A/N: Just wow to the reviews left by and UP2L8. You have no idea how much of an ego boost that was and really really helped me keep going. :) I have to say I've been putting way too much time into researching his story. My bookmarks are filled with WW1 info. o.o I'm sorry this chapter is rather short, I've never been particularly at being prolific.

Chapter 3

The next morning was the beginning of more waiting. The big shots at Central needed more time to calculate their next move. The trenches had been taken, led by the Hero of Ishbal, Colonel Mustang, and now they were left to hold their position in the persisting rain. What Ed wouldn't give to see sunlight? He could think of very little he wouldn't give, especially the Colonel. Some days the paths through the camp were flooded up to their ankles. Recon teams often came back covered up to their waists in mud, none of it boded well for pressing further North and up into the mountains where temporary rivers had begun to carve their way to the valleys. Advancement would be dangerous, the men weren't stupid, but the brass were, and they didn't listen.

The rain didn't stop for days. It brought with it melancholy, the men confined to their small dark tents for nearly all hours of the day. When supplies finally came in, over two weeks late, excitement gripped the soldiers. Somehow, with enough alcohol, several banded together and erected a recreation tent. Really it was just an expanse of sheltered space, devoid of any lighting or decoration. Still, they gathered there, milling around in a way that hadn't been possible previously. Some brought crates to sit on and dealt cards on a makeshift table, others got together to smoke. Edward finally felt drawn to investigate, but he clung to the edges where he was sprinkled with rain. He didn't have Mustang's rapport with his subordinates. Somehow, he picked out someone familiar, the specialist with brown eyes. He had survived the push. A part of him was surprised at the relief he felt. The boy caught his gaze and waved him over to their game.

"Major, come join us!" With great hesitance, he did so.

The boy was Specialist Connely, Edward soon learned. He was 19 years old and was actually from just outside of Dublith. He was an excitable boy with brown hair and a lot of interest but no skill in alchemy. Obviously this was his first time in any sort of combat and really he had only joined the army out of no other options. Awkwardly, he handed Edward back his flask before dealing out the next round of cards for Xenotime Spit. The other two Specialist's they played with kept casting Edward mistrustful glances and he felt some guilt at his quietness and the reserved expression he wore. They were older than him he realized, yet he vastly outranked them, he was in charge of leading them to their deaths. He had nothing in common with them as they talked of music and girls back home. Any conversation Connely attempted to start between them was generally brief, Edward fumbling to get down to his level. After a few energetic rounds, Edward smiled at all of them and thanked them for their invitation and excused himself from the table. He had meetings to attend to.

One week it was the rain, next it was the rats driven by the flooding. They crept in every shadow, eating their food, chewing the precious, precious wires that connected t hem to the outside world. But at least they kept his mind off the Colonel. The man sat across from him, eyes darting into the black corners of the tent with every scratch. Edward had said nothing of that night where the dark-haired man's hand at crept up his thigh and held still those other quieter , nights where it happened again. His nights came to be punctuated with the damp bursts of Roy's breath on his neck and the weight of his hand on his stomach. But their mornings were still the same, Roy waking Edward with the rattling of Roy making his coffee, but were filled with much more silence.

There was a new sickness now, the techs seemed to whisper, worse that the Trench Fever that spread like fire from the lice. It killed you in days, made your lungs rot in your chest, and bruised your flesh in your sleep. The Cretan Flu they had called it. It became such a problem that the officers had to be briefed on it. Pictures of men with soft black poppies of bruises all over their chests and faces, pale terrified faces filled innocent looking manila folders. It had been ravaging the other camps, working East towards them, and proved to having a higher kill rate than the Drachman's. Despite himself, he found himself watching the other men nervously for the sound of that first discreet sniffle. When the men were finally notified of it's presence they began hunting rats with a renewed vigor. Some began nailing the rat's tails over the door to their tents like trophies. Neither Ed nor Roy had the heart to tell them that it wasn't the rats that carried it.

The waiting might've been the hardest part, Edward couldn't really decide. Between waiting for the flu to reach them or the Brass and Drachman's to find them, Roy had grown thin and Edward had started to shave. He'd learned by awkwardly watching the other soldiers at the communal sinks and fashioned his own straight razor with scraps from the broken bayonets in the salvage pile. One evening when all of the soldiers gathered at the rec tent for mail call he found himself staring down his reflection in the mirror, soap lathered all over his face in a bubbly beard. Licking his lips he tasted soap and took the blade to his cheek, scraping away sparse whiskers. He hissed through his teeth at the chafing and reddening of his skin and moved to pull the blade up his neck next.

"You'll slit your throat like that, Fullmetal," came Roy's dark voice and his face manifested above Edward's own. Like that he did nearly slit his own throat as he jumped.

"What the fuck, Colonel?" He growled, but a familiar expression was crossing Roy's face, the corners of his lips curling.

"War finally making a man out of you?" He nearly laughed. Edward said nothing, instead turning back to his warped image, trying finish with short gentle strokes of the blade.

"Absolutely wrong," Roy chimed in. "Who's been teaching you? Did you even lather?"

"Shut up!" Edward whined, embarrassed. "I used soap," he murmured and Roy raised both his eyebrows.

"You'll be in pain tomorrow doing that, Fullmetal." And Roy's hand was on his own, pulling the razor down. "Trust me." It pulled expertly across his skin despite his insufficient lather. "The key is to shave with the facets of the face, if you go with the grain it can leave behind a lot of stubble. He held perfectly still, watching as Roy worked. He said more about angles and the best way to hold the razor. The simultaneous normalcy and strangeness of the situation overwhelmed him. He couldn't remember the last time Roy had said this many words, or had the life back in his eyes.

"We'll have to get you a safety razor and lather, but this should do." He murmured, brushing his fingers over Edward's cheek.

"Thanks, bastard." Edward mumbles, started to clean the sink and blade, skin of his cheeks flushed.

"I can only teach you so much. When you get leave I recommend you go to a barber to learn the finer points." He was smiling. Edward wished this moment didn't cause him so much pain, especially how small Roy looked with his greatcoat draped around his shoulders.