Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts.

Alphonse was thrilled to have their former coworkers in their house, the quiet despair that had soaked into the walls and upholstery levied by familiar jokes and friendly laughter. Fuery gifted them a new record player he'd built from scratch for Ed to listen to, Falman following up with a dozen or so records. Havoc brought with him some sweets from his parents' shop for Al to try, and Breda took a quiet moment to show him how to make a southern delicacy from his hometown.

Al loved it so much that he hated himself for it. What right did he have to be enjoying himself when his brother was suffering?

"Here, like this," Breda said, taking the large knife from Al's hands and rocking it back and forth over the garlic, mincing it much faster than Al could have hoped to. He handed it back to Alphonse and placed another five cloves on the cutting board. "Try it."

Al complied, more hesitantly and with mixed results, the garlic either becoming chopped or pulverized in his inexperienced hands. "Guess I'm not very good at this," he admitted sheepishly.

To be honest, he felt guilty worrying about the food when Breda was able to handle it and he could use the precious energy to research, but he had been working on his theory for several hours that morning, to no avail. He needed the break, as much as he hated taking one. And food was necessary for everyone; Al as much as Ed, the way their blood supply was going. Al only had a few bags left, even with taking his own blood once every week—far from what was considered safe. At this rate, they would be out in the next two days. Al had already requested that Fawn check into finding another supply.

Breda must have interpreted his brooding as having to do with his lack of finesse with a blade. "You'll get it," he encouraged, scraping the garlic onto the knife and into the hot stock pot. It gave an enthusiastic sizzle, spitting oil and the comforting scent of garlic into the air. "I'm sure you didn't exactly do a lot of food preparation these past few years."

Al smirked. "Actually, I did most of it. Ed never complained, so I guess it wasn't awful."

"It was great," Ed agreed, reaching out with a shaky hand to move a pawn away from Falman's knight. Ed had joined them in the kitchen, slumped tiredly in his wheelchair but following their movements with interested gold eyes, even as his and Falman's chess game progressed at the breakfast table.

Ed had been more tired than usual the past three days, the simplest of movements leaving him panting and exhausted. He had bursts of energy an hour or so after he recovered from his alkahestry treatments, and he used the momentum to plow through half a book or journal something furiously before his energy was sapped again and he was reduced to quiet conversation or sleeping. He'd also had a persistent fever for over twenty-four hours, which Al found concerning. Usually he was just feverish in the morning or the evening, but it seemed he couldn't quite shake this one.

Still, he'd seemed to overcome his initial aversion to the team over the past two days, opting to be in the living room or the kitchen until later in the afternoon or evening, when the nausea generally overtook him regardless of how recent his treatments. At that point in time, he'd retreat to his room and stay there until he fell asleep or the threat of public humiliation had passed.

Even though he was tired, he seemed to be having a good day. Al had given him an alkahestry treatment only three hours ago, and though Ed usually lied about how he was feeling, the relaxed eyes and loose shoulders seemed to indicate his pain levels weren't that bad.

Of course, it didn't hurt that Alphonse had slipped a tiny bit of morphine in his saline line that morning when Ed wasn't looking.

Al had watched Ed suffer for years. He'd endured it as a suit of armor, never injured in battle, never succumbing to the elements, but watching his brother deal with cold and injuries and pain as if the universe decided to fling it at him two-fold to make up for Al's lack of sensation. Ed was very much like the cats Al was so fond of, adept at hiding hurt and discomfort so as not to worry his little brother, but Al was adept at reading him like a book. He'd studied that face through years of sleepless nights, days of studying, split seconds of life-or-death decisions. His years in the armor had taught him to see.

Al knew his brother almost as well as he knew himself, and he knew that he was in a lot of pain.

He felt guilty about going behind his back, sure, but after a phone call with Doctor Fawn that morning, it was a risk he felt worth taking. There were potential complications with his breathing, and Al had enlisted everyone's help in monitoring him to be sure his inhalations were not more suppressed than usual. The doctor had said he would be dropping off an oxygen device as soon as it arrived from East City, and he hoped that it would make him more comfortable regardless.

Al only hoped he could convince his stubborn brother to use it.

"Colonel," Breda greeted.

Everyone looked up as Roy shuffled into the kitchen, hair in disarray and bags under his eyes, wearing the same cobalt shirt from the day before plus a few dozen new wrinkles. Al glanced at the clock and confirmed that it was just past eleven. It was unusual because, for the past few days, they had been taking turns sleeping on a spare sofa they had dragged into Ed's room. After his little stunt earlier in the week where he had been stuck on the floor for two hours trying to make it to the bathroom on his own, they decided it was a good idea to keep an eye on him overnight. It was an exhausting job, as Ed frequently woke up coughing, and once throwing up, and being on duty meant very little sleep.

Last night, it had been Al's turn, so why did Roy look like he'd been awake all night?

"You look terrible," Breda commented merrily.

Roy spared him a glare, then made for the coffee machine, adding the water and a few liberal scoops of dark granules. Then, he stared impatiently with his thumb and middle finger rubbing together, like he wondered if the water would boil faster with flame alchemy.

"Breda's right," Ed agreed.

"No one asked you," Roy replied irritably, his voice rough with sleep.

Al saw his brother smirk out of the corner of his eye and couldn't help smiling a little bit himself. He wiped his hands on a towel and grabbed a yellow mug from the cabinet above his head, placing it under the Brigadier General's nose.

Roy gave him an appreciative look, then turned his attention to what Breda was doing. "Cooking?" he asked.

"We're making Aerugonian Onion Soup," he supplied. "I think Ed's system can handle it."

Ed made a snorting sound that devolved into a cough. "It can't handle anything, Breda."

It was a sad fact, and Al flinched to hear it.

"If you don't pay attention, you're going to keep losing," Falman cautioned, moving his rook to take Ed's last knight.

"Not going easy on the sick guy, huh?" Ed asked with a scowl, moving his rook to safety.

Roy stepped behind Ed, sharp eyes taking in the field. "You . . . you're a terrible chess player."

Ed did the closest thing to bristling he came to these days. "Excuse me for never having enough free time," he breathed, "to sit around playing board games."

"It's not just a board game, it's a mental exercise."

"I'm not sure it helped you."

Breda snickered and Al thought he saw Falman's lips quirk.

Roy looked at the two men indignantly. "My own men. Thanks for the support."

"My apologies, Sir," Falman stated, the smile gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Don't apologize to him," Ed groused. "He deserves every bit of ridicule he gets."

"That's no way to talk to your former superior officer," Roy admonished lightly, picking up Ed's queen between slim fingers and moving her to the side.

"Hey!" Edward protested, but made no move to intervene. Falman countered with his bishop.

"Don't forget," Roy advised, moving Ed's queen again. "Your queen is your most valuable asset."

In four moves, Roy had achieved a checkmate.

"I hate playing with you," Falman said sulkily, resetting the board with its black and white pieces.

Roy chuckled, stepping around Ed and pouring his mug full of steaming coffee. He added a generous spoonful of sugar on top, and as he stirred, his eyes slid up to meet Al's. "A word?"

Al frowned. A word? He didn't protest though, setting down the onion he had been in the process of slicing. "Sure. I'll be right back," he said to Breda.

He followed Roy into the living room, where Hawkeye was furiously scribbling something. Havoc was engaged in conversation with Fuery as he dusted the fireplace mantle, the smaller man fiddling with the record player he had constructed, unsatisfied with some aspect of it.

Everyone looked up as they entered, eyes following them as they went out to the deck outside. Al tried not to feel self-conscious about it. He knew they would watch Ed; he could imagine seeing him in this state was disconcerting, the great Fullmetal Alchemist, now a withered husk. If he hadn't been watching the decline every step of the way, he was sure he would have stared just as much.

He was used to the stares he himself had received in the wake of The Promised Day, his friends in awe that he was what was inside that suit of armor all this time, the face to the voice, but those had died away into an occasional occurrence, something soft and reverent, employed when they thought Al wasn't looking.

Now, they watched him like he might pull a gun.

Al liked to consider himself the sensible of the two brothers. He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't considered performing the taboo to save his brother, or asking Ling to help with his Philosopher's Stone, but he knew that if he did either of those things, Ed would never forgive him for it. It would be spitting in the face of all the sacrifices they'd made, and he was selfish. He couldn't bear to live the rest of his life with only Ed's scorn for company.

He'd also be lying to himself if he said he wanted to live much past Ed.

Perhaps it was the grief talking, but he wasn't sure how he would survive Ed's death. It wasn't that he was planning to take his own life—far from it, for that would negate everything Ed had done for him—but he wasn't sure what he'd be living for at that point.

"Alphonse, I wanted to enlist your help with something."

Al looked up, watching as Roy sat in the rocker that wasn't Ed's and took a tentative sip of coffee. Finding it too hot, he placed it on the table beside him. Al sat in Ed's chair, feeling his exhaustion weighing on him. "What's that?"

Roy watched him strangely, more so than anyone else had been. It reminded Al of the days right after his sight had been restored, as if taking in Al's appearance for the first time all over again. Then, the look was gone, replaced by a resignation. "We both know that your brother is . . . difficult, to put it mildly."

"Mildly," Al agreed with a small smile.

Roy returned it. "I'm afraid I haven't been honest with you when I told you the team was just visiting to visit."

Al raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We've planned sort of a soiree for Ed."

Despite a small thrill of excitement at seeing all of their old friends again, Al sighed and thought about all the creative ways Ed would try to kill Roy when he found out. "Great."

"I think, after he finishes trying to kill me, he'll enjoy it," Roy said as if reading Al's thoughts. "As long as he feels well enough for it. Also, we will need him out of the house for most of tomorrow. Think you could talk him into visiting Miss Rockbell?"

It had been two days since they'd buried Den. Al had called her both days, and though she answered, it was clear that she wanted some time alone to process. He could understand that, with the uncomfortable parallels Den's funeral had brought up. Hopefully tomorrow would be different. "I'll call her. I'm sure if I explained what was going on, she'd be more than willing to help." His eyes drifted to the rolling hills. "How many people are we talking about?"

"I think the way you two have made yourselves known around the country and beyond, this will have to be an outside affair."

Ed would love it after he finished hating it.

"I don't think we have any beds or couches left. Or much floorspace, for that matter."

Roy shrugged. "Unnecessary, I think. Maybe you could also talk Miss Rockbell into taking a few into her spare rooms, but most of these people are soldiers. They won't mind sleeping outside for a night. There's also an inn in town, isn't there?"

"Yes. I should probably call Mrs. Beecher to give her a heads up, though. She's never had more than two rooms occupied at the same time," he said with a smile.

Roy nodded, then his eyebrows angled downward, almost imperceptibly, as he gave Al an appraising look. "How are you, Alphonse?"

Al straightened, blinking in surprise, then shook his head. "I don't know," he answered noncommittally. "Tired, I guess."

Roy's eyes narrowed, but he nodded in understanding. "Hmm. Tired doesn't seem to cover it."

Al's lip twisted in a sardonic sort of smile. "No, it doesn't. But you don't look much better."

"But I haven't been donating an excessive amount of blood to the cause."

"Touché."

"Do you regret it?"

Alphonse once again blinked at the older man. Roy stared back with those black eyes, his wind-tossed bangs making them look all the wilder for it. "Regret what?"

"All that you went through. All that you did. You seem to have acquired that particular Elric-brand of misplaced guilt." He smiled like he was joking, but the sharpness in his eyes belied any humor. "You think you're the reason he's in this situation in the first place, because he did it while looking for a way to get your body back. Do you regret all that you and Ed sacrificed to do it?"

Alphonse looked away, stomach twisting as if he'd been the one impaled. How did Roy Mustang do that? Despite the man's carefully-constructed façade of the arrogant, self-absorbed playboy, it seemed that sometimes—or maybe always—he could see straight through Al and his own defenses like they were made of glass.

Did he regret it? Did he regret finally being able to sleep, to taste, to feel? Did he regret the breeze moving across his skin, or the sweet smell of wildflowers in the spring air? Did he regret the scent of home, the thrill of running, or being able to hug his big brother and feel the touch of humanity against his skin?

Did it matter if he did or not? What was done was done, and Al could no more take it back than he could stop the sun from setting.

But maybe . . . maybe he did regret it. He didn't regret getting his body back, but at the same time, he would go back into that suit to spare his brother more suffering. Was that the same thing? He thought Ed losing his alchemy was bad enough, but now he was going to lose his life.

"Edward doesn't regret it," Mustang said.

Al blinked, because his eyes had started to burn. He just nodded his head, afraid if he spoke, his voice would break and then Roy would have his suspicions confirmed.

"Alphonse, Ed doesn't regret it," Roy repeated, more forcibly than the last time. "And he would be angry if you did."

He had a point. If Ed knew, he'd be furious.

But knowing he shouldn't regret it and actually not regretting it were two very separate things.

A weight landed on his shoulder and Al looked up, a few tears spilling from his watery eyes as he did. Roy gripped his arm paternally, squeezing once, then letting the weight settle there. "If I know Fullmetal half as well as I think I do, he's proud of you."

A rough sob wrenched its way from Al's chest.

"And he doesn't regret it."

Al had no idea how badly he needed to hear those words, and he sobbed again, cradling his face in his hands as the tears soaked between his fingers, sticky with salt.

And the whole time, Roy rested his hand on his shoulder and stayed.

XxXxX

Ed felt pretty good for the first time in several days.

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't completely exhausted and that his body didn't absolutely hurt, but it felt nice for his body not to be hurting in its traditional, comprehensive way.

And it was almost like old times, everyone sitting around the coffee table, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows, up to their necks in a poker game Ed wasn't able to play outright but could appreciate. Technically he was on Al's team, and despite his best efforts to encourage his little brother from the seat next to him on the couch, Alphonse said he would most definitely not be cheating. Where did he pick up such a straitlaced moral compass? Ed certainly didn't raise him this way.

Falman wasn't allowed to play either, because the older man was fairly adept at counting cards and had been permanently banned from any and all team poker games. He was demoted to dealer, but he did his duty with the crisp perfection he did everything with, only the occasional bite of fresh cookie and sip of milk to ruin the image.

Ed repressed the desire to vomit then and there at the sight of it, opting to look at Havoc as he laid down his hand. "Ha! Four of a kind! Beat that," he crowed, kicking back on the opposite sofa with his cigarette and a smug grin.

He and Al both groaned as Al threw down their three of a kind on the table. Breda and Fuery had wisely folded before that point.

Mustang's pinched brow gave way to a self-satisfied grin. "Straight flush," he said, laying his cards on the table, much to Havoc's dismay. "Sorry, Havoc," he grinned, reaching over and scraping the pile of buttons and coins they had been using as chips to himself.

"Hang on, Sir."

All eyes slid to Hawkeye.

"Royal flush," she announced without much fanfare, displaying her cards in a neat row, ace gleaming at the end. "I believe that means I win."

Breda, Fuery, and Falman cackled, Al snickered, Ed just grinned to keep himself from coughing blood all over the place. Havoc groaned, and Mustang slumped in his seat, sulking like the overgrown child he was. "Again?" he complained as Hawkeye added the 'chips' to her already generous pile.

Really, though, Hawkeye knew the man like the back of her hand. Mustang was the better liar, but if anyone here knew every one of his tells, it was Hawkeye. It really was no surprise she could beat him in a game of deception. Mustang could beat the whole table, and because of that, she just had to beat him.

Ed found it oddly amusing.

"That's what you get," he said around a cough, dabbing at his lips reflexively with his handkerchief. It would do no good for his friends to see him bleed.

Mustang glared at him with a withering irritation. "You lost, too," he pointed out.

"Al lost."

"You were the one that said to stay in!" Alphonse protested.

"What can I say?" he shrugged, the movement pulling at his side. He wasn't sure if he kept the wince off of his face or not. "I don't play as well when my buttons aren't on the line."

Mustang still glowered and sulked, eyeing Hawkeye's chips with longing. "You've beaten me six times, Captain."

"At least the winner buys drinks," Havoc sighed, tipping back his own glass of milk. Ed would never understand how anyone drank that stuff willingly, and why were they playing for milk and not the actual good stuff was beyond him. Ed had never cared for the taste of alcohol, but he would drink lighter fluid over cow juice any day.

"Sure you don't want any?" Breda teased, catching the look Ed had given Havoc's glass.

"Very," Ed assured him, reaching for his glass of orange juice on the table beside him to prove his point. His hands wrapped around it, and he was pleased when he was able to bring it to his lips with a minimal amount of shaking. A low fever leftover from that morning still burned through him, which was odd but, he supposed, not entirely unexpected, and an involuntary shiver shook through his spine, sloshing the juice dangerously.

He didn't miss the way they watched him out of the corner of their eyes, like a small breeze could reduce him to dust if they weren't careful.

And he tried really hard to ignore it because Al seemed to be having a good time for once.

He was actually finding it kind of nice, too, aside from the furtive, concerned glances everyone threw his way when they thought he wasn't looking.

He set the glass down on the side table without spillage, bringing his hand down to rest at his side and panting a bit with the exertion. He'd managed to keep Breda's soup down after lunch; a feat in itself. He didn't want to ruin his own record with too much orange juice, but Al insisted that he try to drink some for his electrolytes, and Ed wasn't in the business of intentionally disappointing Alphonse.

"So, Mustang," he began as Falman dealt another round of cards. "You're being extra secretive recently."

Everyone at the table froze, eyes dragging up from the cards to look at him. Even Al had stopped all movement.

Ed froze too, because he had no idea what had prompted such a reaction.

Mustang's face became a mask of cool passivity faster than anyone's, but it was far too late to curb Ed's suspicions. "I'm not sure what you mean, Fullmetal."

Now Ed was sure, because the only time he'd been using his State Alchemist name recently was when he was trying to be extra bossy, or he was hiding something. "I've seen the piles of paperwork," he said by explanation. "I was just wondering . . . what the status was in Ishval?"

The sudden tension deflated like a punctured balloon. "What is with you guys?" he asked in irritation, smothering a cough in the corner of his blanket. He didn't like being out of the loop.

"I just wanted to follow up on the restoration efforts," Mustang said, the coolness warming just a fraction, like he'd avoided some sort of landmine. Ed's suspicions doubled, but he chose not to comment on it. Yet. "I'm sure you know it's been underway for well over a year now and we are about to reach a few milestones."

Ed knew that the restoration of Ishval was Mustang's personal mission, the way getting Al's body back had been his. It was a deep, personal thing that was wrapped in layers of responsibility and duty so thick as to hide the hot, guilt-ridden force driving it. Ed understood it a little too well.

"We've opened three of the eight districts for resettlement," Fuery informed brightly. "One more will open in the next four months. A lot of people are finally able to move from the ghettos in the East into their homeland."

"We've also subsidized several large farming efforts to jumpstart the economy, and established six trade outposts between East City and Xing," Breda commented, situating his cards into a preferable order. "The Brigadier General is certainly turning the place around."

"Don't be absurd," Mustang admonished. "It was a team effort. I couldn't have done it without my staff."

Ed found the word choice odd. It was still a work-in-progress, so why was he referring to it in the past tense? Maybe it was a slip up.

Or maybe he was just paranoid because they were all still hiding something.

"I think it's great that everything has gone so smoothly," Al said with a smile. "Major Miles and Scar seem to have garnered enough support for you to make it an easier transition."

Mustang frowned in discomfort, but Ed wasn't sure if it was because of Al's comment, or the very mention of Scar himself. The man's name always seemed to make Ed flinch, and he knew Mustang wasn't much better. Al knew the scarred Ishvalan better than anyone at the table, but the friendly way he referred to the man that had tried to blow Ed's head off his shoulders was always a bit disconcerting.

"That's not to say our efforts have been without their political setbacks," Hawkeye informed. "But we have been fortunate to avoid any sort of violent retaliation at this point."

Ed noticed the way her eyes slid to Mustang's face, looking for something.

Despite Al's claims that Ed was about as observant as a potted plant, Ed had a knack for picking up on stuff that people didn't want him to pick up on. And he wanted answers.

But any attempt at getting those answers was curbed by a sharp pain in his port, cuing a roiling in his stomach and a familiar, rising nausea in his gut.

He decided he would demand answers later. For now, he would not move in an attempt to not throw up bloodied orange juice all over their card game, and consequentially, thoroughly embarrass himself in front of his friends.

Ed only loosely kept track of the game as Falman dealt another hand, keeping his stomach tamed through sheer willpower. Fuery won a round, and then Mustang finally had a victory after that. Al glanced at him, probably noticing that he'd stopped commenting for the past two games, but Ed kept his eyes firmly on the table, willing his gut to cool it. He was afraid if he spoke, he would lose control over his insides completely, and moving would certainly garner the same results.

Hawkeye won two more rounds before an unprovoked flaring of pain in his side and a familiar, watery sensation in his mouth told him that he only had a few moments to retreat back to his room if he wanted to save face.

He moved a hand toward his wheelchair, then his stomach lurched and he thought the better of it.

"Ed?" Al asked.

He felt every eye turn to him, burning through his skin with the intensity of their gaze. He kept his eyes on the table, unable to look up even if he'd wanted to.

He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, but he really hoped his little brother got the message anyway.

Get them out of here.

Their Elric Brother Telepathy seemed to be working today, because Al turned to the others. "Would you please wait in the kitchen?" he asked their friends, standing, and Ed clenched his jaw as the couch jostled beneath him. His port and side protested greatly, and he saw stars for a brief moment.

Ed could see them exchange puzzled looks out of the corner of his eye, then one by one, they stood, leaving their cards on the table.

Ed would have sighed in relief, but he threw up instead.

Blood and bile sloshed over the table, knocking half of Al's cards to the ground in the wave. There was way too much blood, his mind noted dully. More than usual. What had been in that soup? Ed's side clenched hard, spasming and driving a strangled cough from his chest that might have sounded more like a scream if there had been less fluid. He doubled over, more blood dribbling and bursting from his lips, more sliding from his side and between his fingers.

Great.

It felt like his insides were fighting to be on the outside. Something deep in his belly tore, and another scream was drowned in a tide of blood.

He was only vaguely aware of muted shouts over his head, everything sounding far away. He wrenched his eyes open, another choking scream seizing in his throat, lungs burning for air but only getting blood. Hands were all over him, and he had no idea when he'd been flattened across the coffee table, but he was aware that Mustang was holding his shoulders down while Al was screaming about there being too much blood.

He didn't know what it meant and guessed it didn't matter. He instinctively curled in on himself, anything to stop the bright hot pain, to dull it, but another pair of hands had his ankles, leaving him twitching and spasming on his back like a dying beetle, fighting weakly as more blood sputtered from his lips.

Teacher had told him once that the world was pain. He was pretty sure there had been some cheery, optimistic sentiment tacked to the end of it, but that was the only part he could recall. It seemed to be a fitting statement, at the moment.

Alkahestry flashed, and with it, a lessening of pain.

But this time, the difference was like being stabbed with twenty daggers and some kind soul removing four of them.

"It's not working!" Al's panicked voice reached through his own panicked haze. "He's still bleeding!"

Why wasn't it working?

"Breathe, Ed!" Mustang screamed.

Ed didn't realize he'd stopped. He tried to inhale, but it was like drowning. His chest felt like a stone had settled on top of it, heavy and unmoving, and a terrible pressure was building in his head. His stomach clenched, liquid sloshing and spilling from his mouth like an overfilled cup.

"Again, Al!"

Another flash, a slight lessening of pain.

But by that time, the pain was familiar, flooding his senses and encompassing him so completely that he wasn't sure where he ended and it began.

He wasn't sure at what point he stopped breathing again.

Whoops, things got worse. As things tend to do.

BUT, some much needed Mustang and Al bonding time, and some Team Mustang to bring life to my cold, dead heart.

I put on makeup for the first time in half a century today because I was going to record a congratulatory graduation video for a friend (her dad is throwing together a compilation video for her), and I have forgotten some very important, basic lifeskills. Like, for instance, how does one go about assembling a matching outfit? Are pants with elastic actually considered "acceptable?" Does the mascara go in your eyelashes or your eyebrows?

So I just put a graduation cap on my stuffed penguin and did a voiceover instead.

That's quarantine, baby.

Now I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Maybe I'll go sit on my front porch and stun my neighbors when they see me in something other than shorts and haven't-looked-at-my-hairbrush-in-days hair.

If you have the time, please drop a review (seriously, I'm extrinsically motivated) and I'll see you next chapter :)

God Bless,

-RainFlame