On his first day back to CCHS, Edward had thought returning to school would be a like a nightmare. Not fun to endure, but possible, and he would be able to come out the other side. After his first week, Ed was beginning to think he wouldn't—couldn't—make it that far.

Oddly enough, it wasn't even the jeers and the taunts that made everything feel so impossible. Yes, every day someone hurled a new slur at Edward, and he'd been tripped and pushed around a bit in the halls, but he'd prepared himself for that. It wasn't fun, but Ed had braced himself, and he could handle all that. Winry, thank goodness, had gone about ignoring him in their two shared classes, so even though seeing her face made Edward feel a little sick, he could deal with that, too.

What he couldn't seem to get past was himself. Ed was alone and scared all the time, and he frankly didn't know how to cope.

Last year, right after that, Edward's initial response had been anger. Frustration. And, okay, yes, violence. The principal, Mr. Bradley, had made it very clear that punching the lights out of someone who called him a faggot was not acceptable. Ed would have thought that being homophobic was also wrong—apparently not. The threat of expulsion should he continue to have his "outbursts" put Edward firmly in his place.

After a summer of readjusting his thought process, of coming to terms with the fact that he was the problem, all the fight had been sucked out of Ed. Now, instead of being resentful, he either felt like dying or felt strangely unreal, like he was a ghost floating through the halls of an otherwise lively school.

Worst of all was his complete and utter lack of ambition. Last year, Edward had been the top of his class. Last year, he'd been studious and focused. This year…Ed could barely listen to what his teachers had to say, let alone throw himself into his learning.

Surprisingly, for most classes he was skating by (so far). In Mr. Hughes's class, they'd begun the year by reading and discussing Hamlet. The worst thing Edward had been forced to do was read a soliloquy aloud. In Ms. Armstrong's Latin class, there was no discussion or opinion; mostly it was verb conjugation. Having taken Latin for the last three years, doing so was almost like muscle memory for Ed. He'd slipped up once or twice, but nothing enough to be detrimental.

Mrs. Elliot had been a wild card, but it took Edward all of two classes to realize that as long as you spat her own opinions back at her, the teacher would be happy. This was a skill Ed had learned in the aftermath of that, so it came naturally by now.

Mr. Tucker and Mr. Falman both seemed to prefer having their students engage in quiet work rather than lecture on and on. The biology worksheets weren't terribly difficult for Edward—it was a subject he'd been interested in for a while—but the calculus ones were much harder. He used to be good at math, but now he found himself more and more getting absolutely lost in the numbers. The last set of problems Mr. Falman assigned for homework read more like another language than simple equations. Ed had a feeling he'd have to start getting used to seeing a bright red "B" or "C" at the top of his assignments, rather than the "A" that used to be his constant feedback.

And then there was Mr. Mustang and his stupid chemistry class. No other teacher had commented on Edward's mediocre work and lackluster presence besides him. But Mr. Mustang seemed to be discontent with Ed's silence in the classroom, with his modest results on the lab they'd done the third day of class.

At the moment, it was the wee hours of Saturday morning. Edward was lying on his bed in Izumi's house. Al slept soundly across the room. The darkness of the night, the faint summer breeze through his open window…they should have lulled him to sleep, too. Ed should have been resting easy with the knowledge that he didn't have to return to that stupid fucking school until Monday. Instead, he couldn't stop thinking. Of course, the one time he didn't want or need it to, his brain was working overtime. Edward just couldn't quit replaying that instant, at the end of chemistry, when Mr. Mustang called him out…

Who the fuck gave a quiz the first week of school? Edward had wondered that at least three times as he worked his way through the questions before him. To be fair, it was coming from the same asinine teacher who thought day three was the proper time for a lab experiment. It, like the quiz he was currently taking, had been about pure substances vs. mixtures. In theory, it was a pretty simple concept, but Edward kept over-complicating things. A heterogeneous mixture had different components you could see—but what if you needed a microscope to see them? How much did you have to magnify something before the components were considered "indistinguishable?"

Whatever. It didn't matter, really. After the week he'd had, Ed was resigning himself to the fact that he was just not as competent as he used to be. If he couldn't even handle a quiz like this, he'd never be a scientist. Might as well accept that and start considering his backup plan.

Giving up like that made Edward's heart ache. He filled out the last couple of questions quickly, unthinkingly. If his gut reactions were right, great; if not, so be it. Ed rose from his seat, wincing as the chair squealed on the linoleum flooring. Hastily, he took the few steps forward necessary to reach his teacher's desk. Mr. Mustang's eyes rose from the book he was reading to meet Edward's own. Wordlessly, the teacher reached out and took the quiz from Ed's outstretched hand. Much to his dismay, Mr. Mustang set immediately to grading the paper—Edward hadn't realized he was the first to finish. Not wanting to watch the man point out the mistakes he'd no doubt made, Ed spun quickly on his heels, falling back into his chair with little grace.

Suddenly exhausted, Edward folded his arms on his tiny desk, placing his head against his forearms. This close up, he could examine the swirls in the wood with ease. They made him nauseous. Or maybe that was just the knowing creeping up on him—knowing he wasn't as special as he'd once been told. Not as smart as he'd thought he was. Ed closed his eyes against the nagging in his mind. At least he had gym next bell. Nothing like some sprints to knock him out of his own head.

Edward stayed like that for the duration of the class, barely registering when his fellow students began to follow suit in handing in their quizzes. Surely at least one of them had to have struggled like Ed had. It was a small consolation, but better than nothing.

The bell that rang sometime later felt distant, like the sound was traveling through water. His legs seemed to push him upright without conscious thought, and then Edward was gathering his things. Ready to go. Except, Mr. Mustang had other ideas.

Just as the teacher had on Ed's first day of school, Mr. Mustang stopped him with nothing more than his name. "Edward." And just like the previous time, Ed turned halfheartedly, his body language making it abundantly clear that he would prefer to leave.

"Hmm?"

However, apparently Mr. Mustang required more than just a quick word. "Come here, please." With the request, the teacher beckoned Edward closer with a deft hand. Groaning inwardly, Ed turned and stepped forward. What could it be, now? As though Mr. Mustang had read his mind, he answered the question. "I'd like to talk to you about the quiz today, Edward."

"Do we have to?" The words came out in a hurry, unexpected even to Ed himself. Embarrassed now, heat rushing to his face, he explained, "I have gym next. With Mr. Armstrong. He'll lose it if I'm late."

Mr. Mustang nodded, understanding deepening the dark color of his eyes. "I'll write you a note." Ah. Apparently, just because he recognized Edward's concerns, he wouldn't be releasing him so easily. "Pull up a chair for a moment."

No, I don't think I will. I don't want to be here, and I don't want to talk to you or look at your stupid face. I wish you were ugly, and I wish I didn't have to think that. But despite the biting words in his head, Ed grabbed the chair he'd so recently vacated, lifting it fully off the ground so it didn't make any more wretched noise. Placing it as far as he could from the teacher without seeming odd, Edward settled in, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. It was a defensive posture, and Ed knew that, but he doubted very much this was going to be a pleasant conversation. So, yeah, he was defensive.

"You did fine," Mr. Mustang began, grabbing a paper—Ed's paper—off his desk and handing it over without ever breaking eye contact. Smooth motherfucker. With some trepidation, Edward took the quiz back, his gaze focusing on the small, exact letter in the top left corner. "A 'B' is quite good, realistically," the teacher went on. "Normally I would have nothing to say about that."

Unable to help himself, Ed let out a sarcastic, "But?" Why was it that all the fight he'd lost over the summer had to come back when he was talking with a teacher? He needed to bite his tongue.

Mr. Mustang merely rose an eyebrow at the tone. "But, I know that you can do better, Edward."

That simple statement made Ed want to laugh. He didn't do that much, now, and he knew if he did it would be a hollow excuse of a sound. The situation was just so ridiculous. "Mr. Mustang, not to be an a—not to be rude, but how could you know that? You met me a week ago. I've hardly said a word to you. You don't know me."

Brow furrowing, now, his teacher examined Edward, eyes searching. It made him uncomfortable, itchy. What was he looking for? There was nothing to find but defeat and disappointment. "I know that last year your grades were exemplary," Mr. Mustang began, speaking slowly. Watching for any reaction that Ed might have. "More than that, in fact. Your scholarly history speaks volumes, Edward. You're incredibly bright."

The man was waiting for an answer, now. Only shrugging, Edward muttered, "Those were easier classes. I guess I'm just not as smart as you think I am."

"Oh, but you are." The words almost made Ed jump in his seat. Mr. Mustang, conversely, leaned back into his own (much more comfortable) chair, clasping his hands together. "Judging from the quiz I just graded, your problem is one of confidence, not intelligence. On all of the questions you missed, you almost gave the correct answer. It looks to me like you're merely overthinking and second-guessing yourself. You must have noticed you finished the quiz first—even though you didn't get everything right, your mind acted quickly."

Ed thought it strange, how easily Mr. Mustang put his finger on the thought processes that had plagued him during the quiz. But he wasn't done speaking, not just yet. "Edward, you have it in you to be acing my class with ease."

Pinpricks in the corners of his eyes had Ed looking down at his lap. He was glad, now, that he'd kept his hair long; his bangs fell over his face and stopped Mr. Mustang from seeing the hurt there. The last thing Edward needed was a reminder that he wasn't living up to expectations. A reminder that he should be better, but that somewhere along the right path he'd been derailed. Gone from straight and smart to gay and struggling. He didn't dare look back up into those too-observant eyes of his teacher, so Ed spoke to his tensed legs. "I'll try harder, okay? Can I go now?"

Every fiber of his being expected Mr. Mustang to refuse. But the bell rang again, and he apparently was struck with a bit of pity. "Of course. Just think about what I said. And let me give you that note—I know Mr. Armstrong. Wouldn't want him to punish you because of me."

Standing quickly, as though if he moved too slowly the teacher might change his mind, Edward placed his chair back in its usual position. He'd planned to keep his eyes down, but as Mr. Mustang handed him a note of explanation, Ed glanced back up. There was no good reason to do so, but he did anyway, and almost choked. Mr. Mustang didn't look reproachful, or disappointed, or disgusted. He looked sympathetic. It had been a long time since anyone besides his family had looked at Edward like that, but he chalked it up to imagination. After all, why would Mr. Mustang feel bad for him? It wasn't like he wasn't to blame…

Edward pulled himself with difficulty from the memory. He brought the heels of his hands up to his eyes, rubbing them in circles until he saw stars in his lids. No, Mr. Mustang hadn't looked sympathetic. That was just Ed's wishful thinking.

Speaking of which, he shouldn't be thinking of the teacher at all. Even in the unpleasant memory, Edward had focused all too much on Mr. Mustang's appearance. It was awful; with the other students at CCHS, Ed could just not look at them. If he didn't see them, he couldn't think anything inappropriate, and besides, everyone else seemed to prefer if Edward didn't make eye contact. But it was, to Ed's dismay and despite his best efforts, simply not possible to never look at his teachers.

Fists clenching, Edward berated himself. You do not think that way. You do not. Mr. Hughes and Mr. Falman and especially Mr. Mustang…you find them all repulsive. His fingernails, even though they were bitten down to the quick, were digging into his palms. Over the summer this had happened so much that Ed was left with little half-moon marks that never quite went away. With effort, he relaxed his grip.

Clearly, Ed wasn't going to get any sort of sleep. It was always like this, now; either he couldn't stop thinking long enough to get some rest, or it was all he could do to stay awake for an hour. Today was going to be the former, so why pretend otherwise? Slipping quietly from his covers, Edward lowered himself to the floor. It was only with practice that he'd perfected the art of exercising in silence. He'd start with crunches and then move to push-ups, and when the sun started to peek through the window Ed would get a shower. Izumi would wake up shortly after and think nothing of Edward also being awake. Sig would follow suit, and then finally Al.

And they'd all go about their day like everything was normal and fine.