On a roll, apparently! I'm thinking once I have an ending up, I might actually go back to the beginning and clean up the dialogue, get rid of some subplots, etc. I've been afraid to in the past because the plot in its entirety bothered me, but I'm getting back into it now - and while I recognize that a lot of the early stuff is really transmisogynistic, I'm also trying to appreciate for myself that these are teenagers. The joking and teasing might not be politically correct, but it has never been born out of hate, not for me or for the characters. And if I can end this story with the recognition that no, they don't know everything, then I'll be happy.

TW: alcohol reference, death, internalized transphobia/homophobia (there is a lot of that in this story, I'm realizing)

Part 4: Risu (Fracture)

Chapter 25
The Hour Before Dawn

Nash Tringham had never gone to college. He'd married at sixteen, roped into it with the story of a pregnancy and the promise of welfare, and had his first child at eighteen. He'd made a vow soon after that his child – his children – were not going to make the same mistakes.

Now, watching Ling Yao come down the stairs with an unreadable expression, Nash wondered if it was too late.

"I could hear the two of you bickering all the way down here," he said conversationally, taking a sip of his coffee.

Ling winced at that. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to intrude."

Nash couldn't help a small smile. "Sit down. Tell me what's going on."

Ling did so, and ran his fingers through his bangs, flicking them to the side and out of his face. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

"I always want to know what's happening in my son's life, especiallyif he doesn't want to tell me."

Ling twirled his fingers in an uncharacteristic show of awkwardness. "Yeah, but – still –"

Nash shook his head lightly. "I'm not going to judge either you or him – or Ed, for that matter." He stifled the uncommon urge to laugh when Ling looked up with a start, cheeks faintly red.

He held up his hands, waving them. "I – I don't know what you're talking about! We don't get into trouble – well, thatmuch trouble – I – why are you laughing at me?"

Nash had one hand over his eyes and was chuckling, having given up his struggle. "Well, I don't know about any trouble, but I was referring to the fact that the three of you rather prefer men. Unless you were planning on telling me that your troubles with Russell are completely platonic."

If someone had replaced Ling with a marble statue right at that moment, it would have been very, very hard to tell the difference. Only the fact that his face was rapidly turning a deeper and deeper shade of crimson gave it away.

The older man sighed. "Do you really think I didn't know? Russell had a best friend back in Greenwich called Alex, Alex Murphy. I used to walk in on them playing around, wrestling –"

Ling raised an eyebrow.

"They were close, is all I'm saying. Alex moved away when he was six, but still."

"So…you've known all along?"

"Probably before Russell did."

"What about his mom?"

Nash shrugged. "Clara was too wrapped up in her own little world to think about unimportant things like her sons. Now," he leant slightly over the table, transfixing Ling with his best Papa Bear Glare. "explain exactly what is going on between you two. And perhaps I won't get my shotgun out."

Ling glanced to the side. "I don't – I don't tell other people's secrets. Especially not to their parents."

He sighed. "This isn't about... following his movements, or punishing him." At Ling's suspicious look, he relented. "I promise. If you're not comfortable talking about it, I won't make you. But after all this business with Envy Angevin, well. I'm a father. It's my job to worry."

Ling seemed genuinely surprised at that. "Well, I..." He gulped. "It's a long story. And there's, like, booze and stuff in it."

"I'm a grown-up. I can handle knowing that teenagers drink."

Ling gave a terse laugh at that. "Well, okay. Here goes."

Few people were lucky enough to sleep easy that night, and Roy Mustang was not among them.

Maes.

Ed.

The sheets stuck to his bare chest, sticky with sweat. He'd been tossing and turning for hours now, despite going to bed before ten.

Maes.

Ed.

Divine punishment. That's what this was. He'd taken advantage of a student – abandoned every moral of his profession – and in return his best and only friend had been taken away.

Maes.

Ed.

Or maybe it wasn't that complicated. Maybe he'd just committed the horrid sin of being attracted to a man – a boy – and that was why Maes had been plucked out of his grasp.

Goddammit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, only to open them again with a gasp. The image of the burning car was engraved into the back of his eyelids, where he'd seen it from the school window. He hadn't known yet – hadn't realized – whose grave it was.

Stop it, you idiot. Stop it, stop it, stop it you are spinning out of control.

Still, he was assaulted with memories. Eleven years old at a military academy, the harum-scarum troublemaker with an unhealthy fondness for fire and the smooth-talking, friendly top student with an equally unhealthy fondness for photography.

Now, eighteen years later, fire was to blame.

That's enough, Roy Mustang. You're going maudlin.

Fire. Fire didn't weep and wail and bemoan what had passed.

Fire found a way.

Fire always found a way.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then another before picking up the phone. "Hello, Miss Rockbell?" It was a miracle he'd even gotten the number right.

"Who is this?" came the exhausted reply.

"It's Roy Mustang." Beat. "A teacher – from Central High."

"Ah, I see. You were…You were Maes's friend."

"Yes." The silence stretched out, underscored by the buzz of the line.

"It's late to be making calls, Mr. Mustang. Especially to my home number."The exhaustion dissipated, sharpened to a point. "What do you want?"

"Merely to express my sympathies," he lied glibly. He'd always been good at falsehoods, and it had been one of those skills encouraged rather than suppressed during his education. "Maes always spoke well of you."

"And anything good he might have said about me was tripled for you. By all rights, this phone call should be the other way around. Let's try this again. Why are you calling my house at this time of night?"

"I happened to be awake. I had every intention of leaving a message, it was just my luck that you were available."

"You're a smooth talker. Let's get the truth."

"The truth?" He chuckled, hoping that the darkness of it didn't translate over the line. "The truth is that I would love to get coffee tomorrow. Say, Starbucks at Bank and Hopewell, 2 o'clock?"

"You can get coffee any time you want, Mr. Mustang. I don't see why you need my permission."

That earned an honest laugh from him. "Don't make this so difficult. I'd just like to meet as friends."

"We aren't friends."

"Acquaintances, then."

She was silent for a moment, but Roy thought he could hear a smile. "Acquaintances I can live with."

"So 2 o'clock?"

"I'll be there. As a friend only,"she added in a strict voice.

"Of course. Sleep well."

"You too. Good night."

She hung up first, and he followed suit, starting to lie back down when the phone rung again. Blinking in confusion, Roy picked up the phone again.

"How did you get my number?"

He blinked. "Go to sleep, Hawkeye." He used the nickname Maes had always used for her by way of answering her question.

"You even sound like him,"she murmured before hanging up again.

Somehow, it was the most comforting thing she could have said. With a sly smile, Roy curled up and closed his eyes.

It had been raining the last time he'd been here – god, how long had that been? He'd started hanging out with Ed the day afterwards, Envy remembered, and everything had just snowballed from there.

Unsurprisingly enough, Martel's tombstone remained unchanged.

"I – still miss you. A lot." It was more awkward than he'd remembered, talking to the cold stone like she was here. "I need your help. But if you were here, I don't think things would ever have gotten so screwed up." Screwed up. That was one way of putting it.

"I didn't get arrested, though. That was nice. I think I have your sister to thank for that." He fell into an uneasy silence. There was a question in him that he didn't know how to ask.

"I'm – I'm not gay. Well, okay, yeah, obviously, you know that. But I don't – everybody keeps saying I am." His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "But I don't – I don't know. I like boys. I like girls. I... that's not the confusing part." He rubbed a thumb over his painted fingernails. "I liked being pretty. That's not bad, is it? I mean, you were never much for it, but you always looked amazing, so." He dropped off again.

"I liked being Julia," Envy said finally. "Julia's – she's fun, she's pretty, she's badass, she's a little bit scary – all the things I'm not. And I wanted to keep being her because I – then I – don't feel so fucking cowardly."

He squeezed his hands together with a wry, dark chuckle. "I guess I can understand a little why Greed drinks so much." It pained him, to have something in common with his brother, but after the sheer high he'd gotten from pretending to be a girl, from having people talking about 'she' and 'her' all day, he couldn't help it.

"And I – I think I fell in love with someone." Somehow, this was even harder to talk about. Envy felt a lump rising in his throat, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't swallow it away. "I swore I wouldn't," he murmured, voice breaking a little. "I'm not supposed to move on. Everybody keeps telling me to, that it's time, that you're never coming back and I know that, I do, but I'm still -"

He couldn't finish his sentence. The stone was so cold, so lifeless – if Martel had ever been here, she was long gone. I'm still in love with you.

Envy sat there for a long time afterwards, until his knees grew sore from the packed dirt. He wasn't waiting for a response – he wasn't delusional enough for that – but he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. To stop being afraid, maybe.

I'm not strong. I'm just angry.

He didn't think he'd stop being afraid any time soon.

But angry?

Yeah.

That he could do.

Nash pulled the blanket over Ling's resting form, unable to stop a soft smile from coming onto his face at how the teenager huddled under it. The couch wasn't the most comfortable thing, he knew that much, but Russell was probably going to yell at him for even letting Ling stay over.

Still, he liked the kid. He was much less tightly-wound than Russell, and god knew his son needed some of that in his life. Edward was just as bad, even if he hid it better – and besides, Nash had only met Edward once, and Ling never. Russell was in the stage of life where Nash would be lucky if Russ told him what he'd had for lunch.

Dante Angevin. So that was what all of this was about. An old woman, protecting her reputation and her fame. Oh, sure, she'd be famous if the story of her children's rebellion got out – Lust's HIV diagnosis had done plenty – but it wasn't the kind of fame that got you movie deals, or red carpet invitations. No doubt she was doing everything in her power to keep this quiet.

Nash doubted she'd be able to do that for much longer. Oh, Russell. Couldn't you have chosen a simpler topic for your induction into the wider world? I'd rather not see you on television just yet.

All the same, it sounded like his son's friends had been caught red-handed doing what they believed was the right thing. There were worse people to be associated with.

And all in all, Nash felt just a little proud of his son.