Chapter 21
There was no explosion, none of the cosmos shaking outrage. The young man merely still, flesh and metal fingers laced as he leaned forward with elbows on knees. Roy watched, waiting. But still there was nothing and the fire popped; shooting embers in the air that briefly lit the young man's blank face and deadened eyes. "Fullmetal?" He whispered, cautious. Then Edward stood, and nodded once, slightly, and walked to his tent without another word. It cut Roy so deep he could feel the pain in the fabric of his very being.
Edward woke to a heavy weight pressing down on him and rough gloves cupping the gentle bow of his back. Roy's dry lips pressed to his urgently. The darkness was a canvas in Edward's mind, trying to piece together Roy's face from the fragments of touch and the rustling of cloth. His hands rose to meet Roy's back in return, steel hand slipping in a mixture of sweat in condensation. His flesh hand found the swell of his thigh and pulled it closer so he straddled his own narrow hips. Roy's hands found his hair, tangling in the dull, matted locks as he pressed their hips together frantically.
"Roy," the smaller man moaned as quietly as possible. The man in the darkness answered with a questioning series of kisses that trailed down the beautiful, pale neck the shone for him in the shadows. "Are we going to die?" Alphonse and ice cream flashed to the front of his mind before being banished by a hand reaching below the dirt smeared canvas of his pants.
"Shh," Mustang hushed even as his body tensed. A tender kiss was pressed quickly to his subordinate's forehead with a ghosting of ragged black bangs. In the panting silence, Edward licked the drips of saltwater from his lips.
The young alchemist woke again in the embrace of a phantom, damp with sweat and an uncomfortable stickiness spreading across his thighs and groin. He swallowed heavily at the memory of Roy's dark, wet eyes reflecting the weak light above him.
Outside men were stirring and the birds began to rise into their dawn chorus. Mist enveloped them in grey, muffling their voices like snow. Roy was standing guard by the rations as one Sergeant divvied out the meager portions, a map spread out before him, dotted with little circles and arching lines. Edward felt like the map, worn, flat and grey.
The blonde stood in line, scuffing his feet and shuffling sticks into shapes. The confused and disappointed look on his face at share caused the meek salt and pepper haired Sergeant to murmur an apology.
"The Colonel wouldn't let anyone go to the traps this morning."
"What the hell, Mustang? How am I supposed to function on this?" the young man snarled in a whisper, his stomach growling with him. His golden eyes narrowed like furious sunsets at the contents filling his kit. Lonely on the dented tin was a single pickled sausage, garnished with biscuit of tac and three crackers.
Roy was silent, eyes on the map, tracing the mountains and Ed's scribbled notes of topography. Greedily, his fingers pulled apart the meat, nails snapping into the casing with a crack. He snapped a corner off the tac with his automail, rolling it around in his mouth, feeling the starches dissolve into gritty bits.
The Colonel's hand moved suddenly, disappearing into the breast pocket for the beaten flask, followed by a swift swallow. His voice was low and conspiratory.
"The nearest camp is 60 miles away," he murmured, placing a shaking finger on the map. Sharp eyes noticed the trembling in Roy's thighs that travelled up his body. It could be anything from hunger to exhaustion.
"That's not too bad," Ed muttered between bites. "We could be there in a week."
"Yes, but the last contact I received from the brass was two weeks ago. They could be anywhere. The war could be over and we wouldn't know it," Roy breathed, gusting Edward's bangs in the chilled humid air. Visions of those eyes like pools of oil and muffled explosions swam in his head like fish. He looked up, locking gazes before jerking away, anger threatening to boil over. He took it out on the ground as he stomped away through the mist, and kicking angrily at the smoky wisps and tall grass of the field that housed their radio kit. They needed to try again, to know for sure.
The radio tech was already seated at his post, head nodding slightly, glasses slipping from his nose.
"Getting anything this morning?" He asked, peering over the drooping shoulder at the contraption. The Specialist shook his head slowly, dwarfed almost comically by the military issue headphones. Edward frowned, touching the man's shoulder gently.
"You feel alright?" Specialist Mesas was usually quick with a smile, especially for the Major who visited often. The bowed head shook again, and watery fever red eyes met his. The familiarity of the glazed look and blood tinged spittle in the corner of Mesas mouth hit him like a nightmare. Without even realizing it, a scream for Roy had torn from his throat and his legs blindly followed.
Special Mesas died that night, sobbing and gurgling up pink froth in his delirium. At breakfast mess Mustang announced his untimely passing to silence and downcast eyes. Everyone already knew, but routine and formality were important. He also announced that their departure would be delayed for 24 hours but barring any change in circumstances they would The man had to be buried, and out of a sense of duty the Colonel led a slightly slurred ceremony in the meadow. Edward stared numbly at the radio tent as the Mustang stumbled through a painfully short eulogy, swaying minutely where he stood. Afterwards everyone hovered outside the innocuous green tent, not wanting to touch the pale body. Lividity set in as they argued. Parts of the boy were already a sickly purple by the time Edward snatched one of the shovels Roy had transmuted and flung aside the flaps of the tent, dragging the body out on the rough woolen sheet.
"You get his feet," he barked at Connelly, who, red-faced, fumbled to get a grip. As they awkwardly shuffled the young specialist out to the woods, Ed heard the snap and felt the brief surge of warmth as the tent was burned.
It had been so long since the battle that Edward had forgotten the weight of death. The board of a body rocked between him and Connelly and they both had to stop themselves from holding their breath out of fear of infection.
"This should be far enough," the other young man gasped, releasing his end of the sheet. The body hit the ground with a thud muffled by the leaves. And wordlessly they both set about to digging. The soft dark soil of Drachma scattered itself across their shoulders as it was flung through the air. They both ignored the tracks of mud that carved their cheeks while they worked.
The next day started with the usual early morning disorientation and the nauseating feeling that it had been a week instead of a few days since the massacre. Wordlessly, they rolled up their tents and stuffed their rucks near to bursting with one less man. The blonde went to break down the radio tent and found himself staring down at the heavy, metal lifeline. Though intimidating, he found himself finding many of the knobs and dials familiar, similar to the radios that Alphonse had so fallen in love with during his convalescence.
It was incredibly heavy on his back, and for a second his flesh leg quivered while he found his footing. Roy said nothing about it as he debriefed them all on their plan of travel. Roy was a silent leader walking ahead, withered inside his uniform in a way that filled Edward with a nauseating fear. As they walked, Edward resisted the urge to count their footsteps and the days ahead. This march was slogging and slow and too much like their original slip behind lines. They made sure to never pass through open fields if possible, which became more difficult task they descended from the hills towards sparse farmlands and villages. No one spoke. No one questioned. However, he could see the flickering eyes as a comrade struggled to muffle a cough. He wondered how many of them knew this was a really a funeral march.
By evening they had made it to the flatlands of the valley. With caution they continued forward, past shelled out bridges, dead villages, fields that served as cemeteries for livestock, human, and plant alike. Nobody spoke, and they shuffled like ghost in military formation. It was only finally when they had made it to the safety of the trees, ascending the craggy slope of the mountains that the General waved his hand, and they set up camp. Without even asking, Roy was sure to assemble the Major's tent as he battled with his unofficial demotion to communications.
Evening chill crept slowly up from the forest for through his hips as he sat, staring down the radio. He found himself finding many of the knobs and dials familiar, similar to the radios that Alphonse had so fallen in love with during his convalescence. I traced his fingers along the worn face of the kit. Were there any lingering traces of disease crawling on the surface, in the wiring, the headset? Despite signs of Roy's earlier best intentions, would this demotion be the death of him? Resigned, he sighed and turn the device and began cranking the generator. He knew that their low altitude and heavy tree cover meant the chances of retrieving any signal was slim, but it was better than doing nothing.
He had spent more than an hour scanning through channels occupied by shrill whistles and static. He lingered on the channels with the screamers longer than any other, hoping for a possible break in the signal jam. By the time Roy's heavy hand descended on his shoulder, he was starting to hear things. Adrenaline jolted through his system and his whole body tensed, but the hand on his shoulder remained still and unthreatening. His shaking hands fumbled with the headset.
"Fucking hell, Mustang. You know not to do that!" He let the cool metal of the headphones pull on the back of his neck, the cracking leather cups resting on his chest. The gloved fingers slid up to the exposed skin of his neck. Insects carried through the unfamiliar silence, almost masking the other man's noisy breathing. It had been that way ever since the sickness.
"My apologies, Major. I tried talking to you but you couldn't hear me." The voice lowered to his level and he could hear the shifting of leaves as the man crouched behind him. His weight pressed at the young alchemist's back and the welcome heat flooded his body, and fatigued followed shortly.
"What time is it?" He whispered. The hand slid forward, tracing the hollow of his throat and cupping his jaw. Gentle pressure made him tip back his head and moist heat brushed his ear.
"Long past time for you to sleep," was his whispered answer along with a gentle kiss at the junction of shoulder and neck. Edward shivered slightly in fear picturing those microbes creeping through Mustang's body. In a near delirium he was gently guided to Mustang's tent and he was too tired to protest the appropriateness. The heavier body kept away the cold. He dreamt of Mustang cold and still, body blotched by pooling blood.