Roy put his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his desk - cleared of any piled up paperwork for once. The General had spent the night in the office, burning the midnight oil, drinking cup after cup of bitter coffee, filling out form after form until he had filled his outbox all the way to the top. He really had begun to let it pile up over the past week. Now, though, it was all finished just as the clock on the wall chimed four in the morning. The quiet dings of the bell seemed to chastise him for staying up so late. Roy surveyed his desk, noting that he had caught himself up completely and would most likely have a leisurely day tomorrow.

Roy didn't want leisure. He didn't want to allow his mind the freedom to think. His gaze strayed traitorously to the couch to the right of his desk. With a silent groan at the stiffness in his limbs, Roy stood up and moved over to the plushy furniture, kneeling down next to it. He placed a hand on the cushion, smoothing a wrinkle in the velvet fabric. A bit of dried mud rubbed off onto his gloved - always gloved - hand, and he stared at it with a deep ache in his chest. Edward always got dirt on his couch from his boots. He could grow older, taller, wiser, stronger… but he would never grow up.

Roy's throat tightened. He would never grow up. Roy would never watch him grow old. Funny how Roy had always envied Edward's youthfulness and boundless energy. Now, he found himself reflecting morosely over it. He would never watch Edward grow his first gray hair. He wouldn't get to hear the man, barely turned twenty, complain about the frigid winters giving him aches and pains. Roy no longer felt discontent at his own age, thirty-four, as he came to the sobering realization that his Edward would never see thirty-four.

Roy needed a drink.

Shuffling back to his desk, Roy opened the lowest drawer and took out all of the files it contained, placing them on the desk. He then removed the false bottom - a thin wooden panel - that concealed his flask. Sometimes when Hawkeye was out, Roy would dip into his stash to take the edge off of mundane office work. He certainly had some edges that needed smoothing out now. He unscrewed the cap and brought it to his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of whiskey before taking a generous gulp. The liquid tasted harsh on his tongue and burned his throat the entire way down, burning uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

He screwed the cap back on slowly, torn between his duties and his desires. On one hand, he had to report for work in four hours.

On the other hand, he was so alone.

Alphonse was expecting him to be helpful at some point within the next eight to twelve hours.

He would never love again.

Edward's brother needed him.

Roy needed Edward.

He unscrewed the cap.

Turning to look out the window, Roy took a sip from his drink this time. He looked up at the moon, glowing brightly up in the inky darkness of the sky, and toasted it before sipping again. The moon, of course, made no indication that anything profound had transpired between it and the General. It simply glowed down on him, in a way that Roy might have found comforting if he wasn't such a sorry mess. If only he could be that objective, that abstract, taking comfort in the natural processes of life like sunrays being reflected by orbiting rock onto a world that had turned its back on Roy forever by ripping the only person he had ever truly loved away from him forever, and maybe if he hadn't been awake for over thirty hours he wouldn't be feeling quite so melodramatic, but at this rate the odds weren't in Roy's favor, nor were they ever it seemed to him. In that moment, he stood by his window drinking his poison and wondering why, why was it always him?

Roy tossed his head back and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, the corners of his eyes burning, but he was well beyond caring.

The skirmishes with Drachma were so commonplace, so routine, that Roy hadn't felt any trepidation at all signing away his Major to command a brigade against their enemy's forces. Edward was a gifted fighter and strategist. Making quick work of the Drachman forces would pose almost no challenge at all for the Fullmetal Alchemist. And it didn't. Edward had reported back a little over a week ago, lounging on his usual couch and boasting of his tidy victory. Roy gazed back at the couch now, and he could almost picture the blond with his feet propped up on the armrest, hands behind his head - the picture of nonchalance.

Flask in hand, Roy made his way back to the couch. This time, he sat on the floor with his back propped up against it, tipping his head back to rest on the cushion. Another swig of the liquid and at least he was feeling more numb in body. The numbness of the mind would come soon enough. Or rather not soon enough. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something that made his heart beat heavier. Turning his head, Roy eyed the single strand of blond hair resting, unassuming, on the cushion. Shaking fingers reached for it and pinched it, holding it up for Roy's eyes to focus on it. The strand was slightly kinked from being bound up by an elastic band. The dim glow of the oil lamp on Roy's desk made the hair appear to light up, and Roy twirled it between his index finger and his thumb, watching it. The color of the sun.

In a few days, it would be their anniversary. In a few days, it would be two years since the Elrics succeeded in accomplishing the impossible. Edward hadn't wanted any distractions, and Roy agreed completely. However, as soon as the dust had settled, Roy had found himself caught in Edward's trap. He sighed at the memory, taking a lazy sip of his whiskey. The alchemist was positively electric. It was one thing to admire another scientist for his intellect and spark and quite another to be loved by someone with that genius. There were times when they fought. Oh, God, how they fought. Edward had gotten less short-tempered with age, but they were both hotheads by nature. However, Edward had something almost indescribable about him that kept Roy coming back for more. And Edward always took him back.

Well, Roy supposed, he could not follow Edward anymore. He sneered and stared at his flask. No, he wasn't quite stupid enough to follow Edward now. He was a man with goals, and with or without his Major at his side, he would see his political ambitions come to fruition.

Speaking of which, Roy admitted to himself that he would have to call off work soon. They don't hand out promotions to drunk officers who show up to run the government, and Roy could tell by the half-empty flask that his little binge session would stay with him long after he was to report. He pushed himself up, letting Edward's hair drop to the carpet, and shuffled over to his phone. It took him a bit longer than necessary to operate the rotary dial, but even in his inebriated state, he knew Hawkeye wouldn't be too pleased to have to come get him at this early hour and take him home. But he couldn't trust his reputation to anyone else. Hawkeye would judge, but she wouldn't tell. She might even understand. They'd all been close to Edward. Just as he was thinking this, his Lieutenant picked up the line.

"Sir."

"Lieutenant," Roy articulated to the best of his intoxicated ability into the phone, "I've finished all of my paperwork. May I go home now?"

"I'll be right there, sir."