Hmm. I'm not too sure about this one. I know where I want to go (Thank God for Plot Bunny documents) and it did the job of getting me to where I want to be for me to have some angsty fun (Can't go wrong with a bit of that) but...eh, it could be better. I'll fix it. Later. Maybe.
Heh, I even procrastinate on my procrastinating...
Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. There's so many characters and I'm too lazy to deal with them all when they have problems with my love of angst. Maybe I should get a secretary to file all my character's complaints? Hmmm...
Roy had been staring at the clock for four hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and burned a vicious scarlet from countless nights passed using exactly the same method of gazing blankly into space as he was employing now. A dull ache had taken up residence in his head around ten minutes after he had picked up his favorite bottle and decided that fixing his gaze upon the clock was a good idea, though he still continued to watch the hands moving painfully slowly about the clock face, each faint tick alarming to his ears, and worsening the pain in his head.
He couldn't actually recall why he was sitting at the table, in a room bathed completely in darkness, and a half-empty bottle of Scotch in his shaking left hand. His burning eyes seemed to have simply found the clock of their own accord, and since then had not found the energy, or motivation required to turn his head and find something else to stare at. He groaned softly, though still did not alter his position. The steady rhythm had ceased to be comforting hours ago, and now only served as something else to assist his already chronic insomnia.
He raised the bottle to his lips in the hope of numbing the ache, when a sudden loud creaking distracted him, which he managed to connect after several moments of frantic thinking, with the sound of the front door opening, and softly closing once again. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he averted his gaze to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, spilling the alcohol that had been intended for his already tarnished liver down the front of his shirt without even realizing. He caught the familiar sound of highly polished shoes being kicked to the carpet with a sigh, before a set of footsteps approached, and the harsh light of the small room flickered on, throwing the figure in the doorway into sharp relief.
He remained there for a moment, his eyebrows raised in faint amusement and lips twisted into the ghost of a smile, before he crossed the room, and took the seat opposite the sleep-deprived Lieutenant Colonel, hooking the bottle from his slack hand without his notice.
"So," he murmured casually, inspecting the label and grimacing at the contents. "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong or do I have to ask?"
His drunken, docile companion stared at the table for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought, or perhaps in protest against the vicious amber light, he wasn't certain. Frank Archer was quite a patient man under normal circumstances, but tonight, he was feeling particularly calm, and waited for several minutes for the Colonel's unresponsive mind to formulate a reply.
The vacant, onyx eyes gazed back into his, and he replied with an intelligent, "Uh?"
"When was the last time you slept?" asked Frank, his expression solemn.
"Um..." Roy raked an awkward hand through his unkempt hair. "When the Infirmary was still giving me painkillers. Those things are nifty..."
"I thought so," he gave a small, despairing smile. "Want to talk about it?"
The effect of his simple words was instant. The faint hint of sorrow that only excessive drinking could invoke in him disappeared from those exquisite onyx eyes, as though it had never been present at all, and the usual cold glint replaced it, signifying that the Colonel's guard was once more in place. He loathed having people bear witness to his moments of weakness, which had become much more frequent since Edward had run away, even...especially the people he trusted. The people he loved. They didn't need to see him this way.
"No," he mumbled sharply, annoyance clear in his tone. "Gimme my drink back."
As though to emphasize his order, Roy leaned across the table that separated him from his companion, and attempted to retrieve the bottle that Frank was holding just out of his reach. He was sitting perfectly stationary, his expression of faint intrigue, until Roy's fingers were barely grazing the cool glass of the desired bottle, and the instant he caught the tiny clink of nail upon glass, he edged backwards, unable to prevent himself from smirking.
"You only drink when you're upset."
Roy's eyes flickered with rage. "I'm not upset!"
He lunged forward, but Frank kicked his chair backwards once again, resulting in a loud thump as Roy found himself sprawled upon the table, still reaching wildly for the bottle that wasn't about to get any closer any time soon. He fell limp with a sigh as the dawning realization of how pathetic he was being hit him, and he averted his gaze ashamedly to the ground.
Such displays of emotion, even when invoked by his usual choice of liquor, were considered to be weaknesses: that was his belief. It had been for as long as he could, or wanted to remember, and the knowledge that he was lying upon his kitchen table, desperately attempting to reach a bottle that would only worsen his hangover when daylight finally approached, caused a knot to well in the pit of his stomach that quickly made him nauseous.
Smiling faintly, Frank reached out and ran his fingers through his drunken companion's jet-black hair with his free hand. "You can have it, Roy," he said softly. "All you have to do is tell me what's wrong."
The Colonel contemplated this for a moment, soothed by the rare comforting gesture. He desperately craved that Scotch. He loathed all of these emotions that served only to bewilder him in his state, and he was unsure of how much longer he could handle this horrific hybrid of concern, guilt, self-loathing and anger directed at nothing and everything all at once. At that moment, he would have sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for a loss of consciousness.
"Edward." he croaked, unfocused eyes directed at the table upon which he had yet to move from.
Frank's smile altered to become a malicious smirk, for reasons known only to him and a certain blond he had met with only that night. "What about him?"
"He gave up...everything for me," the guilt increased as he finally voiced what had been haunting him for the past six months. "Just so I could keep my job," he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I don't even want it any more. I just want him back. I want to...to tell him I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."
Forcing his cold, crystal eyes to reflect concern instead of the immense pride his actions gave him was no easy task, but Frank was becoming steadily more proficient at deceiving the Colonel, with every night that he spent at the warehouse. It was almost too easy to force a smile, and lower his hand to his jaw, taking his chin in his hand and giving him no choice but to look up at him.
"Roy," he murmured. "Edward's strong, you know that better than most. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's doing fine."
"Why isn't he back yet?" the Colonel demanded. "Why hasn't anybody found him?" he wailed helplessly. "Because he's dead, goddamnit! I killed him! I took everything from him and left him to make a life for himself on the streets!"
"Roy..."
"Ishbal should've been enough," Roy acted as though Frank had not even spoken. "Should've been enough lives to ruin. Oh, no. Not for me. I tried to use him 'cause I was drunk and lonely, and when he fought back, I dropped a fucking alleyway on him. What the Hell kinda person does tha-"
He was cut off abruptly as Frank's fist made harsh contact with his cheek, breaking him from his self-pity and returning him to the reality he'd much rather exist without. He blinked in confusion for almost a full minute, his hand rising to tentatively examine his new bruise. This routine was much too familiar for comfort.
He should have seen the punch coming, and perhaps he would have were it not for his intoxication. With recollections of the Ishbal Massacre so clear in his mind as always, so were the memories of the only person who had seen him for the wreck that he was. It had been the fist of Maes Hughes that had wrenched him from his misery all those years ago, and now Frank was doing exactly the same. He scoffed loudly. He didn't deserve this. He hadn't deserved it then, and nothing whatsoever had changed. He was a hopelessly predictable being.
Frank dropped his gaze, and when he spoke, Roy was surprised to note a trace of guilt in his tone. "I'm sorry."
As though in response, a white-hot pain shot through his forehead, and he gave a small grimace. He knew perfectly well that Frank had no reason to apologize when the fault was his, though he didn't have the energy to voice his thoughts. All his mind managed to conjure was that his coat was draped over the back of the armchair in the next room, and within one of the pockets was his wallet. The nearest squalid, unpleasant bar was only five minutes away. He needed to get out of here.
"Forget it," he muttered, drawing his limbs into an upright position with some difficulty, and getting to his feet. "I'm going...somewhere. I'll be back. Later."
Frank looked up sharply, his eyebrows raised. "Roy, it's 2am."
Roy completely ignored him, or perhaps his words had not even registered themselves in his brain, as he simply walked into the living room, and grabbed his jacket in shaking hands. He swiftly left the house whilst attempting to wrench it on back to front, though the state of his attire was the furthest thing from his mind. It was only after he had softly closed the door behind him, and begun to walk the streets that he realized that Frank had not even bothered to call him back. He gave a cheerless smile. Either Frank knew that he could not be deterred in his state, or he had finally come to his senses and deciphered that he was wasting his time, that both of them would be better off if Roy Mustang finished himself off with the assistance of a few bottles of Scotch.
These less than pleasant thoughts continued to haunt the Colonel even after he had taken a seat at one of the barstools, and ordered his usual liquor. He found himself staring blankly into the murky depths of it's contents, and swirling the contained liquid around exactly as he had done the night he had found himself in Edward's company. He sighed heavily. All he wanted was to forget. Was that so wrong? Was it so selfish to want to finally be able to sleep without being awakened by all of the people who had met their end by his hand?
Tightening his grip around the glass, he brought it to his lips, and knocked his head back, draining the Scotch within seconds. He had taken innocent lives, and done his part in the genocide of the Ishbalan race, for reasons that did not even exist. He knew he was being punished, but to take his own life was meaningless. He thought he had understood that after his confrontation with Maes. No, he had to ensure that such suffering was never inflicted again. He had to earn Edward's sacrifice.
He raised his right hand to signal to the bartender that he required another Scotch, though it dropped to the wood of the bar almost instantly. He had turned his head in order to locate aforementioned employee, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small table, shadowed by darkness almost purposefully. Only one figure was sitting here, and his face was mostly covered by long, golden hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, which clearly revealed his right arm was a prosthetic, and he was gently massaging his forehead with his flesh hand, his expression pained.
"Can I help you, Sir?"
Roy whipped around in irritation, only to find the bartender standing opposite him, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Oh," he mumbled. "Uh...another Scotch, please."
He waited until he had moved away before he turned back to the table that had caught his interest, and his eyes narrowed. Another figure was standing at the table, though as he was facing the blond and had his back to the Colonel, Roy could not identify him. The smaller of the two had backed himself into the corner, and was staring determinedly at the ground. His impassive demeanor was clearly feigned, as even from where he was sitting, Roy could see the boy's hand shaking uncontrollably.
"What do you want?" he was speaking in barely a whisper, and Roy had to strain to catch his words.
"You know what." the other replied, his tone so cold and demanding that it invoked a shudder.
The blond looked up in shock, and Roy was left in no doubt as to his identity as he caught sight of a pair of amber eyes from beneath long, blond bangs. A long, deep gash ran from beneath his right eye to his jaw, and he seemed to be fighting back tears with all his might. The agony in those eyes broke Roy's heart.
"You said..." he whispered brokenly. "Once...just once...you promised."
His clearly unwelcome companion laughed maliciously. "I've missed hearing you beg, kid. Get up."
His voice was quiet, though the contained threat was obvious. Swallowing hard in some attempt at preparation, the blond got to his feet, realizing that his legs were reluctant to hold him only when he attempted to put weight on them, and almost fell forwards. Impatient, the dark-haired figure grabbed his flesh arm with enough pressure to cause him to wince, and dragged him from the bar.
Roy stared after them, his jaw slack. His ecstasy at locating Edward was short-lived, and now he could do nothing but fear for him. He didn't have to be sober to know that the boy was terrified, and judging by the wound on his face, he was perfectly justified in being so. He turned back to his latest drink and stared at it, biting down hard on his bottom lip. The bartender's insistence that he pay for it passed unnoticed as the conversation he had just overheard replayed over and over in his mind, and he frantically attempted to identify the person who could invoke such fear in the Fullmetal Alchemist.
His shoulders sank in defeat only moments later. Even if he did manage to identify him, what could he do? Edward would want nothing to do with him after all he had inflicted, all the suffering he had caused him, and frankly, Roy couldn't blame him. Doubtlessly, if he tried to intervene, he would only cause the tortured boy more pain. It would be safer if he just kept his distance.
Sighing, he retrieved his wallet, and threw the required amount of money down on the bar. Without hesitation, he picked up his fresh glass, and knocked back it's contents with a faint hiss as it scorched it's way down his already damaged throat. No matter how he tried to convince himself, he couldn't prevent the unease from welling in his stomach, or the shivers from crawling down his spine. Something was desperately wrong, here.
Just what had Edward gotten himself into?