Ed was aware of the pain before anything else.

It was like laying at the edge of the lake like when they were little, letting the waves lap up against his body—except it wasn't water that was lapping at him, it was a throbbing, aching pain, and he wasn't at the lake, he was lying on something much softer.

Ed cracked his eyes open, wincing at the onslaught of light and shutting them again with a small groan and a shiver.

"Ed!" Alphonse said from somewhere close by. His voice was swimming with emotions far too complicated for Ed to grasp right now, so Ed didn't bother. "How do you feel?"

"Why . . . 'sit so bright?" Ed asked, tongue feeling too heavy to make the right sounds. Did they drug him or something?

"Hang on," Al said. Ed heard wood scraping against wood as the curtains were pulled and the blinding brightness was thankfully dimmed.

With another shiver, Ed pulled the blanket up around him, his right hand brushing against his own cheek in the process. Fever burned just below his skin; nothing too high, but high enough for him to be cold.

Alphonse appeared in his line of sight, a glass of water in his hand. "How do you feel? Do you remember anything?" He slipped his free hand behind Ed's shoulders, dragging him up enough to get a few sips down, excess dripping down his chin. No wonder his tongue had felt so thick; he felt dehydrated and weak.

Ed thought a moment as he drank, mind sluggishly trying to come up with memories that would explain why he was in his room and in bed in the middle of the day when the last thing he remembered was being at Winry's.

He frowned, because he suddenly remembered Mustang being in Winry's house, too.

That didn't make sense.

"Not really," he responded.

The relief on Al's face melted into something cooler as he lowered him back on the pillow, placing the glass on the nightstand with a clank. "You ran off without telling anybody."

Oh, yeah.

Ed remembered that.

"Roy went to find you, and you passed out on the way home. He had to drag you back here like a sack of flour."

Ed groaned and brought a hand over his face, wiping away a few traces of sweat, and hopefully his mortified expression. Mustang, carrying him? He didn't remember that, nor did he want to. "Crap."

"You were bleeding from your stomach and back."

Ed dropped his hand quickly and looked at his brother. "Bleeding? Like, on the outside?"

"Yeah," Al answered, a bit of fear wrapped in hot anger vibrating through his voice. "You scared me to death, Ed. Doctor Fawn came and . . . Ed, do you have anyidea what you've . . ." he trailed off, turning away from him and planting his face in his hands, hiding his distress from Ed about as effectively Ed could every hide such things from Al.

Ed pushed back the blanket despite the chill and tried to sit up, but a distinct flare of pain in his abdomen had him lying flat again with a hiss. If Al noticed, he didn't react, still turned away from him. "Al," Ed began, settling for working his way up to sit against the headboard slowly. It was only then that a sharp bite on the inside of his arm alerted him to the needle embedded in his skin. He followed the line with his eyes, seeing a bag of saline solution hanging on the bedframe behind him. A spent bag of blood caught his eye on the nightstand.

A blood transfusion?

It only took him a second to puzzle it out from there: Ed had collapsed, bleeding both inside and out, Mustang carried him home, Fawn came in and said something that upset Al. Something that upset him to the point that he couldn't even look at Ed right now.

Ed had the unsettling suspicion that he knew what that something might be.

He glanced down at his torso, slowly pulling his shirt up to reveal the ugly scar just beneath his prominent ribs. A pink line, about four inches long, tore across it like a crevice. Ed had never seen it before, but he knew what this meant. He had suspected his body would start unravelling at its weakest point, and it seemed that his body was farther along in the process than even yesterday morning.

A thrill of fear fluttered in his chest, making him cough, but thankfully it didn't turn into any sort of fit. "Al," he tried again, "What did Fawn say?"

Al took a shuddering breath, like he was steeling himself for something painful. He still refused to look at Ed, rubbing hard at his eyes. "He thinks you have less time now."

Another flutter, another cough. Ed wasn't sure if he wanted to hear this, but he neededto hear this. "How long?"

Alphonse finally dropped his hands, looking up at the ceiling in a helpless, lost sort of way before turning to face him, golden eyes rimmed with red. "Two or three months."

Ed shut his eyes.

That was it?

Was this because of him? Was it because he over-exerted himself, or was this just the natural progression of things? Had he stolen time from his little brother, from Winry, with his own stubborn idiocy?

Two or three months.

Nausea that had nothing to do with his illness stirred in his malfunctioning stomach, but he fought it down.

He needed to be strong for Al, now. He couldn't crumble because of this.

He'd made his choices. Now he would deal with the results.

He took a steadying breath. He could not afford to process this here and now with Al in the room. It was clear that his little brother had been processing it alone all night long, and Ed couldn't bear the thought of watching this tear him apart when all Ed had to do was blow it off.

He would deal with it later. Al needed him now.

"Yeah, well, what does Fawn know, anyway?" he scoffed, doing his best for it not to sound forced. It wasn't hard, in the wake of the shock numbing his mind. "Does he think he's Truth or something? Like he has all the answers."

"Brother . . ."

"I don't feel like two or three months, Al," which was very true, "So let's just forget Fawn ever opened his stupid mouth, okay? We'll just proceed as planned."

Al shut his mouth in a hard line, looking like he very much wanted to argue, but realized he might have better luck arguing with a lamp. "I'll go make us all something to eat."

Ed honestly didn't think he could swallow food right now, but Al doing that was better than Al arguing over Ed's impending death, so he nodded. "Thanks, Al."

"If you're going to get up, use the wheelchair." The order was delivered with no room for argument.

But Ed could always make room for argument. "Where's my crutch?!"

"Roy couldn't carry it and you. I'll go get it later."

And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him.

And that's when he really knew that he'd blown it. Al knew Ed loathed asking for help, but Al was so furious with him that he wasn't going to offer. Al had done it to him many times when he was in that suit of armor and Ed was being, admittedly, a complete pain while recovering from some injury or another in the hospital.

So, Ed had two choices.

He could lie here like he was supposed to, which was obviously what Al preferred.

Or he could try to get in that stupid wheelchair and get out of what was essentially his death bed.

If he had two or three months left on this earth, he wasn't going to spend longer than necessary in bed, even if the lesser of two evils happened to be a wheelchair.

Ed looked to his right, the chair situated between the window and the bed right where Fawn had left it a couple of weeks ago, innocuous enough to look at unless, like Ed, one was doomed to be confined to it. If Ed had possessed the energy then, he would have burned it to ashes, but as it was, he'd let it live to torment him another day.

This day, apparently.

With a shiver, Ed wrapped his hand around the needle in his arm and yanked, taking tape and all. It smarted, but Ed had been coping with worse lately. He tossed it on the ground, not particularly caring if a few drops got on the floor. It was already stained red anyway until Al decided to alchemize the blood away.

Then he began the slow process of sitting up.

Which hurt. A lot.

A small gasp escaped his lips, triggering a few coughs that also hurt plenty. He propped himself up on his elbows and leaned his head back, blinking stinging tears away at the ceiling and trying to breathe through the pain the way Teacher had taught him.

Maybe he wasn't able to use a crutch at the moment . . .

This was going to take forever.

"Need some help?"

Ed startled, coughing into the blanket around him, his injured stomach pulling and aching. He looked up to see Mustang leaning against the doorframe.

"Don't you believe in knocking?!" Ed snapped when he could breathe again, discarding the now-bloody corner of the blanket. Gross.

Mustang arched a delicate eyebrow. His eyes were darker than usual today, like they were hiding something, but it could have just been a trick of the light filtering valiantly through the curtains. Regardless, Ed wasn't going to question it. He had more important things to worry about than Mustang. He alwayshad more important things to worry about than Mustang. "This, coming from the runt that kicked my door down every single time he reported in?"

Ed grounded his teeth. "Mustang, when I say that I hate you, I want you to know that I mean it in the fullest sense of the word."

A smirk pulled at the older man's lips. "So, did you need some help?"

"No," Ed responded, purely out of reflex. It was one thing to have Al help him. Mustang was very much another.

Mustang sighed, like he was in pain. "Of course you don't."

"So get lost." Ed couldn't stifle the shiver that raised gooseflesh across his skin, but he didn't stop to acknowledge it, either. He slid his aching body a bit more toward the end of the bed, wincing when he put too much pressure on his automail. Why did everything hurt so bad when he was still drugged up? Fawn had to have given him something, right? Doctors were obsessed with pain management.

While Ed was stopping to breathe, he noticed Mustang was still there.

He fixed him with a glare. "This isn't a spectator sport, Mustang."

Mustang nodded. "My apologies. I guess I should participate, then." And with that, he crossed the room and took hold of the wheelchair.

"I thought I told you to get lost!"

"You did," Mustang responded. "I decided to take a page out of your book and ignore you." He situated the chair right next to the bed. "Alright, flesh foot down. Keep your weight off your automail."

Ed stared at him, like he could will him away through the heat of his displeasure.

Mustang stood there and stared back, a silent challenge in his onyx eyes.

Finally, Ed relented, because he wasn't sure he had the energy to kill Mustang. "If you so much as touch me, Mustang, I will bite your hand off," he said pleasantly, sliding his flesh and blood leg off the mattress.

Mustang stood behind the chair and held it steady. "I just hope that you've had you your rabies vaccinations."

There was no one more annoying than Mustang, Ed was sure of it.

Carefully, gingerly, Ed gripped the arms of the wheelchair and slid off the bed, holding his breath as he lowered himself into the seat with no small amount of discomfort. He exhaled slowly, then sat there and panted for a minute, trying to steady his breathing and get the mounting pain under control.

Wow, that hurt.

"Better?" Mustang asked.

Ed nodded, not trusting his lungs to answer. Just the trip across the bed and into the chair had exhausted him, and he wondered how long he would have to rest before he was able to propel the chair forward.

Al might have been right. There was no way he'd have been able to get around with a crutch this afternoon.

He felt Mustang grip the handles and start to push.

Ed held a hand up, and Mustang halted. He threw the older man a dark warning glare over his shoulder, the effect somewhat muted by his panting. Then, he put his hands on the wheels and rolled himself forward a foot or so to make his point.

Mustang seemed to get the message because he sighed. Instead of reclaiming the handles, he moved to the dresser and produced a clean blanket from the bottom drawer, throwing it over Ed's shivering body.

Ed was a little thankful, because it was cold.

Annoyed, but thankful.

"Ed, you can hardly breathe," Mustang reasoned, his voice nothing close to patronizing, but it still stung Ed's pride. "Let me help you."

"No." Ed didn't have the energy to spare on arguing, so he gripped the wheel beside him and rolled forward, his weakened arms straining at the motion, but he would get there.

Ever since he'd lost his arm and leg, Ed had hated wheelchairs. Being stuck in one for those months after he and Al had committed the taboo were some of the worst months of his life, and wheelchairs were a symbolic and physical representation of how completely helpless he had been, unable to maneuver it with his only arm and forced to just sit and let someone take him where he didn't want to go and assist him with almost every facet of his daily life.

He hated that Mustang had seen him in one in the first place, but now it seemed that they had come full circle, Mustang once again towering over him while he huddled in the loathed contraption, weak and helpless once more.

He hated it.

"Why are you so stubborn?" Mustang asked wearily.

Ed felt like he could answer properly this time. "Screw you."

". . . and immature, to boot."

"Mustang," he paused for breath, anything to avoid a fit. He wanted to thank him for the blanket, then tell him to jump off the roof, but that had too many words and he didn't trust himself to get them all out. "Go away."

"I would," he said, a bit of ice in his voice, "except Al is too mad to help you, and neither one of us wants to see you fall on your face again. Carrying you back here in the mud was no picnic, Fullmetal. You're still heavy."

Ed felt heat that wasn't fever hit his cheeks. Thinking about Mustang carrying him was positively humiliating. "Well, maybe if you got out from behind a desk every once in a while, you wouldn't be so out of shape!" he spat, and then he coughed.

And then he coughed again.

And again.

He had nothing but the blanket over him to catch the bloody droplets as they flew from his lips, lungs and chest burning while his weakened abdomen felt like it was tearing apart from the inside out. He pressed the blanket to his mouth with one hand, while the other pressed against his old wound, a futile attempt to press the pain away.

He saw spots long before he got it under control, the image before his watery gaze coming into focus slowly.

Mustang was crouched in front of him, staring up at him with concerned dark eyes. Without waiting for permission, he pulled back Ed's blanket, then rolled up his shirt, cold fingers brushing over the scarred flesh. Ed could only assume he was checking for external bleeding, but there was none.

Ed batted him away weakly, pulling his shirt down where it belonged and clutching his side with a breathless intensity.

"Let's get you to the kitchen. I think you could use another treatment after you eat." Without waiting for Ed to agree or not, Mustang got to his feet and rounded the chair, grabbing the handles and pushing.

Ed was far too shaky and breathless to do anything about it.

He didn't feel like two or three months, but he sure didn't feel like a whole year, either.

XxXxX

Alphonse had promised himself when all of this began that whatever happened, he would be there for his brother. He reminded himself that the only reason Ed was like this in the first place was because he had joined the military trying to get Al's body back.

And though Alphonse was indubitably grateful, he would willingly go back in that suit of armor for the rest of his life if it meant Ed would be okay, because he couldn't picture life without his big brother in it.

But that wasn't an option, and Ed was dying, and there was nothing Alphonse could do.

And besides all that despair, Alphonse was also incensed.

Because why would his idiot brother go walking around almost half a mile to Winry's house in the rain as sick as he was and expect everything to be alright?

Al hadn't slept a wink that night, Fawn's words echoing in his head like a record stuck on repeat.

"It's hard to say. If he continues worsening at this rate, two months. Maybe three."

"Two months. Maybe three."

That part.

Al looked out the window as he scraped another five scrambled eggs onto a plate—breakfast for lunch used to be Ed's favorite. It was the middle of May now, spring flowers still bright and showy and not yet wilted by summer heat, delighting in the rain from yesterday and last night.

That meant that Ed could be gone by August.

And if he didn't get it through his thick skull that he was sick and could not do all the things he wants to do without consequence, then it might even be sooner.

Al's heart ached, because Ed was nothing if not the epidemy of independence. Ever since he'd been wheelchair-bound the first time around, he desperately craved the freedom to go where he wanted when he wanted, not tied down by anything except his love for Al and his own moral compass.

Al was afraid that this would kill him in a way that was less physical, being stuck in a wheelchair like that again, but it could not be helped. They're only other option was to let Ed kill himself hobbling around on his crutch, and that wasn't acceptable.

It was these warring thoughts that had kept him up all night, hurting for Ed and furious with him at the same time, and those horrible words . . .

Two months. Maybe three.

And though Alphonse liked to think he had a healthy grip on his emotions and possessed healthy ways of expressing them, he was tired of crying, because he'd been doing that all night, sniveling quietly in both anger and pain by his brother's side while trying to do some more research, but unable to focus enough to produce anything significant.

He was tired of crying, and he was tired of Ed acting like an invincible idiot.

So, he hurled the spoon in his hand across the kitchen with enough rage and force to dent someone's skull—

And barely missed hitting Roy in the face.

The spoon broke against the wall with an angry crack!before clattering to the floor.

The kitchen was uncomfortably silent after that.

Both Roy and Ed stared at him with widened eyes, Ed from his wheelchair and Roy from behind him, hands on the handlebars, clearly on their way to the dinner table before Al nearly caved the Brigadier General's head in.

Al had enough presence of mind to be embarrassed by the display. Chest heaving, he turned away from their inquiring gazes. "Breakfast is ready," he mumbled, grabbing a plate of bacon and the plate of eggs and placing them on the table.

Al didn't really look as Roy pushed Ed up to the table, the same place Ed had bled all over yesterday evening. Instead of joining Ed, Roy made his way to a cabinet, pulling out five juice glasses and setting them at the three place settings, two for him and Al, one for Ed. He then fetched the milk and orange juice from the ice box to place in the center.

Al put the toast out and sat heavily in the chair beside Ed and across from Roy. He didn't really want to look at either of them right now. Regardless, he snatched Ed's plate, piling it with food that he desperately wished Ed would eat, but knew that he either wouldn't or would throw it up in mere hours.

"Thanks," Ed murmured, voice raspy as he picked up his fork while Al loaded his own plate. Then Ed began his stupid game where he picked around his food and shuffled it around his plate to look like he'd eaten something without actually eating anything at all.

Al gripped his fork and stabbed a few hapless eggs at the end of it before shoving them into his mouth.

In years previous, when they fought verbally, they would spar physically. It had always made Al feel better, just the act of knocking some sense into Ed enough to help take out his frustrations.

Now, that option was clearly out, and Al was forced to sit and stew.

Breakfast was a silent affair, each keeping to their own thoughts behind mouthfuls of eggs, bacon and toast. When the meal was finished, Al and Roy stacked plates into the sink, then Al returned to the table with a jar of paint and a juice glass filled with pills, finally daring to look his brother in the face. He wordlessly handed him the pills, then leaned down in front of him, reaching out his hand and pulling the blanket back and Ed's shirt up. Ed raised his hands in protest like he might push Al out of the way, but apparently thought the better of it after seeing the look in Al's eyes.

"Be still," Al ordered when Ed shifted a bit after the cold paint bit his skin. Al traced the familiar alkahestry circle over Ed's concaved stomach, the activation leaving Ed slumped and breathless in his chair.

A sympathetic twinge forced an apology out of his mouth before he could remind himself how angry he was.

Ed looked at him with bemusement, hands holding his stomach and smearing paint. He didn't say anything though, because after the events of last night, combined with how exhausting alkahestry was, it had probably stolen his breath.

Al didn't wait for him to say anything, though. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, eyes on Ed but announcing more for Roy. He got up and stalked out the back door, closing it gently behind him.

XxXxX

When Ed could speak again, he didn't.

He just sat in his wheelchair and stared at the collection of pills in the glass, feeling a bit lost in his own kitchen.

"You're supposed to swallow them," Mustang offered helpfully, washing another plate with soap and placing it on the drying rack. "With orange juice, if you'd like."

Ed didn't immediately respond to the pleasant-ish jibe, far too tired to be easily provoked.

"Want me to get you some milk instead?"

Ed dragged his tired eyes up to meet Mustang's, his own irritation muted behind exhaustion. "I don't drink cow juice," he said with no heat and no energy. He was completely spent, the alkahestry helping with the pain but doing nothing for the lethargy it had ironed into his bones or the anxiety climbing up his throat.

He really wanted to talk to Al.

The only problem was, he had no idea what to say. Oh, that and his wheelchair wasn't all-terrain. Ed didn't know if he possessed the strength to get it across the living room at the moment.

He gazed out the back door, but his brother was nowhere in sight and Ed wasn't sure when he would be back. Ed's eyes slid to the spoon that was still on the floor, broken in three neat little pieces and surrounded by chips of paint from the cabinet above.

Yeah, Al was furious with him.

"Ed, take your pills."

Ed looked back at the glass all but forgotten in his hands with plenty of disdain. He found one he didn't recognize in the mix, fishing it out with shaking fingers. "What's this?" he asked, holding up the small white pill.

Mustang looked at it, his expression closing down to become that impenetrable mask he'd always wear when delivering bad news. "Morphine. For the pain."

Ed felt sick.

He knew a few things about morphine. He'd been in the hospital enough to be acquainted with it, but this one he knew well from watching his mom die.

There, at the end, when she wasn't going to get any better, the doctor put her on morphine. Ed had read the instructions and the warnings wrapped around the medications his mother received, a seven-year-old trying desperately to help his mother in whatever ways he could, even if it was just making sure she took the right dose at the right time. He recalled a few key facts: you were not supposed to take it if you had trouble breathing, or if you had intestinal blockage.

So, either Fawn was an idiot—and he wasn't—or Ed was too far gone for it to really matter, because he had both of those things.

Either way, it ticked him off, so he flicked the pill contemptuously across the table and swallowed the rest dry, chasing it down with the remains of his orange juice.

Mustang watched without comment, fetching the discarded pill and placing it back into its bottle.

"You may as well sell that on the black market or something," Ed muttered. "I'm not going to take it."

Mustang's smile was cool, but Ed had been studying those black eyes long enough to see the glimmer of pain behind them. "I see." The words were soft, almost apologetic, like he knew something Ed didn't.

Ed hated it. "Stop your stupid smirking and . . . help me outside." The request was almost painful, because requesting help—and from Mustang, of all people—was not something Ed enjoyed. It made him feel the full weight of his helplessness, and that was enough to feel the scrape of nausea on the back of his tongue and the sting in his pride.

But it was better than just sittinghere, Mustang with that stupid pity in his eyes and Ed trapped in his stupid wheelchair.

Mustang seemed stunned by the demand as well. He hadn't been smirking at all, but the older man would understand the request under the words.

Don't look at me like I'm dying.

Mustang dried his hands, then stepped behind the wheelchair, taking the handlebars and gently guiding him out of the kitchen.

"You're slower than me, Mustang," Ed groused, mostly for something to say.

"And you're more obnoxious than me," Mustang returned, not hurrying his pace in the slightest. "I didn't realize it was a competition."

As they passed the coffee table, Ed snagged a book from the top, one called Alchemy and the Body. Ed was over halfway through it and it had not proved helpful yet, but he was still hoping for some stupid reason.

"If I wasn't already tired, I would clock you."

"I wish you would put that genius mind of yours to work on something more useful than idle threats," Mustang sighed.

"We'll see how idle it is after I catch my breath."

"Shaking in my boots, Fullmetal."

Ed rolled his eyes. What a pain.

Mustang made it to the back door an eternity later, pulling the door open and wheeling Ed through. The air outside was colder than the day before, and Ed was endlessly grateful for the blanket around his shoulders, the cool air enough to send a shiver through his feverish body.

Mustang noticed. "Are you sure this is comfortable for you?"

Ed waved him off, eyes searching the surrounding fields for any signs of his brother. "It's just fine, Mustang." He reached out for the arm of his rocking chair.

Mustang arched an eyebrow and asked, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm sitting in my chair," he responded hotly. "Is that a problem?"

"It is when you have to almost kill yourself to do it." Without waiting for permission, Mustang grabbed his elbows and hoisted him to his feet, pulling him in close enough for Ed to catch faint scent of earth and mesquite.

"Hey!" he protested, but Mustang ignored him, and Ed had no interest in wresting himself from the older man's grip only to fall on the hard deck below, so he took some slow, limping steps with Mustang's support before the alchemist helped ease him into the rocker.

The whole maneuver did not come without consequence, and Ed pressed his hand to his side, trying to dampen the sharp ache the movement had encouraged. But if he were being honest with himself, he would admit it probably hurt a lot less than it would have if he'd done it on his own.

He completely hated this.

Mustang was hovering over him now like he was a few seconds from lifting Ed's shirt to check for bleeding again. With some effort, Ed pulled his hand away from the wound, trying to nonchalantly press his elbow into it instead as he leaned on one arm rest. Yeah, real smooth. He looked like an idiot.

"New rule," he announced. "You don't get to touch me. Ever."

Mustang smirked, but that concern still haunted his eyes. "I agree to your terms until the next time you do something stupid, which will probably be in about two minutes."

"You know, the train tracks are lovely this time of day. I hear it's nice to just lay across them with your eyes closed. Why don't you try it?"

Mustang's eyes looked strained, and it bothered Ed to no small end. He just kept lookingat Ed like he was glass, like he was savoring something that was soon to be gone. But that stupid smirk was still there, hollow on his face as he took the rocker next to Ed. "Then who would be here to discourage your idiotic behavior?"

"An idiot trying to discourage me from being idiotic? That's rich."

Mustang's smirk diminished somewhat. "How long do you think Alphonse will be gone?"

Ed's returning smile was more of a grimace. "With how mad he is? Probably a few hours. He's probably down at the river." Mustang gave him a curious look, so Ed elaborated. "That's where he goes when I've ticked him off."

"He's probably got quite the campsite by now."

For the millionth time, Ed wished he could still do alchemy. He could think of a few arrays that would launch the smirking jerk from here to Xing. "No one is entertained right now, Mustang."

Mustang didn't respond, and they rested in what could almost be called amiable silence. Ed opened his book and tried to read, but worry for Alphonse kept most of it from really registering.

A dark shape caught his eye and he turned to see Cat wonder over from the side of the house, staying close to the wall, paws silent on the deck. She finally stopped between the two chairs as she assessed the situation before her, black pelt gleaming and tail swishing.

"Well, come on," Ed sighed, shifting his book to the side.

Mustang just noticed her, turning his head to see her give him a dirty look before jumping up in Ed's lap and making herself comfortable. She sprawled across his thighs like she belonged there, a large yawn broadcasting her sharp teeth in what Ed could only assume was Mustang's direction.

Ed liked Cat. She was a good judge of character.

Mustang gave the animal an appraising look before standing up. "I'm going to go make a phone call. Shout if you need something."

Ed waved him off. "Sure, Mustang." The man disappeared from Ed's line of sight and into the house behind him.

Ed lifted his eyes to scan the surrounding area one more time for his brother, one hand absently stroking the animal in his lap to help relieve the mounting anxiety in his throat.

Yeah, he really hated this.

I don't know why this silly website insists on mashing up italicized words with the one next to them. I skimmed through to fix them, but pretty sure I missed half a dozen lol.

This is what is called an "apology chapter," because I"m going out of the country for a couple of weeks (any of my peeps in Eastern Europe?) and will be writing very little, because all free time will be devoted to homework and a commission soooo . . . enjoy a really long chapter lol.

I didn't forget about DOA, I just got a bit stuck on it, so switched to this one like I usually do, and then this monster appeared out of nowhere. I'm not usually able to write so much so fast, so hopefully it's decent. I usually read through these several times before posting, but due to me leaving tomorrow, this one has not gotten the same care.

I hope you enjoy! We'll check in with Mustang next chapter and see what he's up to . . . Please leave a review if you have the time, and Lord willing, I'll see you next time!

God Bless,

-RainFlame