle back. He threw himself into his seat, yelping at the last moment. During their academy days, the boys had invented the charming game of "poo needling". The rules were simple, with the end goal being one's foot up one's opponent's backside. Hughes was something of an expert.

"That was low," Mustang laughed, dropping Hughes's foot back to the ground. In a movement well-practised from his youth, Mustang spun the bottle opener into a cork just asking to be popped.

"Didn't enjoy it, even a little?" Hughes crossed the offending foot over his knee and played with the metal tip of his shoelace.

"That's between me and your foot," said Mustang, and plucked the cork from the top of the bottle with a satisfying pop! "Sounds just like your granny farting, Hughes."

Hughes nodded. He watched with big, hungry eyes as Mustang poured for him. The wine fell into the glass like spilled diamonds and sluiced around the bottom. Alcohol streaked the sides in legs that promised a potent bottle. "My granny sure does fart a lot. There's a lot going on in an ass that big."

Mustang turned the bottle to pour for himself, but Hughes caught it to return the favour.

The alchemist smirked. "I wasn't talking about her... bottom."

Hughes paused mid-pour and cast a weary glare at Mustang. "You're insulting my grandmother now?"

Mustang shrugged and tapped the side of his glass: more.

Hughes sucked on his teeth and filled the glass to the top. Mustang smiled all the while. "Great," said Hughes. "Roy Mustang has slept with my grandmother."

Taking a deeply exaggerated draught, Mustang swilled the wine around in his mouth before swallowing loudly. The ladies at the table next to him shot him a dirty look and he waved jovially in response. They rolled their eyes and went back to their conversation. "What can I say, Hughes? She's irresistible."

"And what about me? You know, I was voted the third most attractive man in the office this January."

"Sorry," Mustang said. He pouted sympathetically. "Not my type." He took another long sip, and Hughes could see the next line forming in his friend's mind like a rain cloud. "Gracia on the other hand..."

Hughes kicked Mustang under the table - hard enough to make him yell out in surprise, spilling his wine. The women sighed as one and cast the soldiers another thunderous look.

Mustang shook his head. His long hair fell into his eyes and he had to sweep it back with fingers still wet from the wine. A few strands stuck straight upwards like frightened sentries.

"I'm sorry," he said, grinning.

"Mmm hmm."

Mustang laughed again, bigger this time and Hughes felt a strange tightening of his heart. How strange it was to see this Mustang again. He felt as though he were in the company of a ghost: the spirit of a boy who died in Ishbal. Mustang, failing to notice Hughes's sudden quietude, continued.

"She's lovely. Almost as lovely as my darling, foolish and insufferable friend, Maes Hughes," he said, his voice shaking with laughter, and perhaps with a little booze. He raised his glass high above his head. Sunlight caught the rim and shot outwards like a knife, slicing across the alchemist's collarbone. Mustang's cheeks were reddened and kissed with freckles, and sitting there all in pale linen, he looked like a different man entirely from the one Hughes visited just a month ago. Perhaps the East really was agreeing with him. Hughes was about to say as much when Mustang stood suddenly, back straight and shoulders squared. He thrust his glass upward again, so that wine washed over the top and down his outstretched arm. "Here's to Maes Hughes and Gracia de Bri. May you rut merrily and create lots of horrible children for me to spend my hard earned money on!"

The businessmen and boisterous, brightly clothed women inside the bar clapped and cheered, each of them raising their own glasses to the soon-to-be-married Hughes. The women at the table next to them conferred darkly and stood, gathering their bags and finishing their drinks. A tall redhead clipped Mustang's shoulder as she left the table.

"Pig!" she cried, and left in a hurry.

Mustang turned and blinked after her. Hush consumed the busy cafe from the bar to the patio where the men were sitting. One of the women at the bar stepped forward and threw her arm into the air, the deep pink of her Rose wine swirling dangerously in her glass.

"To pigs!" she called, and her friends chorused loudly after her.

Mustang exploded with laughter, and so did Hughes. They both offered faux-bashful salutes to the women and businessmen alike before turning to each other, locking eyes like little boys who'd just caught their first bug.

"Are we pigs?" Mustang asked, scratching his neck. He glanced back at the bar.

"Hardly," Hughes said. He snaked one leg under the table and hooked the bottom of Mustang's seat.

"We're gentlemen."

"Mmm," agreed Hughes. He inched the chair to the right, then towards himself.

"More than gentlemen!" Mustang said brightly, toying with the stem of his glass.

Hughes nodded and gave the chair one tiny, silent tug.

Mustang wagged a finger. "We're officers!"

"You're an alchemist!"

Mustang paused, turned abruptly and pointed. Hughes was sure he had been caught in the act of relocating Mustang's chair. It seemed he was safe however as his friend simply prodded his finger in assent. "An alchemist! A state bloody alchemist. I have a silver watch!"

"You're practically... what... a national treasure."

"Came eighty-fourth in the Eastern Star's East City's One Hundred Most Influential People," Mustang said with mock pride. "You can't buy that kind of publicity. I've tried."

With that said, he sat. Spectacularly.

Missing his seat entirely, he landed hard on his rump then spilled backwards like a badly weighted ship.

His wine, miraculously, remained in-tact. Not a drop was spilled.

Most of the patrons laughed raucously, while those who'd had enough of the boys' antics simply ignored the foolishness, maintaining their chatter as though nothing had happened at all.

Hughes inched around the table. Placing his hands on his bent knees, he looked down at the grumpy, boozy-pink face below him. He smiled and waved. Mustang smiled back... a sort of mean thing; a smile that said -

Hughes was on the floor before he even realised what had happened. He was not quite as adept at holding onto his wine as Mustang was. The glass disappeared somewhere behind him, presumably into the flowerpots.

He lay spread-eagled beside Mustang, his face on the baking-hot pavement and his glasses pushed into an arrangement that looked a little like a turn-of-the-century sculpture.

Mustang winked at him, raised his head, and finished his wine in one go.

Both gents were respectably asked to leave the premises soon thereafter.

Drunk was perhaps too strong a word for the pair as they tripped down the cast iron stairs and out onto the street. They had been drunker, and a little schoolboy naughtiness couldn't quite compare to their academy days of sneaking into Central Zoo or running naked through the Botanical Gardens. Still, both major and colonel jostled one another and chuckled at nothing as they made their way onward to the next bar in the orange light of evening. Despite his joy at his friend's lightheartedness, Hughes couldn't help but sour a little at the thinness of him under his shirt, and the way he limped, just slightly – favouring his right leg. He knew of course, that unlike himself (usually comfortably ensconced behind his desk), Mustang was still rigourously active in East City. As he understood it, Mustang was the go-to guy for any jobs senior officers didn't feel inclined to do. It was well known amongst the force that East City was home to many an officer who'd been sent out to pasture. This meant that the young alchemist and something-hero did everything from chasing down common thugs to supervising reconstruction after landslides. Hughes surmised that Mustang had so much colour in his cheeks because he was scarcely even in headquarters.

"You're thin," Hughes said, giving Mustang a companionable squeeze. The words had come unbidden. Hughes was glad that the booze was loosening his tongue.

Mustang pushed him off with a swing of his skinny hip. It clipped him just around mid-thigh, and Hughes chuckled, mildly pleased by his own tall stature.

"You're thin," Mustang said, pinching Hughes below the ribs. "Now... but wait until Gracia really gets going. They'll have to roll you into the office."

"I can't wait," Hughes sighed, winning a chuckle from his friend. He still wasn't satisfied, though. In Investigations, Hughes heard whispers all the time: talk of the missions the Flame Alchemist was commanding out in the Wild East. It wasn't too long ago that he and half of his men were laid up in hospital after being caught in a nasty gas explosion. Ladder-climbers like Mustang got eaten up by the system almost as a matter of tradition. If only people knew how far up Mustang's ladder went. He'd be obliterated in a second.

So if Hughes had a little morbid curiosity about the welfare of his friend, who could blame him?

As they turned a corner towards their next haunt, Hughes adjusted his grip on Mustang's shoulder. He feigned a stumble to the left, testing the side that seemed to be giving the alchemist trouble. Mustang hopped awkwardly, readying himself to catch Hughes. A strange 'ho!' noise sprang from his throat as his left knee buckled under the extra weight and he fell against Hughes's side. Both men tottered towards the wall for a soft crash-landing.

Hughes coughed an apology, watching his friend closely. Then, ever-so-lightly, he asked: "What was that?"

Mustang grimaced and massaged himself from thigh to shin, pushing his thumbs deep into the fabric of his trousers. He shook his head and smiled up at Hughes. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing. Just a thing."

"A thing," Hughes dead-panned. "Wonderful." He paused and took Mustang by the arm. "You should have said, you ninny. We could have stayed around the station if you had a … thing. You shouldn't be walking – drunk! - if your leg's giving you jip."

Perhaps it was the forced lightness of his tone that alerted Mustang to the act. Whatever it was, Mustang straightened immediately and looked Hughes straight in the eye. He placed his hands on his hips, resolute and visibly irked.

"Really?"

Hughes coughed again. "What?"

He was graced with a textbook version of Mustang's infamous, withering stare. He opened his palms and shrugged: "What do you expect?"

"Look, Hughes," Mustang said, though it was more of a sigh. "I've been looking forward to this weekend for months. Let's just... you know..." He shrugged at Hughes's expectant eyebrows. When Hughes remained silent, he rolled his eyes at having to continue. "You know... it was work... It was a stupid thing out in the country; should never have happened."

"Details?"

"No! I think I'd die before I told another soul. It really wasn't very heroic, I can tell you that much."

"Was it a cow?"

Laughing, Mustang shook his head. He kicked the ground at his feet, biting his lip in thought. Hughes watched the whole dance, familiar with every step. At last, Mustang looked at him. "Hughes, come on. Please. That – it's East City... miles away. This is Central – my home. I just want to have a good time. I want you to have a good time."

Hughes pushed Mustang on the shoulder without any real meaning. It felt nice just knowing he was here, and not way out East as he said. Hughes almost felt his friend was liable to disappear at any moment.

"I am having a good time," admitted Hughes, then seeing Mustang's childish scowl: "I am! I just... worry. You know me."

Mustang turned and started walking, dragging Hughes behind him by the loop of his belt. "Oh, I know. There's nothing Maes Hughes likes more than worrying about me."

"Say...!" Hughes protested.

Mustang slung his arm up – with effort – over Hughes's broad shoulders. "Look, how about this: it's a full moon tonight. A blue moon. Don't you know that's when the world turns upside down and I worry about you."

Placing his hand at the back of Mustang's neck, Hughes gave his hair a little tug. "Hmm..." he said with pantomime uncertainty.

"The moon, Hughes! The moon!" Mustang unfurled his cheekiest grin. The new spattering of freckles stretched across his high cheekbones. "I'm an alchemist," he said with triumph. "That's science, my friend."

Hughes moved his hand to pinch Mustang's cheek. "You've gone all freckly. Pigtails next?"

"I don't know... what does Gracia pref – ah!" he cried, as Hughes lashed out at him with one large foot. Mustang skipped away and spun, laughing.

People turned their heads to study Mustang – still a boy really. Passers-by smiled just looking at him – this vision of exuberance. Smart men who should have known better held onto their girls a little tighter, and a dignified gentleman sat alone in a cafe looked at him with something like nostalgia. Hughes's heart constricted again. Here was his friend, together with him. The city – the whole world – was at their feet. The sun was burning away, sinking lazily into the Western mountains. On Saturday he would marry the most beautiful woman in Amestris, his precious, pure Gracia. Mustang would be beside him, guiding him and joking quietly into his ear as they awaited the bride. The two of them would be in full dress uniform. Handsome. Important. On their way up – the talk of the town.

This was the beginning of a whole new life for them: the beginning of everything.

Mustang woke with a start. Not knowing, at first, his precise location, he sat up quickly, pressing his back to the wall. He was covered in the foul smelling sweat of boozy slumber, and his heart hammered vigourously in his chest. What had he been dreaming about? Strange. One moment previous, the vanished dream had been his whole world, and now he couldn't remember a single detail. Perhaps the ghost of a smell – a sensation, or ambience.

Slowly, through the navy soup of deep night, his whereabouts returned to him. Faintly, the blue light of the city outside lined the small windows of his hotel room. There, that dark mass was surely the dresser and there, that thin sliver of light the brass handle of the bathroom door. The white ceiling seemed almost to glow now that his eyes were adjusting. In the corner, to his chagrin, he spotted the careless mess of his ransacked suitcase.

He sighed. His mind begged to know exactly what had happened in the lost hours preceding his return to the hotel, but his heavy eyes called for sleep. He doubted it was near morning, and desperately needed the rest. He couldn't remember the last time he chalked up more than five hours sleep in a night. With the way East was working him, it could be another five years before he was able to boast a lie-in and morning with the papers in bed.

Decision made, Mustang turned the pillow roughly and slid back down under the sheets. He pushed his nose deep into the cool, starched cotton. It smelled of lavender and of a blonde girl in blue linen. He saw her strong fingers pegging white shirts and sheets to a washing line. It drooped heavily in the middle so that they shone like a smile in the sun. He sighed again. Bliss.

A noise broke the quiet. A strange noise. That is to say: not a hotel noise. Not a dripping tap, nor a straining pipe. Not the pressing of bodies in the gloom, not the soft tread of weary feet on thick carpet. Not the ubiquitous flushing of an old toilet, loud enough to penetrate the entire building. Not popping toasters, boiling kettles, nor arguing whispers.

This was a sob, and it came from somewhere within that very room. It was likely, he supposed, that he had imagined it. That it came right on the edge of his consciousness, as he was drifting off to sleep. He often dreamt of weeping.

It came again, and a struggle for control could be heard.

Mustang's eyes popped open. "Hello?"

There was a gasp followed by a desperately sad choking noise. The young alchemist well knew the futility of trying to battle the waves of sorrow when they came. The grief of a soldier was a tide that did not heed the word of man, least of all the soldier himself. Mustang sat up again, the thin sheet pooling about his stomach. His tired eyes scanned the smoky, blue-blackness of the room. It didn't take long for him to spot the pair of large, bare feet extending out past the edge of the bed.

"Hughes?"

Mustang cocked his head and strained to hear. Of course, the moment he spoke the man's name, the room went utterly quiet again. A suspicious quiet. The telling quiet of someone trying to be quiet.

He swung his legs out and over the side of the bed, the muscles in his left calf pulling terribly.

"Hughes?" he whispered. "You're awake?"

There was a loud, pitiful gulp, then a shuddering breath. Mustang grimaced and waited. Waited and planned: how am I to play this? How am I do play this new and surprising thing?

When Hughes spoke, his voice was thick with tears.

"Go back to sleep, Roy."

And truly, he considered it. The strangeness of this waking dream was totally unknown to him. How Hughes had even ended up on the floor of his hotel room rather than his own bed was a puzzle in and of itself.

Hughes's request though, however much Mustang wished to honour it, was impossible. It was their story, holding onto each other like exhausted boxers, each keeping the other from falling down.

And so, there really was no-one else. The only open heart to moments such as this, was one wrapped in the blue of Amestris.

Mustang stood and swayed for a moment, a little drunk still and dizzy. The back of his head pounded tremendously as soon as he gained his feet. He grumbled and tottered forward, pulling the blankets from the bed with him.

He reached the edge of the bed and glanced down. Hughes lay curled at the foot of the bed like a sorry dog. He was still clothed, bar his jacket, which was thrown over him, barely covering his torso. His face was pressed into his large hands, and he shook. He shook so violently that Mustang could see it even through the room's murkiness.

"Hughes," he said quietly, distressed by the sight. Truly, he'd never seen such a thing. It was unpleasant in its strangeness, and he felt suddenly helpless. He whispered, "Hey" and kicked his friend's foot.

"Go back to bed, Roy," said Hughes, in an irritated, bothered tone. When there was no sign of movement from the other man he groaned loudly and shouted into his hands. "Goddamn it, go back to bed!"

Mustang jumped. There was the violence Mustang knew so well in himself. There was the fear and the shame of tears from a man of war. There was the acid bite of being caught crying by a comrade. But it shouldn't have been Hughes. Never Hughes. It was deeply incongruous, and both men knew it.

Chancing a step forward to face his friend, Mustang called for Hughes again. There wasn't a second to react. Hughes yelled – howled – and lashed out with his foot in what should have been an effort to shoo Mustang, to frighten him back to bed, and away from the awful show of weakness. It caught the alchemist low on the shin, however, and with an echoing howl, Mustang crashed to his knees.

"Fuck," Mustang choked in a breath and brought his open palm down hard on Hughes's thigh, "sake, Hughes!"

There was silence, a guilty little hiccup in the middle of Hughes's anguish. Now it was he who listened while Mustang recovered himself.

"Roy?" he asked, meek and worried. "Did I get you?"

Mustang bit his lip, quelling the pain, and laughed bitterly through his tight mouth. He spoke at last, exasperated. "Yes," he said. "You got me." Straightening up on his knees, he shuffled towards Hughes's head. He could see that Hughes had removed his hands by now and was watching him with wide, wet eyes. Mustang scowled at him. "You moron."

It should have been an easy insult, something to calm the mood, but to Mustang's horror, Hughes's eyes filled with tears again. Swiftly, he buried his face in his hands once more.

Feeling immensely lost, Mustang shuffled a little closer. He reached for Hughes but found his fingers stilled by a heavy, dreadful weight on his conscience. Never before had he seen the man in a state of such torment. Mustang wasn't stupid, and by now, he certainly wasn't naïve. He knew that everyone suffered torture from their own demons, and that even Hughes – light and cheerful – shouldered his own burdens. The difference now was this: he was witness. The fourth wall had come down, the trickster had shown his hand and the mask had come off.

"Oh," Mustang said, cursing his idiot, early-morning head. His silver tongue had fled and left him dumb. What could he say? What could he possibly say to... this?

"Please, Roy," the larger man sobbed. "It was... just a dream. I'm sorry I kicked you. I'm sorry. Please go back to bed."

Mustang whined in the back of his throat, still tempted by the welcoming ignorance of his bed. He would eventually drift off – or not – and Hughes would cry himself back into an uneasy slumber. In the morning then, both men could pretend the mid-night incident had never taken place. It was Hughes's way: to bury this man and maintain the other Hughes, the one who only wept when he was happy. The one who'd never killed. The one, Mustang thought grimly, who could marry Gracia and one day be a father.

Slowly, as if trying to catch a spider, he stood. He crept over Hughes's shaking form so that he stood at his back. Then, without making a noise, he sank to his knees again, then to lying. Lost for words that wouldn't be entertained anyway, he took a deep breath and placed his right hand on Hughes's arm. The man stiffened where he lay like a coiled cobra.

"Roy," he grumbled and sniffed. He took a painful sounding breath that rattled in his throat before he managed to swallow it down with another loud gulp. "Go back... to bed... please. I don't need you."

"The wedding?" asked Mustang. "Is it... is it the wedding? Hughes? Maes?"

"Go back to bed."

Mustang swallowed again, a cartoonish noise gurgling up from his throat. Hughes stank of wine, and it only occurred to Mustang then that there was every chance his friend was still drunk.

"I don't -" Mustang started feebly. He was terrible at this. Who in his life had he ever had to support as a friend? Him, the child of parents already rotten in the ground. Nobody. Not even Hawkeye. No-one abided it from him. They must have known he was useless at such ordinary things. "I can't do that."

"You fucking can."

Another huge sob shook Hughes from shoulders to stomach. He trembled on the rich carpet, weeping freely now. He growled fiercely into his hands, frustrated and angry. Scared too, Mustang imagined.

The room seemed to shrink as Mustang considered his next words. As soon as they came to him, he knew not only that they were true, but that he absolutely had to say them.

"It comes to me too," he said quietly. "Ishbal."

Hughes threw himself forward, curling even tighter in on himself, like some huge, shivering mollusc. He spat, bitterly, "But I'm not you, Roy!"

He cried unheeded, shaking his head and breathing wetly through a face hot with tears and snot. Well there it was. The truth of it.

Mustang adjusted himself, enormously nervous and wounded terribly. He could forgive the cruel words, though, because they were true. It hurt.

He shifted his hips a little closer and dropped his arm over Hughes's body to rest his hand on the man's shirtfront. Hughes sighed loudly and tried to shrug Mustang off. The smaller man held fast, then faster still as Hughes yelled incomprehensibly and threw an elbow back.

"Just..." a cough. "Leave me alone, Roy! Give me some -"

Mustang pulled hard on the other man's chest and levering him back, slipped his other arm under. He tugged and fought the writhing mass in his grasp until Hughes was flush against his chest. Hughes erupted; a fearsome thing, full of curses and violence and hateful, hateful words. Mustang grunted as flaying elbows found his chest and stomach. His jaw ached when Hughes's head clipped it with a loud crack. Neighbouring guests hammered on the walls for quiet, but still Hughes railed against the smaller man.

Each vile word struck Mustang like a knife, but the wounds only strengthened his resolved. He isn't himself. This isn't Hughes. Not really.

"My Ishbal wasn't the same as yours, Roy," he said.

"My hands are clean. My hands are clean," he said.

"Gracia knows me. Gracia knows the real me," he said.

"I'm not like you. I don't do this," he said.

And to each spiteful truth and untruth, Mustang simply said: "I know."

And soon too, he was crying quietly. He held fast and wept into Hughes's hair and neck: "Please, Hughes. Please." Though what he was pleading for, he didn't know. Maybe he too wished Hughes had the strength to live the lie he was trying to weave for himself. It was a beautiful thing, if naïve, to think that a wife could save him from his past. Drunk with grief, the bigger man turned and pressed his face into Mustang's neck. His foul words had turned to sorrow, and he spoke of Gracia like a dying thing. On the cusp of disappearing. He worried for her, and for himself: what if I should dream I'm there again, and kill her in her sleep, mistaking her for an Ishballan? What if, in my slumber, I betray the Hughes I've kept from her? What if she finds something, by chance, that tells her of my past?

Mustang nodded and soothed. He held that great big, shuddering body with all his might and willed away his fears. If he could eat Hughes's sins he would do so gladly. A few more would do him no harm.

Two men who'd barely even made a dent in their twenties wept together for their ruined youths. There was a dream, of course – a plan for the future – but night-time was the realm of the past, and hope was still far on the horizon, waiting with the sun.

Just before he nodded off, Hughes silent in his arms, Mustang thought of the blonde girl in blue linen again. Guiltily, he delighted in her complicity in his foul deeds. He needn't fear discovery. She knew all, and worshipped him even so. For that, and so much more, he worshipped her in return.

In the morning, while both men sat together on the bed devouring their breakfast, Hughes coughed and faced Mustang. He replaced his half-eaten toast on the saucer and said:

"So listen, I was really drunk last night."

Just as Mustang knew he would.


Central City, 18th November 1915

Just by existing. For the greater good. One pale fist.


Through the cold shield of the two way mirror, Ed studied the man in front of him.

No, not the man. The 'subject'. Subject number eight. The third successful test case of Ed's array. This was his second session with the lab's psychologist, and the department were thrilled with the depth and precision of the results. Not only had the man been stripped of key memories, he was absolutely certain that he'd wound up in the research facility following an unsuccessful mission to Drachma. No matter that Number Eight had never served in the army. He just needed to believe he did.

Subject Six was Ed's first success, and while Bormann was largely contented with the achievement, Ed wasn't confident enough to use it on Mustang. The first five prisoners were dead now. Subjects One and Two had died the instant the array was activated. The gory results still lingered in the darkness behind Ed's closed eyelids, coming to him unbidden each and every night. With Subject Three, Ed had managed to snick back the man's memories right to desired point in history. All was well until in a moment of doubt, lasting no more than a second, Ed lost control of the array and the prisoner succumbed to the same fate as his predecessors. Subjects Four and Five could be called successes in the thinnest interpretation of the word. Number Four wound up in the same zombie state as Armstrong, while Number Five showed greater promise until after only two days when he was found dead in his cell: his bowels had ruptured. Somehow, the array had untaught him how to pass waste. It was a devastating lesson for Ed – how one memory could inform another, stretching like miles and miles of dominoes. He had had to revise the whole array after that. Five's body followed the others into the lab's incinerator.

After Number Five, Ed fell into a deep state of despair. He was going to kill Mustang, he thought. Bormann would grow impatient and force a premature procedure on the Colonel – then his body too would be melted to nothing inside the hungry furnace.

The young alchemist longed to speak with his commander. Since the incident at the hospital, Mustang had been removed to a small private wing in the military facility. There, he remained sedated and under guard. Hughes was still allowed to visit, but only under supervision. With red-rimmed eyes and a shaking voice, the Inspector had informed Ed that the administration were awaiting the death of the unfortunate nurse. At that point, Mustang would be transferred to the sole care of a state representative: one Mr Martin Bormann. The nurse remained in a coma and was not expected to recover.

Together in Hughes's house, man and boy had wept together while Gracia hurried Elysia up and away into her bedroom. Shame clung to Ed like a fever-sweat and he sat miserably for hours, his face pressed into his palms. A glance through his fingers saw Hughes biting one white knuckle, crying freely and silently as his eyes danced back and forth in frantic thought. How could any of them hope to survive this? Hughes: the man whose love outweighed his mercy (for by now, Hawkeye would have dealt the killing blow to Mustang, and they both knew it). Then Ed: the boy killer by horrid, cowardly means.

Subjects Six, Seven and Eight were successful. All three doubtless proved that the array served its purpose without error, but they were all humans whom Ed had robbed of their pasts. They were rotten, deplorable people, but that did little to ease the boy's conscience.

It's all for Mustang, he told himself. It's for the greater good, he reasoned. Constantly, his mind turned to the Colonel and the lies the man must have told himself in Ishbal, the thin justifications he must have found for the evils he committed. Ed knew now that he was no better. Perhaps no man ever could be. In the space of a month, his idealism - his faith in good had corroded. Badness, the boy supposed, would always win. Evil was like smoke: impossible to net, noxious and without form. And good? It was vulnerable. It was human. Good was Hawkeye whose powdered skull fed the weeds in Tolven. Good was Mustang, lying dumb and crippled in a silent, lonely ward. Good was Hughes, the loving, desperate coward. Good was Ed, the fool who thought that righteousness was enough. Good was weak, Ed concluded. Bad – it didn't even have to try very hard. Just by existing, evil vanquished.

All that could be hoped for was a kinder breed of sin; less collateral damage. Yes, Ed thought, that's precisely what the young war-bound Mustang would have concluded.

A draft washed across Ed's skin as the soundproofed door opened behind him. He knew without looking who had entered. Menace bled into the room like tear gas.

"You have terrible posture," Bormann said from behind him. Ed scowled at the man's ghostly reflection in the glass in front of him.

"What do you want?"

Laughing quietly to himself, Bormann slinked further into the small room. He stood to Ed's left, all straight back and squared shoulders. Similar to Mustang's tidy demeanour, Ed observed, but lacking the effortlessness the Colonel exuded.

"I have some good news," said Bormann, his reflection smiling at Ed.

Ed's stomach plummeted. His voice was solid, but his jaw was slack with nausea. "The nurse," said the boy.

"The nurse," Bormann repeated. "The breathing apparatus failed in the early hours of this morning. Strange. Just one of those things I suppose."

"So he's yours now," Ed whispered. "The Colonel."

The secretary tilted his head to the side and his neck gave a bright pop! Finally, he turned and grinned down at Ed. "Come now, Edward. Colonel Mustang has and will always be property of Amestris. Just as you are, despite your protestations."

Glancing up with heavy eyes, Ed studied Number Eight again. The man was smiling dumbly at the pictures the psychologist was showing him – all of them doctored. It was Ed's idea: the false photographs. When a memory was removed, he'd learned, a vacuum remained. Without filling that vacuum, the 'dead space' was in danger of growing, like a black hole. It didn't matter what replaced it, really. People were so desperate to have some sort of history, they would grab hold of anything. So it would be with Mustang. They already had his 'history' all worked out. It was like a Xerxian drama in scale: almost unbelievable. But Mustang would believe anything they told him: that's how the array worked. That's how Ed had tailored it to work.

"I want to see him," Ed said, strongr than he thought himself capable. "I want to see Mustang now. Immediately. I won't do another thing until-"

"Fine."

"What?" Ed spun in his seat and looked up at Bormann, who was staring almost lustfully at the subject on the other side of the glass.

"Do as you please, Edward. Your advancements with the array have been nothing short of stellar. There is virtually nothing you nor that wretched Hughes man can do to disrupt our plans. Alea iacta est.."

"The die is cast," Ed muttered miserably. A die forged in his mind and cast from his hand. "When can I see him?"

Bormann huffed and made a disgruntled face. "Whenever you like," he sneered. "I'm not your mother."

Ed was shocked. It was probably the first time Bormann had shown any hint of annoyance. It was difficult to ruffle Mustang's feathers, but by no means impossible – certainly not for an expert like Ed, but Bormann was another story. He was practically a robot, an automaton programmed only to serve the depraved wishes of the state. He noted the anomoly... What a good scientist he'd become.

Standing, Ed faced Bormann with a grim smile. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Bormann. You've won, haven't you?"

Bormann's hard eyes narrowed for a moment as he considered Ed's question. He was bothered by something, that much was clear. Ed watched the man with care, his quick mind humming with a thousand questions as to what the matter could be. Before any answers could be divined, however, Bormann regained himself and smirked back at Ed.

"Give the Colonel my regards," he said.

Ed said nothing. Instead, he gathered up his portfolio, slipped into his jacket and pushed past Bormann whose steely gaze had returned to Number Eight.

OoO

Mustang was sleeping when Ed entered his room. They'd shaved his head again. Ed was still shocked by just how different the man looked. Even in slumber, with his long black lashes pressed against his pale skin and his gently rising chest, he looked tougher, meaner. He looked every inch a soldier: not the well-pressed officer he really was. Ed noted with a scowl that the hospital had prepped his arm for automail surgery. They'd already pruned back the arm and inserted clips to keep the flesh stimulated. The boy couldn't imagine it; Mustang with a metal arm. Cold, alloy fingers wrapped in pristine, white spark cloth. The Flame Alchemist was terrifying enough as it was, but by increments he was becoming even more deadly, even more the picture of Amestrian might.

Ed swallowed and moved closer to him. He took the older man's remaining hand in his own and squeezed it.

"Mustang," he said. "Mustang, it's me, Ed."

The man's eyelashes fluttered and his head dropped to the side. His breath hitched in his chest, and his strong fingers tightened around Ed's own steel hand. He failed to wake, however. Ed grumbled and reached up to adjust the sedatives flowing into Mustang's system.

The boy watched and waited for perhaps another twenty minutes before trying again. This time, Mustang's eyes flew open the second Ed squeezed his hand. His neck and spine cracked as he flung himself upwards to sitting, his chest heaving wildly. Wide, terrified eyes shot to Ed and for a dizzying few moments Ed saw no recognition in those inky, black pools. Ah, he thought with dread, this is what it will be like then, after the array.

Finally, Mustang breathed a deep sigh of relief and said: "Edward." And that one word, just his name, already had tears stinging hotly on the surface of Ed's eyes. Mustang's face changed and he no longer looked mean or tough or lost, but calm and loving. "It's good to see you." He squeezed Ed's hand. "God... it's good to see you."

As if that much had exhausted him completely, Mustang let his head fall back against the wall behind him, wincing as his stitches connected with the cold, hard surface. He had hours worth of sedatives in his system, but already Ed could see the clarity in the man's eyes: on first waking a spark, and now a burning intelligence. He patted Ed's hand twice.

"I think I know why you're here," he said darkly but without indulgence. It wasn't the first time the man had killed unfairly, and he didn't allow himself any selfish grief. "The girl is dead."

The harshness of the words shouldn't have shocked Ed, but they did. The boy couldn't blame Mustang, for the Colonel was only looking at the bigger picture. While the girl lived, there was still a barrier between him and Bormann, but now that she was gone, Mustang was certifiably a threat to society. It gave the military free reign to do anything within their power to neutralise him. Mustang was just about the deadliest weapon in Bradley's arsenal, and the death of one girl – no matter how tragic – was nothing compared to what lay before them.

"You know about the array," Ed said levelly.

Mustang nodded and smiled ruefully. "Bormann delighted in filling me in when I was first moved here." He cast his tired eyes to Ed then rolled them in black amusement. "As I'm sure you can imagine."

Ed laughed through his nose, but suddenly, fear gripped his heart. It was happening. It was happening, and they had lost! He shook his head, trying his best to catch hold of his emotion. "I hate him, Mustang."

Mustang's eyes hardened and his lips turned down in a terrible frown. He swung his arm up and took his young protégé by the shoulder. "I know, Ed. I'm sorry." Ed tossed his head angrily, his chest constricting with burning grief and guilt. Mustang pushed him by the shoulder and squeezed it, hard enough to bruise. "Show me it, Ed. Show me your array."

Ed gasped, realising for the first time that there was a reason why he'd taken his portfolio with him in the first place. It was so that Mustang could see the array. Even now, even when Ed was committing a truly despicable deed, he needed Mustang's approval. A fat tear fell over his lashes and splashed on the clean white sheet by Mustang's side. Ed moved to cuff it away, but Mustang beat him to it, smiling sadly. He swept his thumb across the boy's cheekbone, catching his jaw in his rough, warm palm.

"Edward," he said, looking deep, deep into the boy's eyes. "I will never, ever tell you to do something that isn't right or good, not while I'm still myself. Trust me." He leant closer to the younger alchemist. "Show me the array."

Ed shook his head again violently, feeling very much the child in an adult's world. "Can't you see, Mustang? There is no good! Show me the good in any of this! Anywhere! Where is it?"

That gave the Flame Alchemist pause. He dropped his hand to his side and breathed noisily through his nose. Ed watched him, panting. He wanted Mustang to show him 'good'. He really did. But he knew by the distant, peaceful look in the man's eyes that Mustang's good wasn't good enough for Ed. He was old enough by now to know that virtue didn't come for free – a sacrifice was always required.

"Show me the array, Edward," Mustang repeated calmly.

With trembling fingers, Ed reached into his portfolio and produced his completed array. It was watermarked for safety by a large red 'X', but the design was still visible – beautiful in its intricacy.

Mustang studied it with a hungry and strangely euphoric expression. Unshed tears gleamed like flashbulbs in the corner of his dark eyes as they scanned the pattern. He was an alchemist after all, prone to exquisite arrays, no matter how dark. Even the most gory classical paintings were works of art.

Still scrutinising the work, he began speaking in a flat, detached voice. "Have you ever heard of Ada Eichmann, Ed?"

Edward shuffled in his seat and answered in the negative. In Mustang's tone and in the set of his shoulders, Edward saw a dawning truth. Mustang had first entreated Hughes to save him, and now it would be Ed.

Mustang opened his fingers for a pen. Ed fumbled in his jacket for one before placing it in his commander's outstretched hand. With deft strokes, Mustang began making alterations to the array, his eyes never leaving the page as he spoke.

"He was the scientist Amestris tasked with finding the best way of liquidising all opposing Aerugonian forces during the Tennet War. He was a skilled, highly efficient man and set about his job with vigour. He never once thought to question whether anything he was doing was morally correct. It never occurred to him – he was only interested in the science of it. He never had to consider the bigger picture. He was so convinced that what he was doing was necessary. Was right, even."

Shame blossomed in Ed's chest and it took him a moment to realise that Mustang wasn't talking about him at all. "You're worried. You're scared of what you might do without them... us?"

The Colonel's eyes rose to the ceiling. He closed them, cocking his head to the side in memory. "You have no idea..."

Both men fell quiet, both thinking the same thing. There could be no doubt now, that Mustang's power would be turned against Aerugo.

Eventually, the Colonel opened his eyes again, freshly bright with new resolve. "I often thought which of us would be the first to go: myself or the lieutenant. Now I have my answer."

He handed the array back to Ed.

The instant Ed's eyes fell on the adjustments, he clenched them shut, stricken with distress by the unspoken request.

"I can't do this."

"You can," Mustang said. "You must, Ed."

Ed flung the document down on the floor. "You're asking me to murder you and I won't do it!"

Mustang sucked in a breath and continued in his flat, accepting tone. "This array Ed... the life Bormann wants for me, it's as good as death – worse."

Ed leapt to his feet, sending the flimsy chair skidding back and banging into the wall. "This is what you call 'good', Mustang? You said you would never tell me to do anything wrong! Do you have any idea what this array will do to you? We'll be scrubbing you off the damn wall!"

Images of Numbers One, Two and Three flashed through Ed's mind. He couldn't. He couldn't! Mustang couldn't die that way – it was impossible.

Mustang, swiftly losing strength, sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his thin, pale arm. "Edward... sit down..."

"You're all as bad as each other," Ed continued, hot, frightening energy flaring in his breast. "You'd have me kill the whole world just to suit yourselves!"

"Edward, please..."

Ed was livid now. He bore down on his commanding officer with a fury stoked by weeks of anguish and fear and stress and sin.

"Why? Why me? Every goddamn week since I've known you, you've called me a kid; you've laughed at my height... at my age! You've shielded me with lie after lie, hiding truths from me since as far as I can remember. Why now? You selfi-"

He didn't get to finish. Quick as lightning, Mustang shot from the bed and thrust Ed against the wall by the throat. Equipment toppled behind him and wires tore themselves free from his skin. His chest was flush against Ed's, crushing him against the wall and stopping his breath short in his lungs. But more crushing still, was the weight of those eyes filled with fear, flooded with fear. Mustang wasn't scared of dying at all. He was terrified of living.

"You are wrong," he hissed, each word leaking out of him, sibilant and cold. "This is the first selfless thing I've done in my entire life."

"Colonel," Ed choked, squirming in the unrelenting grasp of the sick man's hand. How he managed it – Ed didn't know. This wasn't the raving, drugged man who had killed the nurse. This was Mustang, all right. This was the Flame Alchemist, harried and fighting from the very edge of reason.

The hand around Ed's throat slackened. In the next beat, Mustang slumped against his subordinate, utterly spent. He pushed his cool, damp cheek against Ed's cheek, while his hand groped desperately in the boy's hair. His voice was thick with emotion when he gathered himself enough to talk.

"Please understand, Edward. If you don't end this, you will regret it for the rest of your life. I am...," Mustang paused, struggling for breath – for words – for the strength to make his distraught entreaty.

Ed sobbed and in a fit of childish need, grappled with his commander. He pulled the man closer to him, at once supporting him and seeking his support. He could feel the older man's heart beat frantically through the thin material of his hospital gown. His wet cheek slid against Mustang's. "Please... I can't... I can't..."

"Edward... Edward..."

Mustang was upset – perhaps weeping even, Ed could hear from his voice. Still he held him close – closer. He didn't want to see that fear. He didn't want to be shown that deep, devastating sorrow. He was scared of Mustang's grief because he knew it was deserved. He knew Mustang was right, but he couldn't do what was asked of him. Who would he follow, if Mustang vanished from the world? How could he forge on if he left this man behind? He couldn't.

Mustang knocked his head against Ed's. "Edward, you are my only hope. If it isn't you, then it's nobody."

Ed coughed and shook the man. He reared back then forced his wet, miserable, wretched face against the man's thin chest. "No," he moaned.

The Colonel's voice was eerily quiet when he next spoke. So quiet that Ed barely heard him at all. Frantic footsteps were echoing up the corridor outside. This was it. They were out of time.

Mustang whispered to him urgently. "Don't let me be that man again, Edward. Save me."

Ed pushed the Colonel back, but exhausted, the man had bowed his head and was swaying in Ed's grasp. He shook his head tiredly. "Save me, Ed."

In a confusion of movement and blinded by his tears, Ed was pried free of the Colonel by strong, gloved hands. "I can't," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm not her. I'm not her. I can't. I'm not that strong," Ed pleaded, on and on, but the Colonel merely shook his head, over and over. Broken.

The orderlies put him back to bed, fixing the equipment once more.

"Please forgive me, Colonel," Ed begged, but Mustang just continued to shake his head sadly. Lost. Hopelessly lost.

The orderlies took Ed by the arms and began dragging him back and away from his dear, noble Colonel. Mustang didn't look at him again, and before Ed had even reached the door, the sedatives had taken effect on the man.

The last thing Ed saw as the door swung shut behind him was Mustang's unconscious form and the clump of bright blond hair clutched in one pale fist.


Thanks folks! Please review if you have the time... I can't tell you how much of a struggle this has become T_T