Chapter 4: Ai

"What's this place?"

It's awfully… something. I can't describe it. It's a house, yeah, but it's small. Tiny. It's white and in a better weather would really look beautiful, contrasting with the green of the trees and bushes around. But the weather is bleak and dreary and Mustang walks up to the front door and I don't have to ask anymore.

Just as well, because he doesn't answer. He recovers keys from his pocket, unlocks, opens the door, steps in ad kicks off his boots. I follow, though he didn't invite me. There is a trail of mud where he walked and it leads across the hall to a room I suspect to be the kitchen.

"Hello," says a deep voice softly and my jaw falls as I realise this was Mustang speaking. The same Mustang I followed here. It was so… gentle. I don't understand.

I shed my boots and cloak on a pitiful heap next to a stool and follow the muddy trail. Mustang is crouched in front of the fridge and pours white liquid into a bowl. Then he stands up and from behind him a cat walks out. It's nothing special – some kind of street farrago, but it looks intelligent. If it survives life with this jerk it must be.

The presence of the cat seems to have melted something hard in Mustang – or maybe it was the privacy of his home. I don't exactly feel like an intruder, but I'm not far from it. He's relaxed, more relaxed than I've ever seen him in the office. He looks at me and pushes wet locks of black hair out of his eyes.

I like them like that. Dark, deep, thoughtful, pained… today they are compassionate, too. I don't want his compassion, but he gives it freely and he's the only one who does. Who would have known. One day, I will be at Mustang's house, a wet hungry escapee from my own birthday party. I… am glad I'm here. I don't want to go back.

"Cheese?"

I suppress the urge to laugh and sit on the closest chair.

"Yeah. And a lot of spaghetti under it."

He does laugh, and once again it's the calm gentle voice. As though nothing could happen to him while he's here. As though he was safe. Maybe he forced himself to believe it to avoid getting insane. Maybe… I wonder how many people were allowed here. I doubt too many.

"I don't have spaghetti," he's saying quietly, "You can have noodles."

"Whatever."

I watch his hands while he prepares the food. It takes long, and the only noises are the bubbling water, clanking dishes and my unruly stomach.

"What's the time?" he asks. I look around. There's a clock on the wall.

"Five thirty."

That means we've been walking for about two hours. I don't mind. At least I'll be tired enough to sleep today.

"Too early." I don't ask for what. I don't care. I want to eat and to sleep. And to forget, but I don't seem to be able to forget. So there are those other two things. I don't want to talk.

Maybe just a little.

My hand is going to get rusty.

"Do you have a towel?"

"Keep an eye on the stove."

He leaves. He comes back a while later; nothing changed. He passes me a square white cloth and turns away to tend to the food. The cat leaps on the table next to my elbow and watches me. I look at it. It looks back. We scrutinise each other apprehensively.

It meows. I feel one corner of my mouth quirking up.

Mustang has been watching us and, strangely, he's somehow pensive. He and pensive doesn't go together but, well, who really knows him? Nobody. Just as nobody knows me… Well, he does know me a little, but not really, completely, inside-out. I'm sometimes pensive, too. I like his cat.

"Make room, Ai."

"Ai?" I ask startled. Mustan shrugs.

"Couldn't think of a better name." I laugh to cover my relief. He really frightened me. But… nevermind.

I stand up and go back to the hall, slide the band out of my hair, and suffer through the painful process of unbraiding it while it's wet. I lose a few and then make mess of the rest under the pretense of drying it. I did try to dry it. It just… was stubborn. It is like that. It wants to dry by itself.

"Don't let it get cold."

Sheesh, he can't even yell now. But he's so calm. I feel calm now, as well. There is no intruding family here. There is all the privacy a man needs… or a boy… but it's not mine. Pity.

I go back and eat. It's good. But I'm not going to tell him.

A

He actually got me a proper birthday present.

I'm staring at it right now, and it's perfect. He knows that I don't care about the taste, but about the effect, so it's the cheapest sort, but I absolutely like it. I have drunk three and half a gill. Less makes me only a bit tipsy, more makes me doze off. Now I'm the most comfortable kind of woozy and the world around me is dark and calm and quiet. He sits in the armchair, leaving the entire sofa for me, but I'm on the floor and reading the etiquette again and again.

It feels perfect. I want to stay here forever. I want nothing to move, nothing to change. I want the memories of the truth obliterated. I want the truth obliterated. I want people to be calm and quiet in their hearts, and happy when they watch their children play…

"Do you know that there's a country where they have legions of ten-year-olds?"

The Colonel looks up and pierces me with his eyes. I'm looking back at him, undeterred. He's struck.

"I didn't."

I nod.

"There is. And there is a country where these… these child-soldiers take prisoners. When they find a pregnant woman, they make a bet – is it a boy, or is it a girl? And then they look."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ai stares at me from her position on the table. She reminds me of me right now for the wine makes my movements cat-like; I'm sprawled with the human leg under my butt and the metallic one stretched out, supported on straight arms, and gazing at the etiquette from under a curtain of messy gold hair that's falling all around my head.

If I tried, I could remember where I've left the band – I'm not as drunk as to start forgetting – but I don't want to. I like it like this. I like me like I am. I like… The taste on my tongue – it's bittersweet and I think of life as such. I've had my deal of both bitter and sweet, now I'm waiting to experience the perfect blend. An unwanted idea pops in my head and it's just… obscene. But my inebrated brain holds on it, and it seems good. The right kind of bittersweet. I know that now it took root, and those roots are so deep that I won't be able to persuade myself otherwise.

I sit up and glance at Ai again. That damn animal knows what I'm thinking… and it fucking approves.

I never thought this before and I blame it on the alcohol, but I like Roy Mustang. He's tough, he's not transparent, he doesn't blame me or underestimate me or overprotect me… he helps me even if I don't admit it and even if I don't want it. He's calm and quiet. I can talk to him.

He's not afraid of me. He never calls me Edo-kun.

I know I'm being ridiculous, I know that I actually pseudo-hate the man, but he bought me a bottle of wine and gave it to me as a birthday present and let me spend an evening in his home and… all right, this one time I'll be fair to Roy Mustang. He made this one of the happiest days in last three years.

I can't exactly hate a person like that, can I?

"It's nothing, Roy. Don't worry about it. You can't change it anyway."

He frowns, maybe because he doesn't like the address I've used…

"I can."

He believes it. He fucking believes he can change the world. And – for all that's pure – I want to believe that he can do it. I would die hundred times over if barbarities like that stopped. There are many, many more I know about yet won't tell him; they are replaying in my mind on dreamless nights.

I slowly move forwards, one limb at time. It's harder to do when you have to shift your weight irregularly due to heavy chunks of metal, but I've learnt to walk upright and this is a tad easier. It makes the strangest sound.

Pad, pad, thud, thud-thud, pad, pad, thud, thud-thud, pad.

I'm next to him and he finally opens those pain-filled eyes and makes a mirror for me. I'm smiling. Yet… he is not. But I see how I'm smiling because I'm reflecting in his eyes. I put my head on his knee in the decidedly cat-like manner and Ai purrs, maybe to indicate that she isn't jealous. What is there to envy me? I've got… a life of lies, a brother to take care of, a friend who doesn't know me, and an obligation to pull the trigger when a man in blue uniform says 'fire'.

I'm… a cat of military. Now, I mean. When the sun goes up, I'll again be a dog… At least, so I suppose. I was never good with metaphors.

"Edward…"

"Stop. I don't need patronising."

The next question proves that I, too, can predict him sometimes.

"What is it you think you need?"

A drill through my skull to get the images out.You would understand. But just as I don't want you to be afraid of me, I don't want you to be afraid for me. You're a jerk and a damn show-off and overal stuck-up git but deep there is a heart as good as Maes's.

I think of nuzzling the knee, but three gills isn't enough to reduce me to a puddle of jello. I kneel up and then stand up. I wouldn't be able to go over a beam, but I am steady.

"Just the basic things, the same as everyone – air, water, food, warmth. And a few books to not die of boredom. But that's beside the point. The point is…

…why did you bring me here, Roy Mustang?"

He's looking at me as if he's never seen me before. Maybe he's never seen me like this. My hair is loose, I'm barefoot and I wear only my pants and tank-top – the rest of my clotches formed a second pitiful heap somewhere on the way upstairs. Because yes, Roy Mustang actually has a sitting room upstairs, as he transformed the living room in the basement into a library. It's a beautiful library.

"No cliché phrase, please," I say and suppress a giggle. I don't want to hear that I needed it.

"As a birthday present."

I've seen all about people and I don't know the first thing. How do you go about this? In the end I know I need another gill.

I was in the process of turning back when he caught my wrist. I look back and he lets go, realising that whatever he wanted to add would be in vain.

I don't give a damn. I lean over and kiss him. It's empty, no promise, no offer, no emotion, not even thanks for the hospitality.

And I finally turn away and go for the rest of the wine left in the bottle.

A

A/N: Regrettably, the atrocities described in this chapter really do happen in some countries. I'm sorry to bother you with this, I just feel the need to say that I feel exactly the same as Edward here – I can't understand how anyone could aim a weapon at a child any better than how anyone could let a child fight their war. I fail to comprehend why there are children that don't know that killing a pregnant woman to see the sex of the baby is wrong – because they don't know. Those kids think it's perfectly normal. Makes me wonder what sort of world we're living in.