Author's Note: I was hoping chapter two wouldn't be so long. I couldn't help myself. The story itself may seem to be coming slow, but please bear with me. I promise interesting things will happen! I also ask you to bear with my awful dialogue skills, and my ultra slow character development. As much as I try to avoid stereotypes and OOCness, they seem to creep back in, but in due time, I may be able to write them away. Martel in particular is a difficult character to develop into this situation seeing as I must make her more civil, imagine her as a (relatively) normal seventeen year old girl, and try to avoid having her shoved in the brash butch stereotype that this plot might have had her fill.

If you notice some akwardness in the plotting... don't worry, I noticed it too. And if you're missing some characters; fear not. Hawkeye, Sciezka, Hughes, and all your beloveds will make their appearances in due time. (I bribe you with promises...)

Blame It on the Rain

Chapter 2

Although the mass of a crowded highschool hallway can be compared to something of an amoeba; an ebbing, sticky, communative mass of bodies, there are a few select presences that can act as a catalyst of sorts to split the ferocious creature in two, or at the very least, weave through unscathed. On this particular morning, said presence was that of a small, unimpressive lanky boy. He was average height, skinny, to put it in the most polite of terms, and unnaturally pale of skin. Tendrils of his green-toned hair fell and kept shape almost of their own accord, falling in shadow over his eyes, and adding to the aura he emanated that made the female passers by skip a heartbeat, and step aside in awe. But mostly, what it was that parted the crowds, and kept most onlookers at a respectful (and fearful) distance, was the smile he wore; smug, vicious, the grin that can only be worn by a person with the utmost self confidence (Although the common term was "Self-important ass.")

If ever a student took second place to Martel's infamous tattoo incident in the matter of ruffling the schoolboards proverbial feathers, it was him. It was common business dealing with girls' dress code violations, with the standard problems of cropped tops and miniskirts that could pass for belts, but they'd never before dealt with a male pupil who so frequently, and so absolutely unabashedly loved to show off his figure. Although the school policy had it's rules of general decency, it was exceedingly akward having to deal with chastising the ridiculous getups he came up with, most frequently, midriffs and oddly enough, miniskirts, and they also had to deal with hordes of upset female scholars, whose spirits were clearly dampened everytime the rebellious teen was forced into an oversized gym uniform. Most everyone agreed, it really was a shame for him not to show it off.

He eventually found loopholes and ways to beat the system; mostly through ever-present use of a handy sweatshirt which he could quickly use to cover his indiscretions every time a particularly prudish staff member crossed his path, and as time passed, they nearly gave up altogether.

Today, the article that was catching attention, as he stalked confidently past the writhing mass, were his shorts; or what passed for them anyhow. His hands were shoved confidently into his pockets, albeit with some difficulty considering the very ungenerous amount of cloth that they were stitched with. The garment ended at a ridiculous length, revealing proudly the circular tattoo which he brandished in honor of some mysterious thing or another for which there were countless rumors floating about in theory of.

As he exited the greater part of the crowd, he passed a smaller group who snickered, and glared. He continued walking confidently, just as a particularly bold young man in a blue jersey called out,

"Hey faggot! Nice legs!" Much laughter and pseudo masculine friendly punches were exchanged.

The accused faggot paused, and cooly flicked back a long green lock back from his face, to fix his piercingly violet eyes on his verbal assailant.

"Oh? Were you addressing me?" He asked indifferently.

Laughter and highfives ensued. Of course, it quickly died down, as the boy walked toward them calmly. Too calmly.

"So, you like my legs, do you?" A bloodthirsty grin painted his face as he drew nearer...

And somewhere far away the patron saint of regrettable comments (If there is such a thing) would most definitely be clicking his tongue and waving an admonishing finger, as if to chide, 'You shouldn'ta done that.'

It isn't really necessary to indulge the details of the ensuing several seconds, save for that it ended as uneventfully as it began, with the boy gaiting away just as casually as before, his smirk unwiped, wryly muttering within earshot,

"The better to kick you with, my dears."

And the collective female heart skipped another beat.

"Hey," Winry said, as she eased her shirt over her head and leaned against the splatter-scratched gym locker, "You guys date a lot, right? I have a really dumb question."

Nelly grinned energetically beside her friend as she snapped her brunette hair into a ponytail.

"Ohmigosh! Cue the Dawson's Creek music; Winry has a dating question!" This comment earned her a snap on the head.

"I'm serious," Winry insisted.

"Shoot," Paninya said, flinging a t-shirt over the hook in her locker.

"Um... If someone likes you, but you don't like them back, in 'that way',- but you don't hate them or anything- but you just don't know them... well, how do you deal with that?" Winry finished her question as she fiddled with the clasp on the back of her necklace, and stared fixatedly at the ceiling.

"That's it?" Nelly asked, sitting on a bench, and swinging her legs, staring upward trying to find whatever was capturing Winry's attention skyward, "Well, if you're going for the least amount of emotional damage, I guess you should just say you want to be friends. Either that or tell them to go and shov-"

"Nelly!" Winry snapped, unamused. Paninya, however, was somewhat amused, and she giggled merrily, as she snatched her uniform shirt and slung it over her shoulder, to turn and put in her two cents,

"Friends is always a good solution," She said, casually propping her arm against a locker, "Although it's reputed to be the biggest heart-breaker out there; it's really not that bad. And who knows; maybe someday you'll get to like each other."

Winry smiled at Paninya as the girl grinned back enthusiastically. Although using the adjective 'enthusiastic' was rather redundant when coupled with Paninya. It was exceedingly difficult not to like the girl; she was strong, mouthy, honest, and always seemed to share her vivaciousness with those she was near. Which was why it was very nice to be sharing a gym class with her; since sharing a bit of that youthful energy that leaked from her was very advantageous.

"I guess that might work," Winry said, breathing a sigh of mixed relief and retained pensiveness, as she pulled her gym shirt over her head and yanked the cloth across her chest.

Paninya's grin remained glued.

"Imagine," She mused aloud, "Our little Winry is finally on the dating scene! I was worried you'd been getting too caught up in your mechanics and all,"

"There's nothing wrong with mechanics!" Winry said, "Besides, I DO date!"

"Oh, you mean that thing with Ed?" Nelly interjected.

"That wasn't a 'thing'," Winry protested, blushing, "We're just friends!"

"Oh, then there was that issue with Cain..."

"Jean almost killed me for that one..."

"Be honest, Winry," Paninya said, patting her friend's shoulder, "You haven't done much in the romance department since your middle school love-letter fiascos."

"And why would I?" Winry shrugged, passing it off, and seating herself on the bench, "I have awesome friends. What more could I ask for?"

"Aaaaw," Paninya sang, closing the blonde in an affectionate snuggle, "You're so sweet!"

"Mmmmph," Winry managed, squashed against her friend's middle.

A click came from the direction of the teacher's office, as the door swung open and a dreadlocked head appeared.

"Ladies! Talking isn't getting you changed any faster! Get your butts out on the gym floor right now, or I'll get medieval on them!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the girls sang in unison.

Martel leaned against the chalk holder on the board, rolling her eyes and exhaling, ever so decidedly, as she desperately wished to be anywhere but where she was. Professor talks-a-lot was currently waving some recent printoff and admonishing her with the same 'I'm dissappointed in you' speech that they all seemed to have up their annoying sleeves. It wasn't that she had a problem with teachers as such, but there was a certain quality of condescension and judgement that she always felt, in spite of their standard disclaimers, of "I don't know what you're going through, but-..." that got under her skin and made her itch with the mixed sentiments of worthlessness, but moreso of bitter superiority.

Today it was about her latest chemistry report, or lack thereof. Mustang was currently issuing the stern-and-pseudo-sympathetic gaze, as he brought up her track record to add to the already far-too-long encounter.

"-not to mention you've already missed," He picked up his clipboard to check, "Five days of this class in this semester. And it's barely begun."

"I was sick," She muttered, scratching a fingernail against the dusty slate.

"Miss Martel, I'm very concerned. I would like to see a better effort in this class from now on," He slowed his words a bit as he noted the way she nodded with his speech, as though counting the exact words she'd heard many times before.

A group of girls with their backbacks and books gathered up passed to leave the classroom, and a brunette waved,

"Hey, Martel. Still on for this weekend?" She asked.

"Yeah, sure, Jen," She called back, and begrudgingly resumed eye contact with her teacher.

"This is what I mean," He continued, "I don't know how you're spending all of your time, but I would hope you would at least try to use it more productively." He held out the printout which she snatched with a gruff, "Mmnf."

She slung her bag over her shoulder, and angrily stepped into the hallway, and hastily tossed the report into the trash, mumbling indescernable curses under her breath.

Of course, since the fates have the tiniest little guilty pleasures, this was also the moment that another certain person she didn't want to have contact with passed her by and simply with her almost fanged grin could carried enough umbrageous animosity to spark the other girl to start hissing. (Which wasn't something she made a habit of, mind you, but was an impulse she often found tempting when frustrated words failed her.)

"Hello, there. It's been a while." She greeted, her wavy black locks bouncing in stride with her step. The blonde responded in a sarcastic snarl,

"Piss off, Lust," She responded, curtly.

The darker girl paused in her tracks and stepped back to face Martel, and click her tongue,

"Don't you know that grudges are so unbecoming, Martel?"

Martel may have responded, but before she could grasp a decent comeback, two distractions presented themselves from both sides of the hallway, one being a mossy haired boy calling out

"Hey Lust, you coming?"

and one being a spritely blonde cautiously approaching Martel, watching as Lust confidently made her way off with her lanky companion. (Had she just winked?)

"Um, hey!" was Winry's brightest idea of a conversation starter.

"Oh, Hi, Winry... What's up?" Martel asked, suddenly relaxing at Winry's presence.

"I just noticed that we have the same lunch hour together, so... if you don't mind, I was thinking we could eat together, or something... just for today. If you don't mind, that is." She shifted and twisted a pink sneaker into the floor causing a squeak.

Martel needed a second to mount the sudden surprise of Winry's request before she gathered her voice,

"Yeah- I mean, of course! That'd be great! Um, where do you usually sit?"

"I was thinking we should sit in the commons. You know, in front, by the windows?"

"Sure," Martel responded a little too enthusiastically, "See you there, then?"

"Alright," Winry beamed, "I gotta go." She turned and bounded away enthusiastically.

Martel's heart fluttered for a few moments, and she drifted back to what was something of a kinder reality than she previously thought.

Outside of the chemistry lab, the squeaking of dilapidated old wheels, exhausted with corrosion and the wear of time, serenaded the halls, now emptying of bodies, and opening up to a much more empty airy expanse, and signaled a well recognized, albiet generally avoided presence. The man pushed his mop and bucket combination ("Of Doom") along the empty passageway, darting his gaze in a matter that was decidedly suspicious and altogether disturbing.

He stopped in front of an abandoned cart stacked with boxes upon boxes of cheap state issued science accessories awaiting their centenial cleaning. He opened a box, ignoring the greasy strands of hair that fell in his face as he hunched over to do so, and fingered one of the greasy tools with a loving delicacy, and raised it to his eye level, inspecting it's intricacies with a beady eye. It was a sparker, definitely, in spite of how the caking rust may have disguised it; it was the so-called safe device, used to light the gas streams on bunson burners, and the constant of fascination for teenagers with low attention spans and an attraction to shiny things.

He held it close to his face and inhaled, slowly, releasing his breath for a shudder. The fumes of metallic aromas overwhelmed the wafting scent at first, and then gave way to the pleasureful subtleties that followed and intermingled; the faint hint of sulfur; the bouquet of alchohol, and gasoline fumes. Ah, those scents brought to him such joy; such elation at the mere thought of the things they could do. The images; those wonderful images of all the burnable fumes mingling and creating their greatest potential sum; a wondrous explosion of flame and heat...

"DAMMIT, KIMBLEY!" A door slammed open, the frame in which a very enraged Proffessor Mustang was standing, "How many times do I need to tell you? Clean the equipment; don't fondle it! That's just creepy!"

Winry breathed deeply in the warm light of the sun that was filtering through the large windows and across the messy beige floor. She seated herself upon the wide sill that doubled as overflow sitting space, and avoided the airvent, seeing as the last time she had sat on one of them, the marks stayed on her legs for a good two hours. She happily patted the spot beside herself, as she saw Martel drawing near, and remembered the conversation she practiced numerous times in her head.

"Hope you like ranch," Martel said, tossing a bag of chips to Winry, and settling with her own vending machine finds.

"Hope you like Oreos," Winry responded cheerily, digging some of the cookies from her paper bag and sliding the baggie to Martel. They relaxed into their sitting positions, satisfied with their trade, and both inhaled simultaneously as if to say something.

"A-" They creaked in unison, both quickly resigning to let the other take initiative in the conversation.

"You have something to say?" Winry said, insistently.

"Oh, no, no you go first,"

"You had something to say,"

"No, you go. I'll wait." Martel insisted, holding her hands up.

"Um, okay," Winry said, as she poked at her bag, and gathered the confidence to look up, "I wanted to say..." Martel waited tensely as Winry blushed profusely, "I'm not gay." She rushed the final part of her sentence, as though she were spitting out the words.

"Oh," Martel was not at all surprised, but not altogether pleased.

"But!-" Winry interjected, sensing Martel's sudden droop, "I'd still like to get to talk to you more, and maybe we could be really good friends." The senior looked up incredulously and smirked,

"Weren't you the one who said we were way too different?"

"You brought that up first. Besides that, I don't even know you yet, so I don't intend to judge that until I'm confident that I do."

"... alright?"

"So," Winry declared, gathering up confidence, "Every good relationship must be based on trust. I must know that I can trust you to tell me the complete and honest truth when I ask you something."

"I haven't let you down so far, have I?"

"You lied about your bike."

"Come again?"

"Your bike. You said it was broken when it wasn't."

"Yeah... that was-"

"Just an excuse to talk to me. I know. You don't need to do stuff like that anymore, though. From now on, we're on a truth-telling policy. And we're starting now. Kay?"

"Okay... so, what truth did you want to know?"

"Um..." Winry bit off a piece of her sandwich, and chewed it pensively as she ground her thoughts over, "Everything, I guess," She shrugged off the generality.

"Okay then, shoot. I'm an open book," Martel, snapped open a can of coke, leaning against the windowsill.

"Alright. First question. What's your first name?"

"... Martel."

"No, seriously."

"I am serious."

"What kind of first name is Martel?"

"Sorry, if you don't like it, but if your parents were abusive crack addicts, maybe you wouldn't get such a pretty name either!"

"Yeah, okay; that was a lie too. I honestly don't know exactly where the name's from. My Dad's ex-military, so I think he got the name from one of his old buddies, or something like that. I never really got the full story. We're not exactly on what you might call close terms," Martel spoke just as casually as though she were commenting on the weather, and grinned to put Winry at ease, letting her know it wasn't that big of a deal.

"And what-"

"My mom? Heck if I know. She took off." The older girl shrugged, "I don't remember her much, so I can't really say."

Winry took another bite from her bread, trying to mull over what to respond with. She couldn't really liken her situation to Martel's at all. She got along just fine with her Grandmother, and had with her parents up until...

"Well, you know my-"

"I know about your parents," Martel interjected, "So you don't have to... you know."

"It's alright," Said Winry, "It dosen't bother me. I was only five then. I just live with my Grandma."

"I could have sworn you'd adopted those Elric kids or something. What with all the time you spend together."

"No, we're all just friends. It's been like that since we were little. Their mom used to get sick a lot, so they would stay with us while she was in the hospital. She's still a little unstable, but they're taking care of her more now. Of course, they still come by the shop all the time since Ed's such an irresponsible speed demon."

"Figures as much. The kid's so short, he needs to compensate?"

Winry supressed a giggle as she admonished Martel for insulting her friend. She bit from one of her cookies as she glanced toward that larger mass of occupied tables, and spied the raven haired girl who she'd seen speaking to Martel earlier.

"That girl," She said, pointing vaguely, "You were talking with her before. You didn't seem to be very... friendly. What's the deal with that?"

"Oh, Lust?"

"Yeah, that was her name. Weird isn't it? I heard it was gang-related or something."

Martel laughed at this, and scratched the back of her head,

"Sort of. You might say it's a gang thing. Or more like- a tribute to one that's dead. Stupid girl just held on to that name for looks." She shook her head dissapprovingly. Winry was wary, but intrigued,

"You seem to know a lot about that sort of thing," She began, uneasy on the subject.

"You mean gangs? I'm not in any. Not currently, at least; so don't you worry. There are kids in this school who think they are, but they're all harmless. I guess they think I am too, but it all goes nowhere. All the people I hang out with are-" She paused and shook her head, "Well, they just have big heads, is all."

"But they're your friends, aren't they?"

"Not really. They're just..." Martel paused in thought, "Well, whatever. It dosen't really matter."

Winry was confused by this. The thought of having friends that aren't really friends wasn't exactly a familiar concept. She knew and trusted those she kept close to her, and always had.

"Does that mean friends don't matter to you?" She asked, trying to probe further into Martel's confusing and foreign mind.

"God, no!" Martel Replied, shocked at the question, "I have good friends. They're just few and far between. And far away." She scratched at the rim of her soda can for need of some sort of movement.

"What about her? Lust?"

Martel stared straight at Winry's face, in mild surprise that Winry had guessed so well.

"I guess you could say we were friends once. It was through wierd circumstances though. I doubt anything like that would happen again."

Winry was about to inquire further, when Martel broke the depth of their conversation with an out of the blue observation,

"Hm. It's five 'till." She pointed out, bundling the last remnants of her lunch inside the empty chip bag and making a three-pointer for the nearest garbage can. The color drained from Winry's face.

"Crap..." She barely mouthed jumping up to see the clock face for herself.

"What?"

"Oh crap-crap-crap-crap-crap!" She repeated to herself balling up her fist and assaulting her forehead in frustration.

"What is it?" Martel yanked the girl out of her psychotic little rut.

"I was supposed to head back to the shop and open it at noon for Mister Garfiel! I have five minutes until that."

"Four minutes and thirty five seconds if you want to be more exact. Why can't you just go now?"

"I completely forgot! I didn't get a pass, and furthermore, the Elric Jalopy is still broken, so I can't get Ed to drive-"

"You mean you don't drive? I thought with all your car obsessions-"

"Shut up! This is not the time!" Winry pressed the heel of her hand against her eye, trying to reason, "Okay... Walking's way too long... I can't take my bike; that'd be too long also."

"We could take my bike," Martel offered.

"I said, a bike would take too long!"

Martel flicked Winry on the head, and dangled her keys in front of the girl's eyes.

"Oh... that bike," Winry came to her senses, then smiled wryly, "It's not still broken is it?"

"Do you want me to help you or not?"

"How am I going to get out in time without a pass?"

"I'm the master of skipping. When you're back, nobody'll notice you were gone. Next hour starts at 12:15, and you'll be back with no one the wiser."

Winry gaped, and Martel rolled her eyes, grabbing the junior by the wrist,

"Come on, it's three minutes fifty five seconds now. Let's move."

The older girl expertly wove through the hallways, avoiding all potential discoveries, and brought them safely out the back door by the side student parking lot where the emergency chariot awaited them.

"Here," She said plainly, sticking a chipped gray helmet over Winry's head. She jammed her key in the ignition, revved up the motor, and sat down, instructing, 'Hop on', which Winry did, hastily.

"Don't let go," She smirked, looking back.

Winry almost asked- "Of what?" when the metaphorical voice of gravity forced an answer upon her. The bike lurched forward, and she clung for her life to Martel's waist, as the school blurred into the background, and they zoomed to a speed that couldn't possibly be within the legal speed limit. The younger girl squeezed her eyes shut to prevent herself from growing nautious, as she felt her insides shift and flop to her left with a wide turn.

It couldn't have possibly been less than an hour of insanely irresponsible motion, but somehow, at the end of the trip, she'd still miraculously made it by noon to the front door of her shop. Of course, she needed a moment to recuperate; She stumbled off the motorcycle and tripped dizzily, landing on her knees, feeling the gravel against her palms. She breathed heavily, tingling from the adrenaline, and when she regained some sort of nerve control, she raised a shaky arm to point at the driver who was leaning complacently against her vehicle, and shouted,

"That was insane, and stupid and dangerous!"

"But fun, right?"

-To Be Continued-

(I know- I suck at endings/cutoffs... review and I'll wub you forever!)