When Mustang arrived in Central a few days after the confirmation of Hughes death by the military, he was greeted by Alex's somber face. Hawkeye was by Mustang's side, watching him carefully. They both knew how much Hughes meant to him, and how much he would have done had he had no support or someone to slap him in the face - a reminder to thank Hawkeye for that- how, on the first night, he did not sleep, his eyes wide open, void and staring at memories still so fresh. It was the second or the third day that it had really hit him, excusing himself from office early and going home. He had hated crying, even if he knew it wasn't a sign of weakness, he always felt like it had been. The phone had rang, he was sure it was Alex, he had been trying to reach him since Mustang heard the news, but he dully tuned it out, tired eyes looking at the empty glass of whiskey on the counter. He thought one glass wouldn't hurt, and one quickly turned into two and so on and so forth until the night itself was nothing more than a blur.
He felt Armstrong grip his shoulder tightly, the best sign of support he could give in public. He thanked him for the sentiment. Funerals had always been the worst. His first had been that of his own parents. He has been four at the time. His sister, nine. The concept of death hadn't really been something he could have grasped his head around at the time. He felt a form of empathy with Elicia, burying your parents before your time, even if unable to understand the concept until a few years later, was still the worse feeling he couldn't even remember.
He went to pick up some flowers, carnations, the appropriate flower for funerals. Hawkeye asked him where he would be heading, the funeral would be in a few days. He informed them he would be heading to Gracia's, he wanted to pay his respects to her in person. Both Armstrong and Hawkeye followed silently.
"Major General Armstrong left you a message, her condolences." Mustang didn't even question Hawkeye's statement, he nodded his head, his mind elsewhere. He would though, remember that statement later on.
When he arrived at the small apartment he had used to visit so often in the past, he hesitated knocking on the door, but did so quite gently, as if it was a ghost. The door open not a second sooner, a young girl with sandy blonde hair and green eyes inquiring in a rather hopeful tone "Daddy?" Mustang gave a small remorseful smile as the young child deflated when her deceased father had not been the one to open the door.
"Who's at the door Elicia?" He could hear Gracia call out from somewhere far, possibly in the kitchen, it was close to lunch. Elicia turned her head back slightly in the direction of her mother.
"Uncle Roy with auntie Riza and Uncle Alex!" Riza couldn't even find it in her to correct the little girl, she allowed her to do so, for she wouldn't want to hurt the little girl more than she had been already. Her tone had, in fact, been sorrowful when she called out their names.
Gracia appeared not two seconds sooner and quickly took Mustang into her embrace, Mustang did not flinch, did not move, but slowly began to return the motion Gracia had thrusted upon him. He could hear a small trembling whispered 'thank you' escape her lips and he bit his own. He remembered how he had met Gracia, the memory coming freshly back to his mind.
Unlike the original version he had garbled out to Hughes when they first met, he had met Gracia in Central, while he had still been under the care of Madame Christmas. His sister had already left long ago to peruse her alchemical training up north at the time, leaving him alone to work in Madame Christmas' 'hostess bar' as she so politely called it. At the time he had returned to Madame Christmas' from the Hawkeye estate, for clientele reasons. He had just gotten off a client, the very one he had returned to Central for, ready to wrap himself upstairs in his sister's alchemical books and the one's he had brought with him from Hawkeye's when he heard the voice of a young girl, not far from his own age, maybe a few years older, begging for a job. She needed the money for her family, to pay off the crippling debt her father had left her and her family after he turned his back on them. He could hear Madame Christmas getting annoyed, and once she got to that point, she caved. It was how he first ended up getting into this fiasco, but he had also done it for a myriad of other reasons. It wasn't an uncommon tale in this domain. Everyone here had their reasons.
"Mind if I speak with her?" The girl had perked up to look over to him, as if he looked and sounded like an angel. Which he probably did. Roy had, over the years, gotten a rather fluid sense of gender presentation, and a whole bunch of older brothers, although very few, and sisters who adored testing makeup and wigs on him. He had become rather adept at applying makeup and wearing wigs to mask himself.
"Azure." Madame Christmas had never been one to stumble on names, never one to stutter or flounder, she said it with ease, conviction and solidity. The Madame stared him down, trying to see if she could read him. She sighed. "Alright, she's yours." With that she exited the back room, leaving Roy and the young girl he would befriend and become one of his very first confidants, alone.
Her name had been Gracia.
When she released him from the hug, she saw the pained, yet understanding smile on his lips. She gently took the flowers from his hands and asked them all to come in.
Armstrong followed along silently, daring not to ask how Roy knew Gracia so familiarly, and seated himself on the tiny couch, finding himself occupied with the little girl who he could barely look in the eye. This all felt so wrong for him.
He looked around the small apartment, on drawers and desks, he could make out pictures, important friends and family. He saw the abundance of family pictures of Maes, Gracia and the some with Elicia. There were solos and duos and some of friends. He spotted the one of a young Maes and Roy, smiling a smile he had seen so rarely, reserved only for the one's he loved. Than there had been one with Gracia and a young woman in a dark blue dress and a black hair slightly tinted blue . The face was familiar to him.
"I presume you'll be staying for lunch." It sounded far more like a demand than a inquiry, Mustang nodded his head. It felt like the right thing to do. Gracia smiled and returned to what she had been doing, a mutual silence settling among them. It was a time for grieving.
And yet Armstrong could not grieve for a man who wasn't dead.