Ed watched the slow drip of Al's blood in the bag over his head, watching as the bright fluid pooled into the tube and made its way into his hand.

His fit yesterday had done a lot of damage, apparently. Al had already given him a bag of blood last night, along with a saline solution, and here he was on his second bag in twenty-four hours. At this rate he was going to drain Al dry.

As for his physical symptoms, today, he felt like he'd been hit by a train. A big train. With teeth.

Regardless, he was tired of sitting and doing absolutely nothing, but he was too tired to attempt anything much. He eyed the thick tome sitting on the side table, the one he'd been working on for the past couple of days in between naps. It looked just a bit too heavy for him to reach out and grab. He sighed and stared out at the sloping meadow in front of him and wrapped the blankets tighter around his shoulders. Sitting in his rocking chair out on the deck was as good of a place to be stuck as any, he supposed.

At least he was out of the house and away from Mustang's team.

After having some time to think about it, Ed decided that he was kind of glad to see them, he just didn't want to be seen by them . . .

It was complicated.

No one had bothered to explain why they were here, past them having some leave and wanting to visit. Ed didn't completely buy that, but he didn't have any other ideas as to why they'd all drop in, except maybe to see him one more time. At least Al was happy, though. He'd spent the better part of yesterday evening at Mustang's insistence catching up with their old friends while Ed spent most of it bent over the trash bin or asleep with Mustang to babysit him.

Now, Hawkeye was worried about "the excitement having a negative effect on his health." She'd tried to send him to his room to take his transfusion and a nap, but this was his house, and he wasn't about to let the woman boss him around in his own home.

So, he had meekly requested that he be allowed to take his transfusion out on the deck, and breathed a sigh of relief when she not only acquiesced, but didn't shoot him either.

The only thing that might have a "negative effect on his health" around here was her putting a bullet in his head.

At least Al got a break, which to Ed's understanding, was the whole point of Mustang being here anyway. Even if he had to put up with the Idiot Colonel—Idiot Brigadier General, whatever— it was worth it, he supposed, for Al to have a break. Ed hadn't been exactly easy to take care of, admittedly.

His eyes slid over to Mustang, sitting in the rocker next to him. The older man was balancing a book on one knee and an unmarked journal on the other, deep in thought as he scribbled away at something.

"What are you even doing?" Ed asked, unfairly annoyed because Mustang had the energy for research, and he didn't.

"Just a theory," Mustang replied absently, scribbling through something he'd just written and trying again.

"A theory on what?"

"Something."

"You are so annoying," Ed groaned through his raw throat. "What are you even doing out here? Can't you—" he took a breath, "—be annoying somewhere else?" Ed didn't like the way a long sentence left him panting today. Clearly his lung capacity wasn't what it used to be.

Mustang didn't even look up at him. "Deep down, I think you enjoy my company."

Ed snorted, choked on a coughed, then agreed. "Yeah, like I'd enjoy a root canal."

"I didn't realize you were a masochist."

"I must be. I'm still sitting here with you."

Mustang chuckled and kept writing.

Ed rolled his eyes before closing them for a moment. Then he looked at the book beside him and reached out a hand. His arm shook and his fingers trembled as he weakly grasped at the spine, fingers walking it toward him before he lost his tenuous grip and had to put his arm down to rest, the effort leaving his muscles shaking and lungs panting.

This was completely pathetic. Just how much blood had he lost, anyway?

A long arm reached in front of him, grabbing the book and depositing its weight gently in his lap.

Ed looked up at Mustang. "I had that," he said dully.

Mustang stared at him, his dark eyes hard to read. "Yeah, I know." He stepped back, lowering himself in his rocker again.

Ed shifted in his chair, wincing as a pain from his port raced up his leg. Then he opened the book to his bookmarked page and tried to read.

But now he couldn't because Mustang was staring.

He looked up, gold meeting black. "What?"

"Nothing," Mustang said. "Just thinking."

"Anything you want to fill me in on?"

"That's not a medical alchemy book."

Ed shifted the book in his lap. It was a book of alchemical theories in physics, and Mustang was too perceptive. "Very sharp, Mustang. And here I wasn't sure," a breath, "you could read."

"Reading for pleasure now?" His voice wasn't accusatory, but there was a disappointment there that Ed didn't like.

"Maybe I just need a break. From all that medical stuff."

A pause.

"I see."

His tone grated on Ed, sharp and guilt-inducing, even though Ed was sure that wasn't what the old man meant. Maybe it was his own conscience getting in the way. "Look," he said into the silence. "I'm . . . I'm tired."

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Mustang didn't say anything. He just waited, dark eyes patient, journal and book forgotten on the table at his side.

"If I'm dying, I'd like to do some things I enjoy while," another breath, "I can still enjoy them."

Mustang nodded, his eyes leaving Ed to stare out at the surrounding fields. "I understand, Edward. You don't have to explain it to me."

Mustang's silence ate at him like acid.

He wouldn't be able to read now if he'd wanted to.

He stifled a groan. "Let's take a walk."

Mustang side-eyed him, pale lips pursed. "You mean me take a walk and you come along for the ride?"

"Same thing."

"After your transfusion."

"It's good enough," Ed insisted, yanking the needle from his bruised hand in one rough motion.

That managed to get Mustang to his feet. "Don't do that!" he admonished, plucking the needle from Ed's grip. "Alphonse is going to kill you if you keep doing that."

Ed rolled his eyes. "He'll have to wait his turn." Mustang's expression narrowed, like he wasn't quite ready for Ed to be so blasé about the whole affair. Ed didn't really care. "Hurry it up, or I'll die waiting on you."

It took Mustang about four centuries to put away his materials and Ed's transfusion equipment, grab a bag of medical supplies he deemed "necessary," tell everyone they were stepping out—to Hawkeye's bitter disapproval, no doubt—, then actually come back with his wheelchair. When they finally reached the end of the pathway to the dirt road, Ed told Mustang to take a right.

The chair jolted and bounced, and he winced. His body felt like it was being torn apart and soldered back together with hot metal and nails, atrophied muscles and damaged organs reacting to every bump and rock in the dusty road.

But this would be worth it.

Ed wasn't sure why, but somehow the spring day seemed more vibrant when he moved through it. Resembool may have been a backwater town in the middle of nowhere, but no one could argue that it wasn't beautiful this time of year. The meadows were alive with buzzing insects, dragonflies chasing each other through the grasses, a pair of butterflies floating lazily across their path. Flowers waved in the cool breeze, and Ed thought he could smell another afternoon storm coming in the humid air. A flock of sheep grazed in the distance, little blurs of cotton white flicking their nubby tails as they mowed the pasture down.

He could be content with this. If he didn't stop to think too hard about what the future would hold and how short it probably would be, he could see his family and his friends and be happy with this. This is what he had fought for. He fought for Al to have a future and the people he loved to be safe. Even if moving hurt and breathing more so, this was enough, and he could endure it for a few more weeks.

"Are we just out to enjoy the view?" Mustang asked from behind.

"And the silence," Ed said. "which you're ruining."

"You should have thought about that before asking me to go on a walk with you."

"Shut up and go pick some of those flowers over there," Ed sighed, pointing to patch of blue cornflowers growing right off the shoulder.

Mustang stopped rather abruptly.

"You want me . . . to go pick flowers?"

"That's right."

Mustang seemed to be thinking very hard, or maybe he'd had a stroke and stopped thinking entirely. Ed turned his head just to be sure. Mustang was staring at the flowers, but otherwise not moving.

Stroke it was.

"Mustang, I'd do it myself if I could," Ed groused. "I want thirty."

With a lot of hesitation and no small amount of bemusement, Mustang left Ed in the middle of the road and crossed the small ditch, gingerly stepping through the grass to reach the cluster of plants.

"I didn't wear the right shoes for this," he informed, stooping down and plucking a single bloom from its narrow stem.

"You are so pretentious," Ed sighed. "Longer stems, Mustang."

Mustang rolled his eyes but complied. "Why the sudden fascination with the flora? Is this one of your quaint little backwoods hobbies?"

"Maybe I just like blue."

"You like red."

"I'm flattered that you've been paying attention," Ed snarked back.

He would be remiss if he didn't at least acknowledge to himself that he enjoyed this. His pride would never let him admit it aloud, but this back-and-forth banter—an art form really—was sometimes fun. It was a small thing he would miss, if there was anything past death.

He looked at Mustang as he put his own pride on hold to get flowers for Ed, broad shoulders, black hair and a sharp wit, up to his neck in the tall grass, the shades of green striping the pallor of his face and the gray of his collared shirt.

In many ways, Mustang had been the father figure the Elrics had been lacking for so long. Ed would have stabbed anyone who would dare mention it to his face as a kid, but now . . . he was thankful. Ed knew he wasn't the easiest to get along with—and Mustang probably had the gray hairs to prove it—but Mustang had, in essence, saved them. If it weren't for Mustang taking a risk on him in the beginning, sheltering him and steering him in the right direction as an adolescent in the military, and ultimately fighting by his side at the end, Ed wasn't sure if he would have managed to fulfil his promise to Alphonse.

He must really be sick to be entertaining this line of thought.

But as Mustang finally emerged from the brush and deposited the large cluster of flowers in Ed's lap, Ed looked at him and said, "Thanks."

And if the word sounded heavier than it should have to Mustang, the older man only stared down at him. After a long pause, his lip quirked. "Don't mention it. Ever."

XxXxX

Roy didn't realize they had been heading to the graveyard until they crested the hill.

No one seemed to visit the dead in the middle of the afternoon, save a flock of birds roosting in the tall trees. A soft breeze ruffled the grass among the tombstones, the marble resembling gray islands against green and gold waves. It was peaceful, as graveyards should be with the dead slumbering in their resting places below, quiet and still.

Roy didn't want to go anywhere near it.

But for all of Ed's fear of even looking at Den's grave yesterday, it seemed these covered resting places held a peace for him, too. Ed grunted a quiet, "hurry up," and Roy hesitantly rolled the chair through the open gate. At Ed's request, they turned right and headed down the path until they came to a small hill.

"Wait."

Roy stopped, surprised at the sudden order. He looked down, the top of Ed's golden head gazing up the easy slope.

"Ed?"

Ed didn't answer immediately, though Roy was sure he heard him. He just watched the hilltop for a moment, then shivered, pulling his blankets tighter around him as he took a rasping breath. "Okay."

Roy decided not to comment on the odd pause and pushed Ed up the slope. "You're still heavy," he grunted, even though Ed was not heavy at all, it was just the wheels catching on the uneven path. In fact, pushing Ed around was like pushing a child. Roy wouldn't have been surprised if the automail leg comprised a third of his weight at this point.

"You're still an idiot," Ed replied smoothly, then coughed hard into his hand.

He kept coughing, finally pulling out a stained handkerchief to catch the blood, shoulders heaving as he strained to breathe between gasps.

Roy stopped, wanting to help but unable to do anything short of alkahestry. He reached into the bag at his hip, pulling out a small vial of white paint, but Ed waved him off weakly with his free hand. Finally, the coughing slowed, and only then did Roy feel comfortable enough to put the vial away. He waited maybe ten minutes for Ed to settle, then offered him a drink from the jar of water in his bag before continuing along the path.

At the top of the hill, there was a small space separated from the rest of the graves, a unit with only two headstones. Roy wasn't sure, but it could have been Ed's body language that told him to stop in front of them.

Trisha Elric, 1878-1904.

Van Hohenheim Elric, -1916.

They stared in silence, something cold coiling in Roy's gut.

Slowly, in halting, uncomfortable moves, Ed leaned forward, separating the bouquet of cornflowers neatly into two. He placed them on the graves with a gentleness rare for Edward, then he sat back and stared.

Roy wasn't sure how long they were there, standing in the silence. Eventually, he took a seat in the grass beside Ed, at Hohenheim's feet. The shadows began to stretch across the fields and rows as the sun moved, inching closer to the horizon. The cold feeling in Roy's stomach eased into a quiet foreboding, and his eye kept being drawn to the space on the other side of Trisha Elric's grave.

This wasn't fair and it wasn't right. Roy was Ed's elder by at least seventeen years. Roy shouldn't have to watch Ed be buried; it was supposed to be the other way around.

Roy refused to watch Ed be buried.

"That's my spot," Ed said quietly. Roy jarred from his thoughts, looking to see Ed pointing to the place he had been staring at. It was too bare and too quiet of a place for Edward Elric. "Turns out Hohenheim bought six plots. I don't know why six, but," he took a breath in the middle of his sentence, something he'd been doing a lot of today, "Al and I decided that whoever died first got to be next to Mom."

The cold feeling condensed into ice. Roy had been trying very hard to keep any sort of resentment or grief from Ed. He didn't feel like expressing it was fair when the younger man was suffering, and the doctor had warned that any additional stress would only make his condition decline faster.

"Congratulations," he said, hoping the edge that had creeped into his voice showed as irony and not despair.

Ed gave a wheezy laugh that ended in a cough.

And if Ed noticed a bitter tear that Roy quickly scrubbed away before it could make its way to his chin, Ed only looked back to the gravestones and smiled softly. "Let's get out of here."

Roy was only too eager to oblige, getting to his feet, taking the wheelchair by the handlebars and probably taking the hill down a little too quickly.

He wanted as much distance between Ed and that graveyard as possible. He didn't like the finality in Ed's eyes as he looked over his shoulder at his parents' tombstones, like the next time he would be out here it would be in a box and not a chair.

Ed's death was not something Roy was going to sit and watch.

He refused.

I want the record to show that I updated/posted three fics within a four week span, and two of those were within the same week.

Take that, all ye doubters.

Kind of a lull here, but I felt it a necessary lull. Hopefully you don't find it too boring. I found it kind of . . . nice? xD

I also want folks to know that I am no doctor. I did pass an "Are You a Nurse?" quiz on Facebook yesterday with 100% accuracy, so I'm just as surprised as anyone. If I get medical info wrong, I am deeply sorry :'D I have researched this on the net the best I know how, and then tried to make it work with alchemy/alkahestry, a wound that should have killed him in the first place, the medical technology of the day, then adjusting accordingly. That being said, if anything strikes you as unrealistic because you have some sort of medical knowledge/degree . . . it's because I have no idea what I'm doing :')

Despite my Facebook quiz results.

I also suddenly realized I sound like I'm twelve in my A/Ns. I respond to notes with a plethora of smilies and :D and xD and :c and I promise I'm a card-carrying adult. I pay taxes and everything.

I think I'm in a weird mood tonight. I think this quarantine is finally getting to me :'D

I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, drop a review (seriously, they give me life) and I'll see you next time :)

God Bless,

-RainFlame