A/N: End of anime spoilers. You won't get it if you haven't seen it. kthxbai.
On another note- I got them to ANGST! Omg! (Proud of self) It's so hard to get Russ and Ed to be angsty- They're goofy-banter types.
On yet anothernote: Wow, Ling got an interesting reaction! No, Ling is nota Mary-Sue (Unless he has something... important to tell us... oO;;) He is, in fact, a prince of Xing and a very awesome Chichiri-like character of the manga. He shows up in volume 8, which I don't think will make it to America very soon...
Edward groaned drearily and shifted, nudging against the weight of Russel, who, thoroughly drunk, was nearly asleep against his shoulder, and not apparently willing to let go of his human pillow. He leaned as far as he could without disturbing the other, tentatively reaching towards the sofa armrest for his overcoat, fumbling a few times in frustration as his fingers didn't seem to feel like obeying through his own intoxicated haze. He finally got a hold of it, and fluidly attempted to slip off the couch unnoticed, supposing he had succeeded in doing so, until a weight at the back of his neck alerted him of his failure. He looked back with some difficulty, noting the fist that was grasping at his ponytail, into the dumb grin of his drinking partner, who mumbled something sounding like, 'Where's the fire?'.
"I've- got to go," Edward muttered, "Home, studies-... it's really late." He made up excuses as he went, loosening his hair from Russel's grip, gathering up his coat. He had to leave before sobriety returned; before the alchohol became blameless.
"The moonlight is pretty, isn't it?" Russel noted half coherently, proving either that he was wasted to the point of such silliness, or that he really was a closet romantic after all.
'Just like him...' Edward mused, a sinking feeling overtaking him, as he shook his head and turned again.
"I really need to go." He moved hastily out the door, and shut it, closing off the harsh winter air from the warmth inside. He stared at the nameplate below the address on the door, wishing that it said 'Tringham', and not 'Shulz', reminding him that this wasn't the real thing; that he was still far away from home.
He walked the chilly streets, eyeing the foreign looking buildings and strange vehicles and unfamiliar landscapes that still perplexed him. It wasn't that this place didn't look like home that bothered him. That the people were so similar, was what made it hell.