I'll have some more commentary on these choices later, but I've said a few times in A/Ns that sexual abuse is going to be coming up in LSNA. Something I want to clarify too is that it's not with any one character. One of the most misunderstood things about sexual abuse is the idea that it's rare. I've deliberately held back on graphic depictions for a while to establish, I guess, reader trust? And a comfort with my characters – and I don't intend on having much actually On Screen, although if that changes I will be VERY upfront about it and try to make it skippable. This is also a big reason why the rating went up for part 2, and will stay at M for parts 3 and 4.

Song is by Green Day, and I HIGHLY recommend the Broadway version, which is easily searchable on Youtube. (FF whyyyyy. I want to link it.)

TW: trapped-feelings, threats to children, abuse/neglect/abandonment trauma feels, incest trauma, incest… shaming?, slut shaming, I REALLY don't know how to tag this other than it being misogynistic as hell and awful really, homophobia, passive (….not that passive) suicidality, alcoholism discussed, grief, severe mental breakdown, homicidal intrusive thoughts, implied/offscreen sexual abuse (twice, btw), parental manipulative bullshit, I…. yeah…. I'M SORRY…

~49~

Your faith walks on broken glass
And the hangover doesn't pass
Nothing's ever built to last
You're in ruins

-21 Guns

Selim lay on the cold ground, trying to ground himself in his reality, trying to remember how to breathe on his own. He was terrified – for Will, for himself, but also because the connection between him and Will had very suddenly and swiftly grown from something sweet and mysterious into something just as dangerous and deadly as the Fuhrer. He wasn't sure. But it almost felt like – if he'd slipped, if he'd been in Will's head any longer – maybe he wouldn't have made it back.

It hadn't been like that before. Before, the two realities had co-existed quite comfortably. Before, he'd never forgotten who he was.

Come on, Selim. Up and at 'em, he told himself. He had to help Will escape. Sitting around and waiting was no longer an option. Diana was powerless. Will hadn't really consciously realized it – he was too angry at her for not telling him about Hughes's death, too hurt by her perceived abandonment. But she hadn't just avoided the topic of what happened if they lost. She'd avoided a lot. And while Jareth had been so excited to see Will that it rolled off of him like mist, Diana had hung back. Scared. Guilty, maybe.

The Fuhrer was doing something to her.

You don't know it's the Fuhrer, protested some part of his brain, but the rest of him was too angry to fixate on anybody else. He could still feel his hands in his (Will's) hair. The way he'd jerked Will's automail out of the port, so carelessly and painfully, thrown it into the corner. The way he'd almost enjoyed it.

He managed to get himself to his feet. He could do this. He could figure this out. He had to assume – he was going to assume – that the trial was rigged. Two weeks ago he would have believed in fairness. He couldn't afford to. He couldn't.

"Dad. Pinako. Falman." They were sitting at the table. They thought things were – well, bad, but… "I need-" What did he need?

Falman pulled up a chair, getting down to his knees next to him. "What happened?"

"Tell me about Fuhrer Mustang."

His dad started, staring at him. "…Well, he's-"

"The truth. Not the – the stuff people always say. Tell me the truth."

Falman had gone a little white. "I haven't interacted with him. What happened?"

"He hurt Will. Bad." It still kind of hurt to talk, an ache in his chest that could have been left over from Will or could have been the rage settling, deep and cold. "There's some sort of – surgery. Will's getting it tomorrow. And I refuse – I won't – I won't leave him there, I won't, so tell me, tell me what he's really like, so I know who I'm killing."

He'd thought Falman's reaction was a lot. King had gone entirely white at that, and he wondered which part his dad was more worried about; him casually threatening to kill somebody, or him casually threatening to kill the Fuhrer. But instead, King pressed a hand to his mouth, tried to take a breath, then brought the hand down into a fist on the table, shaking the cups.

"It is… always children," he managed to get out from between laboured breaths.

Pinako put her hand on his arm. "King?"

"After – After Minna died. I thought it was an accident. I really did. And then he came to visit."

Selim had never thought about that. How his father had known it wasn't an accident.

"He never said anything. He came in and had tea with me. Gave his condolences. And then he told me that while he was sure I had no idea where Marcoh was by now, he chose to believe that as a faithful soldier, I'd certainly let him know if it came up. All the while, he had his bodyguard by your bedroom door, with her gun drawn."

Selim's breath caught in his throat. "So that's why-" They hadn't talked about it, since he'd come back from running away. It wasn't just his mother. He'd been threatened. "Why would you let Will and Alex sign up?"

"I didn't. I tried to chase away those soldiers for a reason. But once Will had his heart set-" King shook his head. "You said tomorrow?"

"I-I think so."

"Tomorrow's supposed to be the verdict," said Falman with a sigh.

Pinako frowned. "This has been going awfully fast for a trial."

"Court martials go faster than civilian trials. Usually because there isn't a crowd watching."

That seemed wrong. Selim was finding a lot of things about his country he didn't like, lately. "So we have to get him out and figure out how to rescue Valjean, too," he said determinedly.

"He might be found innocent," King said, but he didn't sound particularly convinced. Pinako just shook her head.

"If the jury was made up of Colonels and Lieutenants, maybe. But the Generals are all buddies with the Fuhrer, you know that. And if the Fuhrer's threatening people with lobotomies.."

"It has a name?" Selim asked, feeling even more sick. He'd thought – hoped – that Mustang had made it up.

Pinako nodded, then got to her feet. "…Selim, hon. I know what you're going to say, and I'm not trying to talk you out of this. But if I'm understanding you right… well…" She sighed, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're awfully young to be goin' on a list of enemies of the nation, Selim. And breaking them both out, that might get you killed."

"It might get you all killed," Falman said, voice a little shaky. "I – I mean, I don't like this anymore than the rest of you. But you can't just do that."

"I'll do it or die trying-"

"Don't you dare," King snapped.

"I'll die anyway, Dad. This connection – I didn't ask for it, Will didn't, and what do you think will happen to me when the scalpel goes into his head?" He was angry – he was so angry, and it was such cold anger that he was almost shivering. It wasn't just him. Will was –

-Will was naked. Mustang had done it. Selim had looked away, he'd been able to do that, but the pain was like an exposed wire in the back of his head.

"I'll do it with or without your help. Help would be nice. That's all."

Pinako gave a soft, sad laugh. "Teenagers. Yes, Selim, I'll help." She hadn't said we, Selim noticed.

King's jaw was still working. "…You need a plan. A proper one. I'll help you – but I'm not letting you go into this half-cocked."

Selim was ready to argue, but that was the temper flaring. He could recognize that. So he nodded.


Diana stared up at the courthouse, swallowing down her nervousness. She still didn't know what she was going to say, on the stand. Mustang had made it so clear to her that nothing she said was going to make any difference, but if the Generals would listen to her…

I could always go directly to the jury, she thought. But… Will was still in the asylum. He seemed to be putting on a brave face, but that didn't mean he wasn't in a precarious position, and Mustang was perfectly capable of making it worse with a single tip of his hand. And if she was caught trying to interfere directly, that was the end for her, too.

She took a step onto the courthouse steps – and a hand appeared on her arm, seemingly escorting her upwards, then steering her off the side. Hawkeye. The woman wasn't even looking directly at her.

"What's this about?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

"It would appear your testimony is no longer required."

"But –" Bile rose up in her throat. "You can't do that. I'm his commanding officer. His best friend."

Hawkeye stayed silent until she pulled Diana through a side door, and into a dimly lit room, a single light swinging above them. It looked like an unused interrogation room, and Diana stiffened, checking that her gloves were on, the arrays stitched on the outsides as a visibly displayed weapon. She didn't really want to hurt Hawkeye if she didn't have to, but at the same time, Mustang wasn't human, and there was every chance Hawkeye wasn't either. Was there any way for her to tell?

"You're more than that, it would appear."

Diana sighed, and sat down on one of the metal chairs, rust squeaking in complaint. "Is that what you dragged me in here to confront me about it? Yes, we're lovers. Technically frowned upon, but unless there's some confusion about my gender –"

Hawkeye tossed a photograph onto the table.

Diana picked it up, fingers starting to tremble as she did, white-gloved thumb brushing over the faded and crinkled image. "Wh…" She started to ask, but her voice failed her, heartbeat rising into her ears. There she was. Kwan Leung. Her mother. There were no other pictures of her; Leung had fallen ill with whatever she'd suffered from shortly after escaping to West City, and cameras had still been rare.

She'd forgotten how much Jareth looked like Leung. It was easy for her memory to rewrite it, make it seem like the opposite, simplify the matter into the strictures of gender; Diana looked like Leung and Jareth looked like Mordred. But in reality, Diana had Leung's cheekbones, her coloration, enough to make her look Xingese to anybody who knew what to look for; and Mordred's height and shoulders, his dense and wavy-to-curly hair that had been brown in him and black in her, his hazelnut-brown eyes. Of course it all looked brown in the photograph. Washed-out sepia. And at two or three years old, however young she'd been at the time, it was hard to make out her own features, let alone Jareth's. But looking at her mother made her heart ache not just because she missed her, but because looking at her reminded her of how violet her eyes had been, how they'd softened and sharpened depending on her moods, and brought home that she was going to lose Jareth, too.

She was going to lose him, because Hawkeye wasn't supposed to have this photograph.

"It seems that Lust found this while at Valjean's apartment. It took us time to find it, but we found it at the place where you killed him. It appears to have escaped the inferno. Lucky for you it did; from your expression, it appears to hold quite a bit of importance."

Diana tore her eyes up from the photograph to glare at Hawkeye, who was standing between her and the door.

Hawkeye just inclined her head, still entirely expressionless. "That is you in the picture, then."

She couldn't lie now. Not after her reaction. "…Yes."

"Interesting. Archer names the two of you as Grant Haberkorn and Laura Kwan. Which wouldn't raise much in terms of eyebrows. I certainly wasn't giving much credence to his paranoid ramblings without any proof to back it up. But then the appearance of a Haberkorn family photo, with the correct ages for Valjean and a sister we've never heard of before…"

"That's an awful lot of coincidences you're naming off. My brother died a long time ago. Valjean has no connection to the Haberkorns."

Hawkeye smiled thinly. "Interesting. If that was the case, you would think that Valjean would exist before eleven years ago."

"That's his business, not mine."

"And you, Laura Kwan?"

"My past history is unsavory, but it's not connected to this case, and it's not a matter of national security."

"You are good," Hawkeye conceded. "But it's not enough. You're made of secrets, all the way down. You must have known at some point it would catch up with you. Record-keeping and transfers are significantly improved now than they were a decade ago, Solaris. The moment Archer started rambling about Grant Haberkorn, we requested any files on the name we had. The military keeps track of alchemists with dangerous alchemy, especially ones that have been requested as State Alchemists, and especially ones who have denied the position. Izumi Curtis is on that list, as is Mordred Haberkorn. Mordred Haberkorn lived in Redwick Bush until he died, and he has a listed marriage with the township. Leung Kwan."

"That still proves nothing about Jareth Valjean-"

"Valjean gave an interview to the paper talking about where he grew up. He didn't give much detail, to be fair. But he did say that he grew up in a small town, in the middle of nowhere, in the West. And, Solaris…" Hawkeye crossed her arms. "It was him that Lust was targeting. Not you. Why would Valjean have a picture of your family in his home?"

Diana struggled for another out. An excuse. Something, anything. She always had another line. Another lie. Another misdirection. "Fine, so we're related. The lovers thing is a front-"

"Is it?" Hawkeye asked smoothly. She loaded her gun.

"Of course."

"You're lying. I can tell from your heartbeat."

"My heartbeat is rapid because you're loading your gun, and because my best friend is on trial."

"Mm. My question for you, Solaris, is are you willing to risk letting people draw their own conclusions?" Hawkeye raised her eyes back to her from her gun. "Perhaps you're right – or one of your many excuses is the truth, somehow. But do you want it in the open? Do you want people asking whether or not you and your brother are incestuous lovers, while they're judging his worth and whether or not he lives or dies?"

Diana tightened her fingers around the chair. "You're going to kill him anyway. What does it matter?"

"It matters because after this, Mustang has every intention of repealing the Wilde Act. Valjean will be a martyr for the cause. An effective one, too, with how likeable he's made himself. An avoidable tragedy." Hawkeye was still impossible to read. "But you – you will still be alive. You choose. Do you want to be his grieving lover, best friend, commanding officer, with the same rising career you had…" And then suddenly, a flash of white-hot anger, and the gun was pointed at her, "or are you a whore fucking her own brother?"

Her fingers were hurting from how she was squeezing the chair. She felt like a child, in trouble for something pointless, trying to understand, trying to comprehend. "We aren't hurting anybody," she said so quietly that it was almost a whisper.

"Everybody says that." There was a tightness to Hawkeye's mouth. It wasn't the first time, Diana realized, that she'd caught the glimpse of a horrible, seething anger under the mask.

Whore.

It had to be that word. Diana wondered how much they'd dug into her past, as well as Jareth's. It was hard to say. It was what anybody would call her for this, whether they knew she'd actually been one or not.

Not anybody, she tried to tell herself. Will had been angry but he hadn't lashed out like that. And Maes had just rolled his eyes and been quietly disapproving while agreeing that it wasn't his business. Ayi had never cared. But it still felt like she deserved it.

Take me instead of him, she wanted to say. She wanted to be brave enough for that. But she wasn't. The words kept sticking in her mouth. Too many years of it's them or me keeping her mouth closed.

The door slammed closed. It wasn't locked. Hawkeye just knew that Diana wasn't going to follow.

I hate you, Diana seethed. She still couldn't open her mouth. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you and she didn't know who she was talking to, she could have meant Hawkeye, she could have meant Jareth, she could have meant herself, she probably mostly meant herself –

The man in the picture. Mordred Haberkorn.

Him.

If Leung had taken both of them – god, maybe they still would have ended up lovers, she didn't know. Maybe they'd always been cursed to be that kind of family. But she'd know how to be a sister. And if Leung had left them both behind, at least Jareth would have had protection. They didn't even know for sure who was older and who was younger; the picture was vague enough, and neither of their parents had been particularly clear with things like birthdays. But she'd always been the one protecting Jareth. Always.

She glared at the photograph, tried to blame it on Mordred and Leung and the curse they'd put on their children – unwittingly, unknowingly, uncaringly, but all the same. Then she put her head down on the table next to it, and cried.


The trial was rigged. Everybody knew it, by now. It was a fucking joke, and he'd been trying to get away from it, but Gracia's testimony had slowly whittled whatever hope he'd had left, especially when she'd asked angrily why they weren't actually asking about her husband's murder, Archer had asked a few perfunctory questions, and Amue had tried, but without the prosecution staying on topic, hadn't been able to do much. The jury was barely paying attention, which meant they'd made up their minds…

…and something was wrong with Godfrey. Godfrey had been an active participant in the previous days. Today, he was barely interfering at all, except to move things along. And then –

"Solaris has been struck from the witness list."

No explanation. No reason given.

So when Jareth got to his feet to climb to the stand, he leaned over to Amue and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Giving up."

"Wh- Jareth!" Amue tried to grab his arm, but it was too late. He sat down next to Godfrey, looking up at him and trying to understand what had changed. Godfrey didn't look at him.

"State your name and rank for the record, please."

Grant Haberkorn. Kwan Jan Mat. Shrike. "Second Lieutenant Jareth Valjean."

He didn't want to die. But when he glanced up at Mustang, sitting up front as usual, he wondered if there'd ever been a chance otherwise. He'd hoped, maybe. He'd woken up and thought about it. Talking to Georgie last night had helped. But without Diana's testimony…

and, isn't part of you wondering, where has she been all this time?

Don't do this to yourself. Don't.

You chased her down. You followed her. You're the loyal dog. Over and over again, like a drone in the back of his brain. He was the one who loved too much. And all those people, arrested for protesting on his behalf, and where had she been? Nowhere.

You're being unfair.

"Where were you on the night of June the fifth?"

I give up, Jareth thought wearily. I give up. I'm not the one who's good at lying. I'm not the one with the great ambitions of saving the world. I'm the guy who fucks and smokes and drinks. I give up. I give up. I give up.

So if I die, I'm gonna make you miserable before I do.

There had been, despite people's confusion, a lot of reasons why he and Kimbley had been together for so long.

"I was at Phillip Armstrong's retirement gala. I left early."

"How come?" Archer asked.

"I don't like crowds. They make me uncomfortable after too long, and besides, I was in a bad mood."

"Anything in particular?"

"Oh, I don't remember. So I went home."

"Alone?"

"Nope." Jareth sat back. "I met a guy on the way. He was cute, and he needed a place to sleep, so I took him back to my apartment and I fucked his brains out."

Amue didn't look surprised. She just looked… sad. She'd figured it out, he guessed. So she didn't protest, just stayed sitting down.

Archer set his jaw, clearly refusing to be taken aback after the incident with Kimbley – although he did give a short, surprised glance to Godfrey, who didn't correct Jareth on his language. "I – I see. And how long did he stay at your home?"

Jareth laughed, and he could hear the dry crackle of it. "It was supposed to only be overnight. But then I found out that my best friend in the world had died. So I started drinking, and I didn't stop. He stayed with me. Turns out it wasn't for good reasons. And he kept encouraging the drinking, and telling me, you know, one more won't kill ya. Because every time I sobered up, you know what happened, Archer?"

"What?" Archer actually did look surprised.

"I remembered that Maes was fucking dead." He didn't remember leaning forward. And he didn't realize he'd almost shouted that last part. "I don't even remember the guy's name." This was the only lie he could manage, because outing the homunculi was going to result in more deaths than just him. "I'm lucky I survived. I'm lucky that I can actually touch alcohol again and I'll only do it with somebody else. I don't get actually drunk anymore. Just one or two drinks. But after getting dragged up into a trial and accused of murdering my best friend out of jealousy, who knows, the idea of drinking myself to death is seeming like a better and better idea all the time."

"Valjean-"

"Shut up, Archer. Shut your fucking mouth."

Godfrey seemed about to intervene, then sat back, just watching.

"You want me to tell you I'm a queer?" Jareth hissed. "Sure. Fine. Whatever. I'm a queer. I've fucked more men and more women than most people have probably even danced with in their lives. I'm a manwhore. I probably seduce good upstanding men into lives of depravity and honestly, I enjoy doing it. I've sucked dick in public. I hang out at gay bars with – sodomites or whatever the fuck you call us. So I plead guilty. Just get it over with, and let everyone go home. Fuck you."

"I- I'm sorry?" Godfrey had actually spoken, looking at him with surprise.

"I. Plead. Guilty."

Archer was looking accomplished and very proud of himself, albeit confused. Jareth could deal with that. But what he could barely deal with – and what he looked away from – was Gracia's face in the crowd, heartbroken and confused.

I'm sorry, Gracia, he thought, and it hurt to think at this point. His head was pounding. He'd kept up such a good face, all this time. Somebody will find the real killer. I know it should have been me.

Maybe Diana will do it – and the anger surged back up in him again.

She wasn't here.

Not just as a witness. She wasn't in the courthouse.

She wasn't here at all.


Will.

He was so cold. Every time he managed to crawl out of the pit, somebody knocked him back, didn't they? Assholes. Every one of them. Alex, Kimbley, Solaris, Mustang. All of them. They'd left him here.

Will.

He'd kill them. He'd kill them. The surgery wouldn't work. He'd just rise up stronger. Kill them. Put the scalpel in their heads, see how they liked it. Alex complaining and bitching about how the body Will was getting him was the wrong one. Will was always in the wrong one. Get over it. Get over it. Bitch. Bodies weren't comfortable. They hurt. Always. Always. Souls and wires and consciousness disconnected.

Mustang had stripped him naked. Looked at him and scoffed. No gown this time. Just everything he usually ignored. Didn't look in the mirror while changing. Closed his eyes when showering. Not always. But enough. And of course he'd remembered the dream –

Will.

He shivered.

Hadn't wanted to react. Fear, and adrenaline. Didn't want to touch now. Not where his hand had been. Didn't count. He thought. Violence, not sex.

Will, it's me.

Don't look. Don't talk to me. Don't.

I'll kill them. His thought. Not his thought. He was –

Breathe, Selim murmured.

He was breathing, wasn't he?

He wasn't.

Exhale. He exhaled.

Don't look at me, he whispered.

I won't. It's okay. I think I can get you out of here.

Selim. Selim hadn't left. Selim wasn't leaving. He will. He will eventually.

I won't. Even if I could. I won't. Not ever. You trust me, right?

Will didn't want to. Trust was dangerous. Trust broke. Trust hurt. But it was trust or the scalpel (bright, glinting) and he wasn't far enough gone to submit to that. Or far enough gone to refuse. He didn't know the difference anymore.

The door opened. He tensed – but it was Pride, almost immediately shifting to his preferred form. Will wanted to fear him more. But he was the one who kept returning. Hadn't left him. Hadn't run away. It was twisted. Horrible. Didn't mean trust – he was his captor, his jailor, but he wasn't the one who had slammed the boot into his chest, who had –

-stop thinking about it-

-if you think about it Selim will see-

And Selim saw that much, and Will could tell that he was trying not to see, to respect him, but it still stung.

"Shit." Pride grabbed a sheet, pulling it over Will. "He – god. He left you like this?"

Will had forgotten how to speak again. He looked away from Pride, but when fingers touched his cheek, he lashed out, trying to bite at them –

Pride pulled his fingers back, completely unable to hide the look on his face. "I pushed it back. Tomorrow at the earliest, so you've got at least another day. And I don't –" He shook his head. "I'm not – I don't –"

"Coward," Will managed to spit out.

This time, Pride didn't deny it. He just fiddled with the sheet, trying to keep Will warm, then frowned at the port where Mustang had yanked out the automail. He'd seen it in the corner – but Will could feel that Mustang had damaged it. Not a lot, maybe. Just enough for it to hurt and not stop hurting. Then Pride closed his eyes, clearly trying to collect himself. "Did he do anything else?"

Will stopped breathing for a moment.

Pride opened his eyes, looking at him with pupils dilating in sudden anger. Anger at him? Or – "I see."

"You're on… the same side," Will managed to say.

"It's complic-" Pride cut himself off. "Not by choice. I'm not –" He kept changing his mind mid-sentence. "I have a goal. Something I want. I don't hurt people for fun. And sometimes I don't know what he wants."

That makes sense, Selim murmured. They're not coordinating. They don't even like each other.

Will kept struggling with his words. "You were…" Which words did he want? They kept slipping away from him. "Did you mean… any of it?"

"Any of what?" He looked up at Will, making sudden eye contact, and then broke the contact. "Oh. The – oh." He paused, chewing on his lip. Will almost hated that he'd taken on his 'true' form. Gold hair nearly haloing in the halogen light. He was gorgeous. Will bet he never wanted to scratch his own eyes out or carve the veins out of his arms.

Will began to think that Pride wasn't going to answer, but then he leaned back against the wall, still looking miserable. "I wasn't supposed to. I was keeping an eye on you. Collecting information. It was my idea, too. After that breakdown of yours, the therapy thing seemed natural enough. And I really am a therapist. Went to school for it."

Will tried to focus. His mind kept slipping down lines of thought that were familiar, but not helpful. Kill him. Yes. Easier. Tear his throat out with your teeth, eat him alive, make him apologize and then hurt him anyway-

-don't, don't, don't-

"What… changed?" Selim was helping. Selim's thoughts kept nudging his words back into the right order.

Pride shrugged. "Nothing, really. I didn't want you dead – I mean, right away, anyway. So I needed you not to kill yourself. And I didn't want you so deep in a hallucination that you levelled Central or something. So I helped. And the more I helped, the more I…" He stopped, staring at the floor.

The more he started caring, Selim filled in. There was a softness to Selim's thoughts.

Still tried to kill me.

Well, yes. I'm not sure he tried very hard.

Will tried to protest that, but even in the fog of his brain at the moment, he thought perhaps Selim had a point. "You don't… surgery." Fuck. Words again. "Don't want this… to happen."

"No. And not because I've gone soft. This doesn't help anybody. Mustang's just being cruel because he likes being in control."

"Let me go."

"Absolutely not. I'm not turning on my own kind."

That was about what he'd expected. Pride was having misgivings. That didn't mean he was going to commit betrayal. Will chewed over his words again. The thoughts were still pinwheeling through his head, like a chorus of screams. Kill them. Kill everybody who left you here. Kill them for hurting you.

"…Que- question."

"What now?" Pride sounded a little exasperated – or stressed.

"You… talked to Alex. About. What he said to me. Our argument." His mouth was so dry. And he was so, so overly aware of his body, even under the sheet, naked, vulnerable, hollow -

Pride pursed his lips. "…yes. Why?"

"Do you… agree with him?" Will took a deep breath, trying to sound brave, trying to find some last vestige of strength left, somewhere. He already knew what Selim wanted him to do. Not in words yet, no. But along with that, the Gatekeeper's words were coming back to him. It felt like a hallucination, but maybe – maybe it was true. "I don't mean to – it's not. On purpose. You know I – I try. But it's not – not hard enough." His eyes were watering, He rubbed his face on his arm, angry that he couldn't stop them.

Pride could have just walked away. That was usually his modus operandi here; he avoided the questions he didn't feel like answering. But something had clearly changed; something was on his mind. So instead, he leaned over Will, pushing some of his cut hair out of his face. "You're very young," he murmured. It wasn't really an answer. "People change. It happens."

"But is it enough?"

"I – well –" Pride hesitated. "I'm – I'm the wrong person to ask about forgiveness," he said after a moment, something playing behind his expression that Will couldn't catch. "I have to go."

"D-don't leave me here. On my own."

"I have to. The nurses will be by in a little while, alright?" Pride hesitated. "…What about you, Will?"

"What about me?"

"You're asking me if I agree with what Alex said. What about you?"

Will hesitated. His head wasn't really clear enough for this. But he closed his eyes, trying to summon up all the times he'd thought about it before. God, he couldn't –

I remember, Selim said quietly, fondness coming through in his voice. I'll remember for you.

Will opened his eyes, still stumbling over his words. "…Some of it. I, um –" He swallowed, licked his lips (KILL THEM ALL HE LEFT YOU HERE HE LEFT YOU HERE HE HURT YOU HE DOESN'T DESERVE THIS) but Selim had reminded him. There was space between the hatred and the pain. He couldn't feel it. But he could remember it, with help. "I wasn't…talking to him enough. He deserved better from me. But –" God, he wasn't even sure how much of this Pride had even been told. It was all mixed up in his head. He couldn't even force himself to contrast this Pride with the man who'd had Denny's body in his closet. Everything was so much. "I wasn't hurting him on purpose. He thought I was. And I'm just – just sick. Not evil."

That hadn't been something he'd thought before. Selim had slipped that one in there for him.

I'm just sick. Not evil.

Didn't feel true. But Selim believed it.

Pride still looked miserable. It was strange. Will wouldn't have thought it possible. "…Here. These are too tight," he mumbled. He leant over and loosened the leather cuff on Will's wrist, just a little. "You're dealing with enough shit. Hurting you more is just kind of pointless."

"Will you ever tell me who you are?"

"You know who I am."

So that was a no.

Then Pride stuck his hands in his pockets, and took on a different form before he left. Walter Godfrey. The judge. He hadn't been the judge before – Will knew that. He'd been Dr. Holland, sitting in the front row next to the Fuhrer.

He was confirming what they already knew, with no more doubt – that either Jareth would be found guilty, or that it had happened already, that he was too late –

-not too late, Selim reminded. He's not dead. The execution isn't going to be right away.

But Will was distracted by something else entirely. Pride had been the judge for at least the verdict. Will wasn't supposed to understand people. It was why this connection with Selim was such a shock. It was the first time he'd ever gotten to see how another person worked, in any real way. The machinery behind other people's eyes was a total mystery to him. Until his sessions with Dr. Holland, really, he'd assumed everybody worked the same way as him to some degree, even though Izumi and Alex and King had all tried to break him of it. They lashed out when they got angry. They did what they wanted and worried about consequences afterwards. If they hurt somebody, they probably hadn't realized it was that important until later, so you had to tell them, but you didn't have to sugarcoat it, because if you dodged around something, they'd probably miss it. If you didn't say something out loud, it might as well not exist.

He hadn't even realized he'd gotten better at this. It didn't fix the automatic assumptions. It still felt like he was faking it, or like everybody else was. But Dr. Holland had been the one to tell him that sometimes, people hid when they were upset –

-Will exhaled, feeling the little punch to his stomach, it didn't hurt, it just –

Like Alex.

People hid when they were upset because the other person's problems mattered more, because they meant to bring it up later, because-

"Because they want to make sure they're not going to make your life worse by telling you," he'd said, that little smile on his face.

"Because they can't stop thinking about the consequences of what happens after, instead of not being able to think past it."

Like Izumi. If she'd talked about her mother. If she'd been truthful with them about her human transmutation.

"Because they have to worry about the subtext. You can't read it, but other people can, and some people have to trade in those vagaries. Like those whispers behind your back that stress you out so much," Holland added, sympathetically. "You can't pretend they don't exist. But nobody will say it out loud."

Diana had made her career in furtive glances, codewords, implications. No wonder she couldn't just say things straight out to him. He knew she had secrets upon secrets, but he'd never really thought about how important they were. Jareth had told him about their real relation on purpose; she'd had to leave the room, not because she was embarrassed, but because she was scared.

None of this was really new to him. He wasn't that bad at reading people. It was just landing again, overwhelming and dizzying, along with the certainty that Pride had had to declare the death sentence of an innocent man today and it was killing him. He didn't know Pride. But he knew Dr. Holland, and the two weren't as different as he'd thought. He didn't understand how the same man could kill Denny Brosh and yet be wracked with clear guilt over something like this, but…

He said it himself, said Selim. He has a goal. He'll do anything to achieve it, but that doesn't mean he likes it.

It wasn't sympathy, exactly. The broken trust still lingered under his breastbone like a shattered glass. But…

Will went through the plan in Selim's head. And with more certainty than he really felt, he said, Pride won't stop us.

How do you know?

In answer, Will wriggled his hand free of the cuff that had been loosened just a few more notches than necessary.

That's how.


If Pride – Edward – whatever – had been smarter, he would have gone to Sloth, or Envy. Even Wrath. Instead, with his heart thrumming in his chest and his childhood home feeling far too close around him, his feet took him through the corridors and hallways, up the grand staircase, to the master suite that still stood in its grand splendor.

Dante was seated at her boudoir, brushing out her new hair. "Oh, Pride, dear. I was wondering where you'd gotten to. I hear the trial's over."

"Yeah."

"Come here, come here. This hair is too long to brush on my own."

He nodded, and took the brush from her, pulling it gently through the waves of black hair. Dante always had a predilection for bodies that resembled her old one, and this one was no exception. Young, maybe; but his mental image of his mother always had black hair, ivory skin, and eyes that, no matter the colour, could shift between piercing and teasing at a moment's notice. She always leaned towards short, too; small-breasted, thin-waisted, vulnerable. Mei was a little chubby, but Dante was already fixing that.

"Do you like it?"

"Hm?" He started, looking up and catching their twin reflections in the triptych mirror. He didn't look like her son. Only the red markings on his shoulders and arms matched him with her in any way – the crimson of her dress and the flamel that she'd already marked above her left breast.

"My new body."

"It's very pretty. Hopefully it'll last."

"Well, we'll see about that," she sighed. "It's certainly doing a lovely job so far. Now will you tell me what's on your mind before I have to beat it out of you?" She made it sound like a joke, even though it wasn't, really.

He laughed anyway, in part because he was supposed to, and in part because he was amused. Her hair was soft in his hands, and he liked brushing it; it felt intimate in a way that didn't hurt. "Oh, just…" He shrugged. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what, dear?"

"Not care."

He waited for her to lash out, use some emotional trick on him, lambast him for thinking she didn't care. That was her usual playbook, certainly on the younger ones. It had been on him for a long time; but especially ever since Envy, things had changed. Not a lot; just enough for their relationship to change. She knew perfectly well that she was a monster, and she knew that he knew it too. The artifice couldn't hold up for that long with no cracks. Habit kicked in from time to time, but still –

Dante sighed, arching her neck as he gathered her hair to the side and began to braid it into a single French braid. "I don't know how you manage to care so much, still, after all this time. It's exhausting, caring. After a while, it's much easier to stop."

"I don't know how," he said quietly. "Even after all this time. I know I should."

Dante held his gaze in the mirror. "Some part of you is still holding onto hope. Or perhaps you're afraid that if you become a monster, you'll be proving him right."

Pride's hands stuttered, nearly losing hold of the braid, and he broke the gaze.

"Monsters win, Pride. Hohenheim was a coward. And he can call us monsters all he wants, but never forget what it was he did to me as he left." Rage flared in her eyes. "And what he did to you."

He willed his hands to stop shaking. He hadn't needed the reminder –

He had. Alex had thrown him, by telling him he was 'worse than Will'. But Alex had no idea. Alex knew so little about his father that while he had questions about Pride's face, he certainly wouldn't believe it if Pride claimed that he was the son of Hohenheim, not some long lost ancestor.

He just had to not care. That was fine.

And what about when you face the consequences from aboveground?

He could think about that later. A practice run of his new bout of not-caring, how about that? And him determinedly not thinking about how Hohenheim likely wouldn't have cared for what his second son had turned into, either.

"Greed talked to me earlier," Dante said after a little while. "It seems the two of you have been sniping at each other again."

Pride felt himself turn red. "Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine, Pride, dear. As far as I'm concerned," she said with a grin, "it keeps things interesting. But you have been awfully stressed, haven't you?"

He began to move away, but she caught his hand. "Don't be so shy. Stay with me."

He didn't want to. He never wanted to. But refusal wasn't an option, and…

Dante rose from her seat, hands pressing to his cheeks, and pulled him into a kiss. She didn't love him. He knew that. This wasn't love, and he'd spent centuries working on convincing himself of that. Love didn't hurt.

But god, he still didn't know how not to care.


"I PLEAD GUILTY. I'M A QUEER. LET EVERYONE GO HOME.": THE FINAL TESTIMONY OF JARETH VALJEAN

With a burst of expletive fury and clear exhaustion, Jareth Valjean pled guilty from the stand today, demolishing the careful defense of Amue Armstrong in a self-destructive rant that may yet be some of the lasting words from this trial.

"You want me to tell you I'm a queer? Sure. Fine. Whatever. I'm a queer… Just get it over with, and let everyone go home. Fuck you." [Vulgarity retained for the purpose of honest reporting.]

Amue Armstrong, when reached by the paper afterwards, confessed that her client had not spoken to her about this prior to the court session. "I think he just… gave up," she said, with tears in her eyes. "I believe, with all my heart, that he is innocent of what he's been accused. I took on this defense because it's my job, and often my clients are guilty. Not this time." When asked if she had ever had a client plea guilty on the stand, she answered, "Absolutely not. Usually, if a plea is changed, it's through me and in the judge's chambers. This was a breakdown, plain and simple. Frank Archer and the higher-ups of this military drove a man to what is effectively suicide, and they should be ashamed of themselves."

Archer himself has a different take on the matter. "Innocent people don't confess. If his conscience drove him to plea guilty, then all's well." When asked about the rest of Valjean's speech, Archer scoffed. "Armstrong spent most of the trial claiming he was a man of upstanding morals, and the moment he spoke for himself, he tore that down. I think that speaks for itself."

Valjean himself at this time could not be reached for comment, leaving his final speech and his prior interview with the Gazette as his final statements – and two very different ones. And despite the trial's claim to search for the truth, it seems that the events around the final hours of Brigadier-General Maes Hughes's life are no clearer than before.

Jareth Valjean is set to be executed by firing squad tomorrow morning for the murder of a fellow officer.