Fic: From The Ashes
Title: From the Ashes (1/9)

Pairing: None at the moment. A bit of one-sided Roy/Hughes later on.

Rating: Low R for later chapters.

Spoilers: Episodes concerning the Ishbal War.

Summary: Roy comes back from Ishbal and learns how to live with himself.

Author's Notes: This idea came to me while listening to "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers. Each of the chapters will have a few lines of the song somewhere in it.

Chapter 1

I.

The alchemists were back.

He first heard about it from Hartman, the obnoxious 2nd Lieutenant in the General's entourage. Hartman was cocky, loud and thought too highly of himself just because he was a pencil pusher and not one of the grunts. Captain Maes Hughes didn't like him very much. He was rude, filthy, swaggered in a most unflattering way and he was about as intelligent as a bag of rats. Plus, he talked too much for his own good.

Of course, this was exactly why Hughes put up with the imbecile.

Maes inwardly grinned. It never ceased to amaze him what idiots the military was willing to put up with just to fill its ranks. In a lot of ways, it was almost insulting. Really, if he, a measly Captain, could infiltrate the circle of Central's most influential General…

It was people like Hartman that gave the military a bad rep.

"Top secret, you say?" He murmured behind his coffee cup. Sharp green eyes peered over ceramic.

"What, you don't believe me?"

Hughes grinned broadly and slapped him on the back. "Far from it!" He sidled up and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "In fact, I'm rather jealous that you're getting all the juicy stuff."

Hartman looked faintly appeased.

"So, come on now, huh, huh?" He jabbed him in the stomach. "Don't leave me hanging here."

"Well, see, that's the strange part." The officer scratched his head. "It was just a delivery notice. A train of surplus war materials is coming-"

Green eyes widened.

"-in this Wednesday. Pretty odd thing to have in a confidential file. If you ask me, something big is going down. Maybe they're sending in the big guns."

Hartman didn't get the chance to say anything more. There was a blur of blue and before he realized it, he was alone.

II.

The idiot's right about one thing. He thought as he strode briskly through the halls. Something big is happening.

His guess was way off the mark, though. The military wasn't shipping any armaments anywhere. It didn't need to, not with the State Alchemists there. Hughes had no interest in alchemy, but he knew quite a bit about it, having grown up with a budding alchemist as his closest friend. He'd been there for every single one of Roy's experiments, both good and bad, until Roy discovered his fascination with fire. Then Roy decided that his hobby was too dangerous to share.

That, in Maes' eyes, was the point where Roy became the Flame Alchemist. Because after that, he changed. He became more focused, more driven to learn. The brashness of youth turned into confidence in himself and his abilities and there was something in his eyes that spoke of untold power.

The entire town knew about it, too. They whispered about the demon child behind closed doors and refused to acknowledge him in public. By unspoken agreement, Roy became the outcast of their community. Many a time his friend would show up at his doorstep, bruised and bleeding, those black eyes burning with defiance, silently daring him to say a word. And he would take him in, patch him up, beat the story out of him and they'd smoke a cigarette afterwards. Because there wasn't much he could do. Roy had chosen this path, chosen to teach himself this strange science. And he'd refused to let Maes walk by his side. So Hughes followed from behind. And he developed a fondness for handheld projectiles along the way.

Eventually, those whispers drove them out and into the military where Roy once again made waves. Not for being an alchemist, but for not only being the first Private to be promoted to Major within his first two years but also being the youngest person ever to pass the State Alchemist exams.

He'd never actually seen Roy in action; Roy would rather incapacitate than set his opponent on fire. But he knew enough; he had no doubt that Roy was a dangerous bastard. And if the higher ups had enough confidence in their ability that they'd recall all their troops, that said a lot. Hughes was under no illusion that they were doing anything for the soldiers' sakes. They wanted to get the job done and had no qualms on how they did it. They just didn't want any unnecessary losses in manpower.

And now they were shipping in a train full of "surplus war materials".

Bullshit.

He'd been keeping tabs on the war ever since Roy was called to duty. He had more information than Hartman. There was nothing out East that was unrelated to alchemy.

That train was full of State Alchemists. And if they were smuggling them back, then that meant that the Alchemists had done their job and there most likely wasn't anything left to fight.

Hughes grimaced. He'd been against the war from the very beginning. It was partly the reason he chose to join Intelligence. Roy was the only reason for his interest. He did what he needed to keep an eye on his best friend.

His best friend who hadn't bothered to tell him he was coming back.

That thought worried him a whole lot more.

His hand shook as he picked up the public phone. "Hello, operator? Please transfer me to the Ishval camp. My access number is..."

III.

Somewhere out in the countryside, the shrill whistle of a steam locomotive pierced the early morning silence. Moments later, the heaving metal monster rumbled down the tracks, deafening the area and sending a large gale of wind over the fields of crops.

The train car swayed in time to the rumble of the steam engine. The clackety-clack of metal striking metal had long since ceased to be a nuisance and was now a comfort in its repetitiveness. What would normally be a cabin buzzing with conversation and noise was oddly muted. The passengers talked in hushed whispers and strained smiles and even the occasional shuffle of cards being dealt could not penetrate the gloom that weighed heavily on them all.

They were a sorry bunch, haggard and unshaven, eyes bloodshot from either not enough sleep, too much drink or a combination of the two.

Someone scratched furiously at his cast. The medic sitting next to him slapped him upside the head. This started a heated debate on the dangers of tampering with your bandages. Across from them, a pair looked up briefly at the commotion then calmly returned to their game of poker. On the other side, a burly, balding man entertained his section with a rousing rundown of his family history.

One man sat alone in the back.

He had about him a dark aura that discouraged any attempts at company. Not that any of the other passengers would even think about coming near him. They all respected his choice to wallow in misery. He was their youngest and he'd taken it the hardest, letting it affect him to the point where he was teetering on the edge of sanity.

Even Kimblee stayed away, probably because he knew that there wouldn't be a bucket of water to save him this time.

There was nothing about Major Roy Mustang that drew attention. Slim, of average height, with dark hair and the pale skin of the North. Tousled black hair that stuck out in every which way, despite obvious attempts to control it, gave him the carefree appearance of youth that was complimented by his childlike features. He was one of the very few on board that didn't look like he'd just stepped off of the battlefield. His dark fatigues were clean and pressed, his boots shiny. Over that, he wore a large overcoat that while neat, looked well-worn and much loved. If not for some very obvious details, he would seem to be just another young man in his early 20s, fresh out of the university and ready to take on the world.

Dark eyes stared out at the window, uncaring of the scenery that flew by. His mind was curiously blank of all thought save for a deep, unmitigated guilt he knew was impossible to escape. And so, he embraced it, allowed it to fill him and envelop him in its cruel embrace.

He sat stiffly in his seat, slightly hunched into his coat without realizing it. He hadn't moved since the train left the last station – save to eat once and go to the bathroom twice. A small part of him was afraid that if he did move, the cast-iron wall he'd put up around himself would shatter and he would lose whatever bit of sanity he had left. This state of nothingness was the only thing keeping him together in some warped semblance of normalcy. He lived in the present, enough so that he could go through mechanical motions of getting up, getting ready and putting one foot in front of the other. It had been that way since that godforsaken day out in the battlefield and it would continue until he reached his destination.

Where he could finally let go, behind closed doors, and no one would be the wiser.

So he never shifted, never twitched, never let his eyes leave that point in space he could no longer see. He had been staring out the window for so long that his vision had turned inward and all he could see were flames and darkness.

His ears hurt from the screams.

The train pushed steadily on, neither speeding nor faltering, doing its duty to send these poor souls home and possibly giving them the time to recoup until they faced the real world once more.

IV.

Central was the heart of Amestris.

From the very start, it had been carefully cultivated to be the largest city in the nation as befitting its role as home of the Fuhrer. It boasted of massive libraries, research buildings, merchant corporations, and a vivid social life. Central was the place to be and all the intellectuals, businessmen and lost souls flocked into the city to try their luck and make something of their lives.

Part of it was due to its geographical location. Central, situated in the middle of the country, cut down on travel time to and from other cities. While technology had gone far in terms of transportation, lengthy travel was still tedious business. So while most cities and towns tended to keep to themselves, Central was able to reach out and remain well-informed about all goings on.

Another factor was the obvious presence of the military. Central not only housed King Bradley and his family, but the many men and women who had pledged their lives in service of him and his country. Headquarters was the nerve center of the military. Majority of the people enlisted were brought here for training and those currently not in war or stationed at a post were kept occupied here. This was also where the State Alchemists set up camp…at least until they were all shipped off to assist with the Eastern Rebellion.

So it shouldn't really be that surprising to find the train station bustling with activity. The air was a hubbub of noise, the whistles and groans of passing trains mixing in with people yelling and shouting to be heard. Bodies where everywhere, pushing and shoving, without a second thought spared for those they barreled through. That was probably the first lesson you learned in Central: shove or be shoved. No one really paid attention to any life other than theirs.

In the midst of it all stood a dark haired man like a quiet island in a turbulent ocean. He was clad in simple clothing that normally would have made him fair game. However, the perturbed green eyes peering over rectangle glasses was enough to make everyone steer clear.

Outwardly, he showed no signs of anxiety. In his mind, he was a jumble of emotions, worry and apprehension fighting for dominance and fear tumbling over the mess just for fun. He still wasn't sure whether he should have come out here without Roy knowing about it. At least if he'd managed to talk to him beforehand, he could have gotten a gauge on the alchemist's state of mind. But by the time he'd found out about this entire thing and made the call, the entire camp had already packed up and moved out.

The next two days had been spent in constant debate between Hughes the friend and Hughes the soldier. One part of him wanted nothing more than to be the first face Roy saw in Central. Another part of him knew very well that company was the last thing Roy would want, not with his wounds so fresh. As his friend, he would either be a welcome distraction or a reminder of the warmth he had robbed others of.

Then there was a small part of him that was afraid of the changes that may have happened.

In the end, it was Gracia who made his choice for him.

"You're his best friend, Maes Hughes. Whether he realizes it or not, he needs you right now and it's your job to take care of him until he can do it again."

And so, here he was. He thanked the heavens for having such a perceptive girlfriend who wasn't afraid to order him around. The fact that she was fond of Roy didn't hurt either.

A train came to a whining stop.

"Central Station! Central Station!"

Maes lifted his head and over the crowd, he could see a wave of dark-clad men spilling out of the cars. They looked horrible, so thin and so weary, walking slow and awkward as if they bore a heavy weight on their backs. This was a drastic transformation from the grim but determined group 6 months earlier.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a head of unruly dark hair. A second glance confirmed his suspicions. It was Roy, clad in that ridiculously large coat he'd gotten him for Christmas a few years back. Without even realizing it, he was already moving, pushing his way to the front of the mob.

He made sure to plant himself where Roy had no choice but to notice him.

Pale blank features twisted into surprise. Roy's mouth opened and closed. Then he was running; dropping his bag and diving into the arms of his oldest friend.

I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all