AN: Major, major spoilers for FMA Brotherhood episode 41. Super major. Like, the episode is practically summarized. Carry on.
Roy stood at the door to the small home, fist raised to knock but frozen midair. His hand felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative as it hovered just inches above the wood, but he couldn't force it down.
What was wrong with him? It wasn't as if Roy were a stranger to sickness or death. He'd seen it a million times, and would probably see it a million more.
But that wasn't why he was afraid to knock.
He was afraid to knock because this time, Ed was the sick one.
Ed was the dying one.
And Roy wasn't sure if he could face it.
Roy's eyes fell to the small suitcase by his side. He was here because Al had asked him to come. Roy was here because Alphonse was exhausted and scared and didn't know who else to call.
Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Roy forced it out in a tight exhale and drew his gaze back to the door, letting his hand fall heavy against the rough wood twice.
It took a few long minutes for the door to open.
Alphonse stood on the other side, looking tired and pale; like a man at the end of his rope. He regarded Roy with red-rimmed golden eyes so much like his brother, yet so different. They had a raw quality to them now that Roy didn't remember from the last time he saw them six months earlier. Dried blood stained his shirt in several places, the white fabric turned a rusted maroon in puddles and flecks and smears. Roy knew it wasn't Al's.
The young man forced a watery smile. "Hey."
Roy nodded, giving a small smile in turn. "Hey, Alphonse."
Al stepped back, inviting him in with a gesture. Roy picked up his bag and entered, nostrils immediately flaring at the acrid scent of sickness in the air combining with alcohol and bleach. Everything looked recently cleaned, but the smell still hung in the air like a shroud, a morbid promise of what was coming.
Roy didn't want to think about it.
He turned back to Alphonse, mouth suddenly dry. He swallowed thickly. "Does he know?"
Alphonse shut the door and shook his head, looking like a man beaten. "No. He asked me not to tell anyone."
"But you called me." Roy had meant it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.
Alphonse offered a weak smile. "Yeah. I figured he wouldn't mind so much if it were you. I mean . . . he'll still be mad, but not as mad as he would be if it were anyone else, you know?"
Roy didn't really know. But he let it pass without comment. "Does Winry know?"
The question reinforced Al's smile. "She knows the basics, but Ed won't let her stick around the house. You know Brother. He's proud to a fault. Doesn't want her to see him like this." The faint amusement in his voice drifted and sobered. "I can't blame him, though. I was the same way after the Promised Day. It's hard to go from something near invincible to a bag of bones."
A thick, wet coughing fit started behind one of the bedroom doors, grating and painful. Roy and Alphonse both stared, Roy wincing in sympathy. It sounded like it hurt plenty.
"Has the doctor been by today?" he finally asked.
"He came by this morning. He . . . well, he didn't get a good look, because Ed got mad early on and told him to leave, but the doctor thinks he sounds worse."
It was too much information to deal with in such a short time, and Roy didn't even have the full picture yet.
Roy turned away, taking a closer look at the house, looking for a distraction.
It was a small home, but the main room was spacious enough, with two worn, mismatched couches and a overstuffed chair gathered around a coffee table piled high with books and notes and papers overflowing and spilling on the rug underneath. Directly above his head was a narrow set of stairs leading up to a small loft, complete with cramped bookcases, a messy desk and arm chair.
The back wall was nothing but windows, opening up to a back garden, and beyond that, rolling hills of Resembool countryside and the southern sky as far as the eye could see, the early afternoon sun beating down on green grass and wildflowers. It was one of those scenes that Roy would have hated to miss out on after being blind just a couple of years ago.
It was a beautiful scene, compared to the hustle and bustle of the city. Nice and quiet and peaceful.
Roy didn't want to acknowledge the small, cynical voice in the back of his mind that whispered it was a beautiful place to die.
"Would you like some coffee?" Al asked, jarring Roy from his dark thoughts. "Ed should be out any minute. He was just changing his shirt."
"Coffee would be great," Roy said with a smile that felt a little forced, even to himself.
"Go ahead and have a seat," Al said, gesturing to the chair. "I'll go put a pot on." He disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.
Roy stood there for a while, listening to the dull slam of a cabinet door, the clank of a pot and the hiss of running water while Ed coughed up a lung in his bedroom. It was all so mundane, yet all too surreal, to be standing in the Elric's house with Ed dying in the next room while Alphonse made coffee in the kitchen. It was a contradiction that was just a bit difficult to cope with at the moment, in the wake of the news.
The rich smell of coffee finally jarred him from his musings enough to walk over to the chair, but no sooner did he sit himself down when the bedroom door creaked open and Ed hobbled right past him.
Ed looked . . . sick. That was the best the Roy could describe him. He was a ghost of what he had been six months earlier, standing in his office with that stupid red coat and a smirk on his tired face.
Now, Ed walked with a crutch under one arm, favoring his automail leg. He was thin—so thin— like a prisoner of war, starved and wasting. He was dressed in a simple pair of trousers and a white shirt, mismatched feet bare on the hardwood floor. His long golden hair was down, cascading down his shoulders almost to the middle of his back like he hadn't gotten it cut since Roy had last seen it. His skin had a feverish look to it, too pale except for the flush in his cheeks.
"Al?" he called, voice scratchy and weak. He stopped just past Roy, pivoting on the crutch to look out the window, almost seeming out of breath. It was only a matter of seconds before Ed noticed him.
"Yeah?" Al called back.
"Hey, Al," he began, head slowly turning as he ran a hand through his bangs, "where did I leave that stupid—"
Ed's eyes locked with Roy's for one slow second, hazy and uncomprehending.
Then the blank surprise slowly melded into complete fury.
"ALPHONSE ELRIC!" he bellowed, scratchiness gone now.
Roy could hear a resigned sigh from the kitchen. "Yes, Brother?"
"Get in here!"
Alphonse appeared around the corner, two steaming yellow cups in his hand and innocence in his eyes. "Yes?" he asked.
Ed glared at his little brother. "What is he doing here?!" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Roy and panting at the exertion. It had probably been a while since he'd yelled at anyone. Then again, it was Ed. Roy wasn't sure if he'd ever gone a day in his life without shouting about something.
Alphonse gave his brother a bland look. "Looks like he's sitting in your chair."
"Don't you get cute with me, Alphonse. What part about 'leave them out of this,'did you not get?!"
Alphonse ignored him, walking past him to offer Roy a cup. "One sugar, no cream?"
Roy blinked. "You remember?"
"Forget the coffee!" Ed snapped. "We don't need or want your help. Thanks for stopping by, and don't let the door hit you on the way out."
"Brother, I asked him to come," Al said cooly, regarding Edward as if he were an over-excited toddler instead of his sick big brother.
"So I gathered, Al," he said, voice mockingly calm. "I asked why."
"After last night . . . I need some help."
Ed opened his mouth to deliver a heated reply, but it seemed that Al's words finally registered. His mouth slammed shut, a frown closing his expression off completely. He looked at Roy, then at Alphonse, then back to Roy. Then he hobbled past them, crutch clicking on the floor as the young man snagged a book off of the table, sending an avalanche of papers to the floor. He stalked out the back door and slammed it shut behind him.
That went well.
Alphonse sighed, taking his own coffee and sitting at the end of a sofa. "He's just angry because he doesn't feel well. Give him some time. It's usually worse in the mornings. And night."
"It's almost afternoon," Roy pointed out.
"Yeah, well, I said usually," Al said with a bitter sort of smile.
"What's wrong with him?" Roy asked quietly. Alphonse had been vague on the phone, apparently afraid that Ed was going to walk in at any moment and overhear their conversation. All Roy knew was that Ed was sick—fatally so— and that Al hoped there might be a way to fix it.
Alphonse sipped his coffee, eyes glued to the back window. Edward was kneeling down beside a flowerbed, reaching in and removing a thin, grassy weed. Roy never pegged him as the gardening type. "He wouldn't tell me for a long time. I just noticed that he wasn't feeling well. He woke up sick more mornings than not, had some vertigo a few times a week, had fever almost every morning and night. He had a cough he couldn't shake. I finally dragged him to the doctor, but they couldn't find anything wrong. The doctor sent him back with some anti-nausea medication and codeine and said to call if anything changed. I couldn't get him to go back to the doctor, even though he didn't improve.
"Then he started coughing up blood. I think that scared him a little. He didn't pitch a fit when I took him to the hospital. They ran some tests, but they could only tell us that the he had unusual scarring in his lower left lung, diaphragm, stomach and large intestines , but they couldn't find a cause. I took him to three more doctors. Same story.
"Then he finally told me what happened up in Briggs." His eyes slid to Roy, almost accusing. "Did you know?"
Roy frowned. "Know what?"
Some of the tension melted from his jaw; apparently that had appeased him. "He wouldn't tell me the specifics. He only said that In his fight with Kimblee, he fell down a mine shaft and impaled himself on a metal beam." He said it with a detachment that came from dealing with too much. "He had Darius and Heinkel remove it and used some of his life-force to stop the bleeding and patch up his insides."
Roy felt the blood drain from his face.
How had he not known? Why didn't Edward ever tell him? Why didn't he notice?
A hundred other questions buzzed through his head, but Roy couldn't focus on any of them. He felt like there was a stone in his stomach, heavy and cold.
By all accounts, Edward should have been dead in that mine shaft.
And now, years later, it was finally killing him.
"Are . . . are you sure?" Roy asked, voice weak.
Alphonse's expression remained impassive, but Roy saw the turmoil in his golden eyes. The same turmoil he'd heard in the young man's voice over the phone just last night. "Ed says that it makes sense for his body to start unravelling at it's weakest points. All the internal damage and problems he's having . . . it all lines up with the scars." He looked away, mouth tightening. "I never noticed."
The short sentence had enough guilt and self-loathing in it to destroy someone. Roy had seen it before in combat, when misplaced guilt caused a soldier to assume responsibility for a comrade's death. It was devastating and consuming and Roy hated hearing it from Alphonse.
"It's not your fault."
Al looked at him as if just remembering he was there at all. "Hmph," he agreed without agreeing at all, eyes traveling once again to his older brother. Ed now sat in a wooden rocking chair, crutches propped against the window, one hand supporting a book and the other resting on something. Was that a cat in his lap? "At any rate, it's getting worse. The scarring is spreading, causing more complications. We have Resembool's doctor consulting with several big shots in Central and East City. Doctor Samuel Fawn. He's a good man. Smart. Just . . . limited."
"Have you considered moving to East City, or back to Central? The doctors and facilities are much more advanced—"
"Brother won't." Al frowned a bit in thought, but didn't share why. Roy decided not to press it, for now.
"Have you tried Alchehestry?"
"Twice a day. It keeps him on his feet and keeps the hemoptysis down to a minimum. He wouldn't be up and moving without it, I think." He sipped his coffee, his other hand absently rubbing over a rust colored stain on his shirt. "But it's not a cure. It only helps with the symptoms. I consulted with Mei a couple of months ago, but she doesn't know anything to help. She's looking, though." He rubbed his tired eyes then gestured to the cluttered coffee table. "We all are."
"What can I do to help?"
He raised his eyes to meet his, a weak smile pulling on his lips. "I need another set of eyes on our research and him. Last night was . . . rough." The smile had faded like mist in the sun by that point.
Roy frowned, prompting him to elaborate with a gesture.
"He . . . well, he started vomiting up blood. We couldn't get him to stop for the longest time. I've been so careful with his diet, I don't know what happened." Al scrubbed at his face again, pulling hard enough that his lower eyelids slid away from his eyes for a few moments, giving him the appearance of a tired basset hound. "It . . . it was bad. Alchehestry helped calm the bleeding down, but he still just kept vomiting. The doctor couldn't tell us why this morning. And Ed . . . he's always starving, but he could hardly keep anything down last night. I guess it all kind of shook me up," he said, almost apologetically. "That's when I called you."
Roy was trying to match the Ed that Alphonse described from last night with the irritable but alert Ed from this morning and came up short.
"I'm here to help," Roy promised. "Hawkeye has everything in Central taken care of for a few weeks, at any rate."
Al nodded. "Well, I'm sure you're tired from the trip. The overnight train isn't fun. Why don't you go visit with Ed for a bit? Winry will be by later with dinner and I'll have some research for you to look over."
Roy would admit that he was feeling exhausted, overwhelmed and helpless, but he was willing to bet Alphonse was doubly so.
Regardless, he had some things he wanted to discuss with Ed. He nodded, standing with his coffee and heading to the back porch.
XxXxX
Ed had to admit, he really did like this house. It wasn't like Granny Pinako's place, or even the home where they had grown up; both were saturated in memories, good and bad, and had an eternal sense of "home" about them. This place had a certain charm about it, though.
Ever since his illness had dug its claws in and his retirement became inevitable, Alphonse had been eyeing this small house in the Resembool country. It had belonged to the late railroad foreman and his wife and Alphonse was eager to buy it, certain that the isolation, views and peace would help Ed heal. The fact that it was down the road from the Rockbells didn't hurt either.
It wasn't fancy; there were three bedrooms, a small kitchen and a nice living room. The tiny loft overlooking the living room and the wall of windows, was Ed's favorite spot.
This was a close second.
Spring was slowly melting into summer, the meadows green and lush and insects buzzing and fluttering through the blades. A small garden trailed around the house, flowerbeds flooded with flowers of every shape and color growing in bright bursts against shades of green, mounding and sprawling and spilling over. Ed could sit in this rocker and almost forget about everything for a while.
He could even almost manage to convince himself that Brigadier General Roy Mustang wasn't actually sitting in his living room.
"Fullmetal."
Ed groaned, opening his eyes to glare at the general. He never even heard the door open. "I could have sworn I asked you to get out of my house."
"I'm out of your house now," Mustang pointed out with that arrogant smile only he could summon, taking a sip from his mug before sitting in the wooden rocking chair beside Ed. He looked very domestic, with his bright yellow coffee mug, casual slacks and dark shirt, raven hair in disarray. Not very general-like at all.
If Ed had possessed the energy, he would have gotten up and left. As it was, he was left to glare at Mustang's smug face for the time being. "Is there a reason you're out here, ruining my peace and quiet?"
Mustang shrugged with a shallow smirk. "Call it comeuppance for the past decade."
"Fine. And then we'll call me accidentally setting your suitcase on fire 'comeuppance' for annoying me." Ed crossed his flesh leg over the automail one and repositioned the book in his lap.
"Didn't I see a cat out here with you?" Mustang asked conversationally. It was weird. Like he was avoiding something, and Mustang wasn't one to dance around a topic.
"I'm sure you're not surprised to learn that Alphonse has a cat."
"No, but I'm surprised to learn he has just one."
Ed actually smirked at that. "It wasn't for lack of trying, but I told him one is the limit. You must have scared her off."
Mustang looked around. "What's her name?"
"Cat."
Mustang's dark eyes slid to meet his, eyebrows arching in an incredulous manner. "Honestly, Fullmetal?"
"Hey, we drew names out of a hat. 'Cat' won."
"Let me guess who suggested that particular moniker."
"Mustang, are you here to criticize me on my creativity?"
"No. I'm here to find out what happened at Briggs and why you never told me." He was finally able to spit it out, but there was something in the older man's voice that Ed couldn't quite identify. It had taken on a cold, brittle, almost possessive tone that made Ed just a bit defensive.
Where did that idiot get off thinking Ed owed him an explanation?
"We are very much not discussing this," Ed growled, flipping a page in his book and trying to focus on the words before him.
Though it was difficult to concentrate when Mustang was just staring at him like that.
"Edward," Mustang prompted, his voice demanding in the way it had when he wanted to know just why Ed had leveled an entire city block to arrest one criminal.
Ed flattened his book with a stiff hand. "Why? Just what were you going to do about it?!"
This time, Mustang bristled, his careful, holier-than-thou tone breaking just a bit to show a flash of real anger. "I was your commanding officer. I had every right to know."
Ed's flaring temper increased his heart rate, and naturally, his respiration. It was getting to be a common problem, the scarring in his lungs spreading, tearing and bleeding, easily irritated and difficult to control. He coughed in his hand as delicately as possible, trying to reign it in before it became a fit, glare never leaving Mustang's stern gaze. "Mustang, some things just aren't any of your business. Me getting impaled is one of them."
"Edward, if we had known sooner—"
"If you had known sooner, you couldn't have done anything!" Ed snapped, his lungs spasming once more in an involuntary cough that hurt more than last time, like hot coals bouncing in his chest. "You were knee deep in an impending coup, there were homunculi everywhere, the Promised Day hit soon after, and Al—" Another cough stopped him—that one hurt. "I had to get Al's body back. After all of that, what was done was done."
"You don't know that," Mustang insisted.
Ed could feel his blood start to boil. As if he hadn't spent the past few months looking at this from every possible angle. As if he didn't examine then reexamine what he had done, the damage to his body, and if there had been or still might be a way to reverse it.
"Well, don't you just have an answer for everything?" Ed sneered.
Mustang let out an exasperated huff, putting his elbows on his knees and running a hand through his messy hair even as a gust of air tousled it, black locks quivering in the breeze. "I forgot what a pain in the neck you are, Fullmetal. And it's only been a few months. Tell me what's going on."
"Fine! I'll tell you what happened and you tell me what I could have done differently after the fact, and then you can get off my back!"
Ed breathed for a minute, trying to compose himself enough to dodge a full-scale coughing fit. His left lung burned from the exertion as it was. He hadn't done much yelling recently. Then again, Mustang hadn't been around recently. No one rubbed him the wrong way quite like Mustang could.
Alphonse had shared a theory about that only a few weeks ago. Al told him that Ed and Mustang were at each other's throats so much because they were so alike. Ed told him what he could do with his theory.
The silence stretched enough that Mustang noticed and looked at him with sharp, analyzing eyes.
Ed glared and took another shallow breath. "You know all about Kimblee and Winry and how Miles wanted to shoot the dirtbag, but I was just going to . . . incapacitate him."
"Yes. The part you didn't actually leave out of your report."
"Are you going to shut up and let me finish?" Ed snapped, then coughed. It took a long few minutes for him to stifle that one, his left side burning with every forced exhalation. He finally pulled his hand away from his mouth, wiping away a few small droplets of blood. Ouch.
He shot a furtive glance at Mustang, but the old man had already noticed, dark eyes softening into something much less annoyed and a lot more annoying. He actually looked worried.
And this was why Ed didn't want him or anybody else here. He couldn't stand being looked at like some kind of invalid, like a withering flower in a vase.
"What, never seen blood before?" Ed pulled a bloody handkerchief from his pocket, wiping bright red smears to join the dark red smears from yesterday. "Don't go wimping out on me, Mustang." He pocketed it again, not out of consideration for Mustang, but because he himself hated looking at it.
Mustang looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
"Then don't. It's just a little blood." Ed would never admit to anyone the way the sight of it sent a thrill of panic down his own spine. There was something so fatalistic about coughing up blood, an uncomfortable foreshadowing of what was heading his way.
"Anyway," he began again, shooting a warning glance Mustang's way. "Kimblee saw it coming. So I had to do something. Well, the man fought dirty. He had two Philosopher's Stones. I fell down a mine shaft and got impaled." He pointed to his torso to illustrate with shaking hands. Another, less intense cough slowed him for a moment, but he continued. "Entered through the front, out the back. It punched through two ribs, my left lung, diaphragm, then nicked my stomach, large intestines and vena cava. The stupid pole was the only thing that kept me from bleeding out then and there. Darius and Heinkle removed the pole, and I clapped my hands and traded my lifespan for keeping my insides together. No, I didn't know how much it took, but I'm sure I'm about to find out."
"Fullmetal," Mustang scolded.
Ed glared. "No, Mustang. You don't get to come here, invade my home, then get all offended when I tell it like it is. You wanted to hear it, so I'm going to tell it, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it for your delicate sensibilities."
Mustang opened his mouth, then shut it, eyes turning unreadable. He sat back in his chair and gave a small nod for Ed to continue.
"You interrupt me again, I'm going to get Al to transmute your feet to your head. Anyway, I'm still doing the research on this, but it's going to go a little something like this: The scar tissue inside is slowly spreading, so it will basically get to a point where it's going to interfere with function. There are a handful of likely complications from it that could kill me.
"Firstly, it's already weakened my left lung, tearing and causing this stupid bleeding, but it'll get worse and pneumonia is starting to be an irritating concern.
"Secondly, the way the scaring is spreading, there is a high likelihood that my vena cava will split or burst, and I'll bleed out within seconds.
"Then, my body isn't absorbing nutrients like it should, so starvation could eventually be a concern, but it's more likely that the scarring will form a blockage in my intestines before that, creating a case of gangrene that will kill me relatively fast.
"Those are the top three ways I'm probably going to go, anyway. There are more, but it just gets creative after that point. I think I'm holding out for my vein bursting. Pneumonia and gangrene sound completely disgusting."
Ed became aware that he was rambling, words a delicate balance between detached and mildly hysteric.
Over the past months, Ed had been holding out hope that they would find something. He and Alphonse were geniuses, after all. They had been researching nonstop, pouring over textbooks and journals and notes on alchehestry and healing alchemy and anything they could get their hands on to reverse this terrible process, but all the while, that little bit of hope Ed held on to had started to turn into doubt. A cynical voice in the back of his head had started to warn him that this was all well and good, but he'd better start preparing himself for the more likely outcome.
He was far from prepared, though. He wasn't ready to address this, not today. He didn't want Mustang here, making him face and question everything up to this point, with his pity and his patronization, as if Ed had any other choice. As if Ed had any other options.
He was running out of time, and he didn't want to waste what precious little he had considering the possibilities.
"Edward."
Ed stared at Mustang, because it was so rare for him to use his full first name that it demanded his attention.
Mustang was staring at him again, the pity gone and replaced by something Ed couldn't quite name. Resolve? Satisfaction? "Thank you. For telling me."
Ed dropped his jaw in an exaggerated gape. "You hear that?"
Mustang blinked, listening for a moment. "Hear what?"
"That. It's the sound of Hell freezing over. Did you just thank me?"
The general rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Ed. I've thanked you plenty."
"Name one instance."
Mustang thought. Hard, by the way his eyebrows steadily lowered. "I don't—wait, I thanked you when you returned from Kissel that one time without incurring more than a thousand cenz of property damage."
"Hey, I only did what had to be done!" He swallowed another cough.
"You guys fighting already?"
Both of them jumped a mile, the shock sending Ed into a hacking fit. He tasted blood.
"I'm sorry!" Al said, or at least, Ed thought so. It was hard to hear through all the bloody exhalations and gasps. His lungs were on fire. Al rubbed his back in panicked, jerky motions. "I'm sorry, Brother! I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I'm so sorry!"
Ed took a few rasping breaths, turning to glare at his worrying little brother with a few choked gasps. "Okay, okay, back off," he wheezed. "A little warning, Al?"
"I'm sorry, you know the backdoor is really quiet!"
"As everyone . . . keeps reminding me," he hissed, sending Mustang a pointed glare as he once again wiped blood away from his lips with his handkerchief.
"I don't know what you're implying," Mustang said, voice casual, but eyes strained, like he'd been half a second from joining Al in hovering over him.
The last thing Ed needed was twomother hens.
"Okay, no more excitement," Alphonse said definitively. "I've been watching you yell and cough for the past ten minutes."
"So, you're kicking him out?" Ed asked with an aggressive point at Mustang.
"No, I'm telling you both to knock it off," Al responded, glaring at Ed, then sending a warning look over to Mustang.
Ed stuck his tongue out at the older man from behind Al's back.
Mustang's eyes widened, then narrowed in incredulity. "How old are you, Fullmetal?"
Al turned back, but Ed had already resumed his angelic countenance. "I don't know what you're implying," he mocked with a smug grin he couldn't quite contain.
He could have sworn he saw Mustang fighting his own smile, but he could have been wrong.
Alphonse glanced between the two of them suspiciously before turning back to Ed with crossed arms. "Okay, Brother. It's time for lunch, your meds, then you need to rest."
He almost felt his cheeks tinge in embarrassment, side-eying Mustang with a ducked head. He did not want that smirking jerk general watching him take meds and being put down for a nap like he was some mentally touched octogenarian. "I'm busy, Alphonse," Ed said, gesturing to his book. "If some people will leave me be."
"Brother, the doctor said you need to take your meds regularly, and you have to eat," Al scolded. "Do you want to come in, or do you want me to bring them out here?"
There was absolutely no way he was going to let Alphonse bring him his medication in front of Mustang, much less food. "I can get it, Al."
"The doctor said you need to rest as much as possible . . ." Alphonse said, hinting at his preferred option.
"Alphonse, if you don't stop quoting that man, I'm going to do to you what I did to him," Ed promised.
"Brother, unlike the doctor, you can threaten me all you want, but I'm not going anywhere."
Ed rolled his eyes, pulling his crutch toward himself and getting unsteadily to his feet. He felt Al and Mustang watching, ready to jump in if it looked like he needed it, which was plain insulting. He could get around just fine, even without the crutch. "This would be a lot easier if you weren't so stubborn, Al."
"I believe the appropriate idiom here is 'the pot calling the kettle black,' isn't it?"
Mustang choked.
Both Elrics turned to glare at him. "Something funny?" Ed demanded.
The general's stoic face twitched with a barely smothered grin. "Nothing."
"I think he's laughing at us," Ed pointed out.
"I think he'll stop when he realizes we know where he's sleeping tonight."
That cleared up any mirth in Mustang's eyes. He looked at Alphonse with a bit of incredulity. "I always thought that Fullmetal was the evil one, but you are completely demonic."
Ed's baby brother smiled innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I told you before," Ed said. "Alphonse is more fiendish than I'll ever be."
"Brother, sit down! I'll get the meds, you rest." Alphonse snagged Ed by the elbow, and pushed. It was either sit or fall, so Ed sat, albeit without much grace.
"Al!" he groused, but Al ignored him, turning around and heading back in the house.
Ed sighed irritably and fixed Mustang with a glare. "See? Fiendish."
Mustang smiled, rocking lazily in his chair. "I think Alphonse is doing an excellent job taking care of you. Finally paying you back after the way you mothered him all these years?"
"I never mothered anybody!" Ed exclaimed indignantly, pleased when he didn't feel the stirrings of a cough and could continue to shout at his least favorite human being on the planet.
"Really? What about every single time Alphonse got his armor wet?"
"That was different. If he didn't dry it, it would rust."
"Or when he walked back to the dorms without you for the first three years."
"He could have gotten lost!"
"Or maybe when—"
"Okay, that's enough," Ed hissed. "Whatever, he's treating me like an invalid." Alphonse appeared at his side, and he only jumped a little. "Al! Stop doing that!" Ed groused.
Al ignored him. "Brother, you only have one functional leg," he pointed out, ignoring Ed's outburst and setting a juice glass of multicolored pills on the side table with a cup of water. "It's no problem for me to bring you things."
"They both function just fine!" Ed snapped. "Look!" He tossed his crutch to an unprepared Mustang and stood on both legs. The crutch just barely missed the older man's forehead when he caught it, eyes wide in surprise. Pity. "See?" Ed asked in the face of Alphonse's disapproving stare, taking a step on the automail leg that immediately collapsed under him.
He landed in a dusty heap on the wooden deck, both Al and Mustang flying to him, hands pulling at him and voices babbling and running over each other in panic and concern. The impact startled him more than hurt, but his side definitely didn't appreciate the sudden blow. It did upset his breathing, though, and he coughed. Hard. Bright flecks of blood splashed against wood planks like spilled paint before he could breathe.
His illness had reached the point where his body didn't have the tolerance for automail, it seemed. After several weeks of steadily increasing pain, he had finally agreed to let Winry look at it. She saw him almost two weeks ago, and with no small amount of trepidation, told him that his body was starting to reject it. She told him it wasn't uncommon with chronic illness, when the body was so busy dealing with a constant onslaught elsewhere that it just didn't accept even established automail.
So she gave him a crutch and told him that keeping weight off of it would slow the process, but if his condition didn't change, she would have to remove it soon.
The thought of being crippled again terrified him, so he faithfully followed her instructions and used it anytime he was up.
Still . . . Ed had been able to put all of his weight on the leg just a couple of weeks ago, albeit with some pain. Was the port already that far gone?
His eyes wondered to the scarlet blood soaking up dust on the floorboards.
At least he wasn't coughing up a lung. It was the little things.
"Brother, can you stand?!" Alphonse was asking.
Both men stared down at him, and he glared right back. After all, it was easier to be mad than to be humiliated.
"Fine, it's harder that it looks. Whatever," Ed sighed. "Just . . . give me a hand up, will you Al?"
He was surprised and a little annoyed to find Mustang's hand in his, hoisting him up like he weighed nothing and pulling him against his side to keep him standing.
It might have been okay with Ed if he died right then and there.
He felt the man's body heat through his thin shirt, a strange sensation against Ed's own flushed skin as he guided him back to his chair and gently helped Ed sit. Ed could feel his own cheeks burning in frustration and shame.
There really wasn't anything more sickening than realizing he wasn't going to ever walk with only his own two legs again, and that this time, not even automail would fix it. That time two weeks ago? That was it.
"I'll go make you lunch," Al said quietly. "Do you want a sandwich?"
Ed made a noncommittal grunting noise and Al disappeared back into the house.
Mustang kept hovering. Ed could feel his dark eyes burning holes in the side of Ed's head. "Is there a problem?" Ed demanded, though he couldn't bring himself to look at Mustang. He was far too ashamed about collapsing in front of the man.
"Ed, there's nothing to be embarrassed about—"
"If you ever so much as breathe a word of that to anyone, I'll smother you in your sleep with your own pillow."
Mustang chuckled half-heartedly before sobering. "Ed, why do you think I'm here?"
"To needlessly torment me?"
Mustang didn't dignify that with a response. "I came because I have nothing but respect for you and your brother and I want to help you in any way I can. We can at least try to get along. For Al's sake."
Ed looked up, searching Mustang's eyes for the lie, but he couldn't find it there. If nothing else, the man almost looked pleading. Ed looked down again. "Fine. I promise not to set fire to your suitcase. For Al's sake." And that was all Mustang was getting.
He could almost hear Mustang smile. "Guess that's all I can ask for."
*pulls out hair*
Ugh, this chapter. This. Chapter.
But I guess it's okay, I'm just not satisfied with it. Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe. At least it was longer than the previous chapter. I reeeeeeally hope it wasn't rambly or repetitive, though it's been written for well over three weeks and I've read and re-read it and haven't been able to figure out what to do about it.
So, those of you that follow me on Instagram know I'm in a show. And now it's tech week. Those of you that have done theater know what a nightmare tech week is T_T I am so exhausted. I've been an understudy for one of the characters, so there have been a million extra rehearsals that I'm not used to attending, since I'm typically a chorus member. I guess that means I'm moving up in the world? *shrugs* But the SCENE CHANGES. They are many and heavy and I loathe them.
We open tomorrow, though, so TECH WEEK IS FINALLY OVER! Which explains why I'm posting after one in the morning. I'd hate to waste all of this exhaustion-induced creativity sleeping :'D
And then work starts next week. I need a week of therapy in between. Guess art and therapy will suffice ;D
You'd think I'd journal on some place other than the end of my fan fics, but here we are. I'm going to blame the exhaustion and time. Maybe you're sufficiently entertained. Maybe you're rolling your eyes. Maybe you stopped reading four paragraphs ago.
To those that have reviewed so far, thank you, you have no idea how much every single one means to me.
If you have the time, please drop a review, and I'll see you next chapter :)
God Bless,
-RainFlame