the Old Tomorrow Doesn't Exist Anymore

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/44332330.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M, Gen
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All
Media Types
Relationship: Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell, Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Edward
Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric & Riza Hawkeye, Alphonse Elric &
Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric & Riza
Hawkeye, Mei Chan | May Chang & Alphonse Elric, Alphonse Elric &
Winry Rockbell, Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric & Pinako Rockbell,
Pinako Rockbell & Winry Rockbell, Edward Elric & Truth, Alphonse Elric
& Original Female Character(s)
Character: Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, Winry Rockbell, Roy Mustang, Riza
Hawkeye, Pinako Rockbell, Ling Yao, Mei Chan | May Chang, Team
Mustang, Lan Fan (Fullmetal Alchemist), Jean Havoc, Kain Fuery, Vato
Falman, Heymans Breda, Original Xingese Character(s)
Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Aromantic, Post-Canon,
canon adjacent, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Hurt Edward Elric, Restored
Alphonse Elric, Edward Elric Keeps Alchemy, but not really, read it and
find out losers, BAMF Winry Rockbell, aromantic alphonse FIGHT ME,
Parental Roy Mustang, more of Hohenheim's a+ parenting aye,
Healing, therapy for everyone plz, Automail, Guilty Edward Elric, How is
that not a tag, No Incest, NO FUCKING INCEST YOU HEAR ME, POV
Multiple, Elric brothers centric, starts very angsty ends kinda sweet,
Slow Build, Slow Burn, Armchair Therapy, Mentioned Nina Tucker
(Fullmetal Alchemist), The Gate of Truth, Edward Elric Swears, Edward
Elric Needs a Hug, he gets one, Protective Roy Mustang, Injury
Recovery, Canon-Typical Violence, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-01-20 Completed: 2023-06-13 Words: 106,992
Chapters: 20/20

the Old Tomorrow Doesn't Exist Anymore

by AlphonseVebop

Summary

So, they had a good childhood. Really good, in fact. Then things went bad, then worse, and
then... But really, they're practically adults now. They even got their old bodies back, more
or less! Everything should be back to normal, right? Right!?

Or, the Elric brothers return to Resembool, feeling better and all the worse for it.

Notes
Welcome to yet another out-of-the-blue fanfiction from yours truly. While this work does
follow a linear timeline, the events aren't inherently connected to each other (besides some
very specific cases), so you can consider it a series of glimpses into the character's lives
rather than an actual continuous plot.
 Victory Crawl
Chapter Notes

I PROMISE it gets a lot less Angsty after the first few chapters I P R O M I S E

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Alphone's hip still aches from the fall.

It sounds a bit overdramatic to call it that - the fall - but that's kinda what it is. They came home,
Winry tackled them, they fell. Stumbled. Tripped. Became involuntarily horizontal. With all of two
months back in his actual, corporeal body, it's still more of a weak skeleton that something he can
use like a regular body. Honestly, he could barely eat Winry's apple pie without it upsetting his
stomach, and the pie had been great! Edward had certainly seemed to think so, with how he wolfed
down piece after piece. Privately, Alphonse wonders if Edward's body still thinks he's eating for
two, then stops the thought before it goes further. He's still not sure how much of them is actually
still connected, or ever was, and the throbbing of his pelvic bone is making it harder for him to
think than he'd like it to be.

Alongside the doctors at Central City's hospital, he discovered there are many strange side effects
to detaching one's soul from their body for years, only to brutally and abruptly shove it back in. He
doesn't really eat as much as he used to, though that might change, and he has all the strength of the
10 year old he was the last time he had this body.

Honestly, he could go on forever, but he won't. Edward is finally asleep, dead to the world in an
incredibly rare deep sleep, silent and drooling to his heart's content with his arm halfway up his
shirt. He probably thinks Alphonse is asleep, the sweetheart, but as much as he wishes it were that
easy... It isn't.

Alphonse has stayed awake for 5 entire years. Sleep is almost as welcomed as it is feared.

Creaking from the room's door stir him out of his musings. While Winry's automail-induced
insomnia is nothing new, she usually tends to leave them alone while she's at it.

Alphonse briefly considers pretending to be asleep, but quickly dismisses the notion - he hasn't had
the chance to test out his acting skills yet. He's spent far too long relying on the emotionlessness of
the grey, metallic face he's had.

"Al? You're still awake?"

When she's not yelling at Ed, Winry's voice tends to be rather soft and delicate. It carries through in
the quaint room, but more like a windchime than the commanding bellow that usually precursors a
wrench tossed into the air and colourful language Alphonse's never been a massive fan of.

"Yes; are you okay? Do you need something?"

Winry hesitates for a moment, then plays with something in her hands. Alphonse's tired eyes fight
past the blur of exhaustion to focus on the fabric gripped in her fingers.

"I noticed you were favouring your right hip," she says, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I
realised you must have been a bit bruised when I, uh, leapt like that. Thought it'd only be right to
try and see if I can help."

The smile fights past his guard before he even thought to try and supress it.

"Thank you, Winry." His disposition seems to have calmed her down. Good - it's what he was
aiming for. "It seems these days you'll be taking care of more than just one of us."

Finally, she allows herself to walk into the room.

"Oh, please, you know I don't mind," she dismisses as she pads over to his bed. "Much as I hated it
when Ed used to treat my state of the art machinery as though it was as disposable as paper, I
would have rather that over... well... the alternative."

Her fingers barely graze Alphonse's as he takes the ice bag from her hand. It's not the temperature
of her hands that piques his interest this time - it's the finger tips. He has the ability to marvel at the
texture now.

"It wasn't always up to him to see to it that the automail were to survive." The ice pack provides a
bit of the much wanted relief from the ache of his hip.

Momentarily, it seems like Winry doesn't hear the statement, or want to acknowledge it, but she
clears her throat, then tightens her grip on the ice pack. For a few seconds, it presses in just a little
bit harder; he can feel the shapes of the ice chunks, even through the fabric of his pants.

"Will you ever tell me what you went through out there?" she finally asks.

Just as he manages to steel himself and look her in the eye, the emotion that greets him melts his
resolve away. He's ashamed to admit that Winry's worry took just about the lowest priority when
they were out. It was a different case for his brother, even before Edward realised that they ways
they thought of her were vastly different, but even then, it was more of an afterthought, once the
cleaning of the wounds was done. They just simply had more pressing matters to concern
themselves with, and then they were saving the country from a nation-wide threat... and now,
they're here. Back at home, with their original bodies (give or take a limb), sitting in the dark of a
familiar and strange room, as Winry holds back tears.

What on earth is he supposed to do now?

"I can't make any promises on brother's behalf. You know that." Winry laughs, and a single tear
escapes, gliding down her cheek. His bony, frail hand reaches for hers. The texture of her skin is
rough, and the callouses serve as a reminder that she may not have been on the front line with
them, but she was a part of the battle, too. "I think that before he and I can talk about it, everything
that actually happened needs to sink in. There are things that happened to him that even I don't
know about, and visa versa. He doesn't... he doesn't yet know that not everything bad in the world
wasn't his fault." In rare moments like these, when he's actually asleep and the dark circles have
the chance to lighten, he looks his age. That hasn't been the case for a while now.

"I'm not just asking about him, you know."

Alphonse turns to look at her.

"I mean, he's my best friend, but you are, too. I want to hear how you're doing, and you're feeling."

The sentence tosses and turns in his mind.

"I don't think I know how to sleep anymore. The hospital just sedated me when they needed to."

A warbled sort of grief briefly passes over Winry's face. She takes his hand again, squeezing
lightly, before slowly pulling him to his feet.

"Then come down to the workshop with me. I could use the company."

Alphonse smiles and reaches for his walking cane. Thankfully, Winry matches his slow, steady
pace. As the two walk down the stairs, Alphonse absently notes that he no longer has to crane his
neck to look at the pictures adorning the walls of the stairs. It seemed the house was much larger
the last time he was corporeal. Stopping only to scratch Den's head, the two head down to the
workshop.

The arm Winry is working on is smaller than Edward's last one, and seems a bit daintier. There's a
slickness to the design that Edward's old one lacked.

"The girl this arm goes to was afraid of it looking too clunky on her," she answers the unspoken
question, "and since she's not a fighter, like Ed is-was-" she pauses to clear her throat. "I can skip
over some of the extra strength and mobility features that Edward required, for a sleeker, smaller
design."

"Is she also a young kid?" He sits down on a spare, wheeling stool as Winry slips on her goggles
and tinkers with some cables.

"Thankfully, no," she mutters as something makes a small pop in the arm. Judging by her face, it
was intentional. "She's in her mid-twenties. She's just a bit shorter, and kinda delicate. I think she
was a dancer. Mind passing me the second smallest Phillips screwdriver in the blue-yellow
toolbox?" Without even sparing him a glance, she stretches out her hand.

"Uhh..." Alphonse knows what a screwdriver was, obviously, but what made it Phillip's? and what
are those weird things with the ring at the end? Why are there so many different kind of clamps?

"Alphonse?"

"Which one belonged to Phillip?"

She turns to look at him, blinking slowly. The goggles make her eyes look comically large. A
sound halfway between a laugh and a hiccup warbles past her lips. "It's the one that has a tip
shaped like a cross. I organise them by size."

Alphonse hums and turns his focus back onto the toolbox. Besides the lamp shining brightly onto
the arm, there isn't much light in the room, so he does have to squint a bit to look clearly at the
tools. He thinks he sees them on the second compartment of the box, just on the left of-ah! Yes!

He picks up the second smallest and smallest ones, handing the larger one to Winry and looking at
the very smallest one himself. It's so tiny - the head is only a few millimetres in size. What level of
delicacy does Winry deal with that this level of accuracy is requires? Admittedly, he's only viewed
automail as an ingenious mess of wire, cable and metal, but he knows there's method in the
madness, and it's clear that the tiny, damn near bendable smallest Phillip's Head is well used, in the
way that the tip of the head is worn down. Maybe it sees more use closer to the fingers, or rather
the port?

It takes Winry calling his name for him to realise he's gone cross-eyed staring at the tiny thing.

Her smile isn't the largest one he's seen today, but definitely the softest, and most relaxed.
"I'm glad you two are back home."

///

Soft mewing, drifting through the meadow, catches his attention once more. He's been following a
kitten for the past 20 minutes or so, down the winding dirt path to the open field. He thinks he can
hear it just by the treeline, but he isn't sure.

No longer able to stuff it inside his armour and sneak it home, Alphonse settles for admiring the
kitten he's found, politely reaching out his hand, only petting the cat once it's shown interest in such
a thing. By the time Edward shows up looking for him, he's already been rewarded by two more
kittens climbing into him - two on the lap, one on the shoulder in total.

"Brother," he says.

He can hear the exasperation and fondness in his brother's snorted laugh. "Yes, Al?"

"There are kittens."

"I can see so, yes."

"I thought there was one, but there are three!"

"I'm not Colonel Bastard, Al, I'm not the one who lost his eyes."

"Come sit with me?"

To which his brother, surprisingly, agrees to, wordlessly sitting down by Alphonse's side. He
doesn't reach for any of the kittens, which doesn't surprise Alphonse one bit, but he does plop
down on the grass, looking at the sky between the treeline.

His hair isn't braided or tied back, for a change, so it sprawls all around him, framing him like a
mane, or a halo. It looks, frankly, equal parts stupid and cool.

"We used to do things like this all the time when we were kids, didn't we?" Alphonse asks after
many long, mute minutes. Two of the kittens have wandered off, but the third lays sleeping on his
chest. The nape of his neck tingles, from either the grass or Ed's hair, and while the sensation on its
own is annoying, he's far too content to make mention of it.

"What, stupid shit like sitting in the woods for no damned reason?'"

"Yes. Exactly." It’s clearly meant as a tease, but Al can't be bothered to make a big deal of it. It's
too perfect, this moment.

"Didn't think you'd remember it all that well." Edward's absent smile turns pinched with what
Alphonse knows to be a thousand voices screaming in Ed's head that every bad thing ever is his
fault.

"That's not what it's about," he says, "I think I'm approaching this wrong."

Edward turns to look at him, but his eyes are still trained skywards, the kitten nestled in his palm.
It's a calico, and she's almost all black.
"You're right that I don't remember being a kid all that much, but I think that I can appreciate this
so much more now. We don't have to think about every single step now, and the time in which we
can relax is no longer rare. We no longer have to trade rest with battling for survival."

Edward's caught on to what he's saying, with a grin that speaks of victory plastered on his face. He
raises a fist with Alphonse lightly bumps, and they keep watching the sky.

"It's best to relax when there's no more fighting, no more war anymore."

///

Physical therapy is a very important part of healing a body. No longer a scrawny, useless mess, he
nevertheless still has a very long road ahead of him; there's no telling how many months before his
body can function the way a regular one can. Once more, this makes the Rockbell house an even
bigger blessing - he is no short of anything he needs here. When he crawls his way over from the
back porch to his regularly scheduled hour and a half, Edward is already there. Though his arm
should have been every bit as atrophied as Alphonse's body, he's already curling much higher
weight than Alphonse could manage.

Still, he can't resist to tease.

"You look ridiculous like that."

Edward barely looks up, the 10 kg dumbbell shaking where it's clutched in his pale, thin hand.

"Almost as ridiculous as you look, squatting with 5kg in each hand." The teasing is still fresh and
brittle, Alphonse trying is damnedest not to hurt, and Edward trying his damnedest not to
remember.

"Just you wait, I'll be up to an empty barbell in no time," Alphonse breathes as he heads for the
weights, but Edward only grins fiercely.

"You bet you will be!" he cries, and Alphonse can't fight off a grin of his own - his brother's
beloved, optimistic enthusiasm has always been a rare and infectious thing.

His grin mutes slightly picks up a 6 kg weight and lifts it a little bit, as though testing his readiness,
and he can't help but consider that had he still been in a suit of armour, he wouldn't have thought
twice about lifting half this entire rack in one fell swoop. Sighing out his frustration, he picks up
the 5 kg weights and heads over to the mirror, before beginning his warmup. Nothing to take for
granted there, either - he used to barely be able to move at all, and these days he can do the
weightless warmup squats with relative ease. Regardless of that, he still catches himself wistful at
the most inopportune times - like when Mei gave him one of the mildest snacks Xing has to offer,
and the spice still felt unbearably hot on his tongue, or when Mr. Armstrong snuck him a bouquet
of hydrangeas and the nearly non-existent smell overwhelmed him.

Sometimes, he wishes he could tell someone about it, but shame never fails to give him pause.
Nothing is crueller than having his brother go through all those years of agony, hopelessness and
loneliness, only to go back and spit in his face in such a way after the whole affair is over. How is
he supposed to look at Edward, who lovingly and selflessly fought for him, who has to rebuild the
strength in his arm 6 years after his initial sacrifice, and tell him that he's still, sometimes,
unhappy?
It doesn't take a genius to pick up on the fact that Edward definitely feels guilty too.

He's not always the easiest to read, his brother, but Alphonse hopes he realises that everyone can
see how much he struggles. How much the burden he's placed on himself weighs on him - how
much he hates himself.

So, for every negative thought he's had, and for every time he cursed his atrophied body, he makes
himself do 3 more lifts.

He's entirely out of breath by the time he realises Edward is calling his name.

"We just spent 6 years busting our asses to get our bodies back, and you're going to destroy your
back and knees on the first year? Come on."

The weight Edward drops thuds loudly on the floor, but neither brothers pay it any mind.

"Pardon me, brother, I was distracted."

"Yeah, I can tell. Now straighten your back."

Edward's hands go to fix his form, one on his shoulders, one gliding down his spine. Alphonse has
to supress a quiver - the very best thing about having his body back is regaining his ability to
touch. The moment dad hugged him, minutes after his own son's victory, it's as though a switch
flipped in his mind. Every time he could leach a hug, a cuddle, a high five off anyone - it was game
on. Ms. Hawkeye had been surprisingly receptive to his tactile nature, once she was allowed to
leave the bed, and Mr. Mustang gave him two huge hugs - the first time was when he could finally
see Alphonse, and the second time was when they finally left for Resembool. The rest of Mustang's
team were more than happy to ruffle his hair, pinch his cheek, clap his shoulder oh-so gently (still
too strong). The very best one, however, was a moment that he and Edward hugged.

He doesn't quite remember what sparked it - probably a development in his physical therapy - and
Edward cheered, and they hugged. Finally being able to hug his brother again felt like a dream
come true, but... Edward stiffened and drew away from the hug just as Alphonse was about to sink
into it.

It confused Alphonse for longer than it should have - Edward lunged forward to help him in every
opportunity, but shied away from his touch under any other circumstance. But brother, Alphonse
thinks, is probably ashamed.

The proof is in the pudding - the moment Alphonse's posture is fixed, Edward all but flies to the
other half of the room. Alphonse isn't touched all that often these days, so the feeling warms his
back and tingles down his spine. His thin, skinny back, and protruding spine.

They continue to work out in the deafening silence, but Alphonse's mind is loud in his hurt.

Do I disgust you? he thinks, lifting the weights up to his chin. Does it disgust you to touch me?

Are you ashamed I'm so weak? his frazzled soul simmers.

Do you, too, wish I could just be better than I really am?

He wants to ask. If only to receive an answer, he wants to ask. So badly, he can feel the questions
bubbling up his throat. He wants to cry, to scream them, but it wouldn't be fair to Ed, who does his
best not to show it.
 Especially because, at the end of the day, all he wants to say is I'm sorry.

Chapter End Notes

Expect a sporadic upload schedule

 Like a Really Clingy Ex
Chapter Summary

Edward shares a little bit of his nightly activities.

Chapter Notes

Buckle up bitches, this is where some plot begins.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Edward hasn't had a night-time routine since he was a child, not really - he never felt safe sleeping
through the night.

Bad things always happened when it was night time. Their fath-that bastard Hohenheim left in the
dead of night, their mother died in the dead of night, the fifth laboratory... Even without all those
things, the sheer amount of night terrors made it difficult, if not impossible, for Edward to sleep
through the night. Though Colonel Bastard (Brigadier General Bastard, now) liked to lament over
Edward's tendency to fall asleep in the oddest hours and oddest places, he really did prefer it over
the alternative - trying to sleep through the night and baring the consequences.

He knew that it scared people (Alphonse and Winry, mainly), how oddly he slept. Winry used to
say it hindered his recovery from his ever-updating list of injuries (most of which she didn't even
know about), and Al used to say that he was worried about his performance. To this day, Edward's
pretty sure that none of them actually realised how deep his aversion went.

If there was anyone who understood, it was probably Brigadier Bastard and Captain Hawkeye,
much to his dismay. They must have thought he hadn't noticed the haunted looks that veiled over
their eyes when they thought no one was looking, or the way they fell into each other with barely-
there touches and soulful looks. It was, in all honesty, pretty gross, but even as a 12 year old, he
surmised that it must be easier to deal with the terror staining one's own hands by holding ones that
are equally as bloody as yours. Many were the days the guilt soiled his mind even further when he
wished that, even for a moment, he could find the same comfort in his brother that Bastard and
Hughes seemed to have found in each other, or the life-long loyalty and friendship that the
Lieutenant and Mustang have.

These days, however, he finds his old, outgrown longing more amusing than anything else, in a rye
sort of way.

With both his brother and Winry within both arm's reach, safe and happy and healthy (all things
considered) and alive, he shouldn't have a problem falling asleep. The two people he cares about
most in the entire world are by his side, why should he have trouble sleeping?

He doesn't. What he was trouble with is what happens when he's sleeping.

Seriously - he should have knows better by now.

"You're getting kind of obsessed with me, you weird bastard." He crosses his arms and tries to lean
back on... something, but he can't.

You can't lean on anything in the void.

"I don't see what the point of this conversation is beyond your need to expel your daily dose of
curse words," Truth crouches and grins, like it is wont to do, "but if that's all that it is, by all
means, continue."

"You're weird. This is weird."

"What is?"

For the umpteenth time in this situation he's found himself in, Edward takes a look around. It hasn't
been that long since the last time he was there for real, but the lack of a Gate either before or
behind him is eery and unsettling - cementing the true gravity of his actions. Neither regret nor
anger colour his thoughts, but a wonder that settles halfway between curiosity and suspicion - he
gave up his Gate. Set it in stone, practically. Truth has nothing to do with him anymore besides the
wandering of his thoughts, the ache of the scarring of his shoulder, the stump of his leg.

Edward feels no need to hide any of this from Truth, so he repeats these thoughts aloud, though
Truth probably knows it all already, the creepy fuck. This might be the one and only place in which
he is entirely free - he gave up his alchemy in its entirety; there's nothing left to lose.

"Your sacrifices have shaken things up quite a bit." Truth reaches down to scratch its - Edward's -
flesh leg, and a phantom tingle passes up his automail, climbing past the port. "No one was ever
willing to give as much as you up - your arm, your alchemy. It's a bit dull now." It takes a step
forward. Edward raises a brow.

"Your point?"

"Ah, that's no fun. Figure it out for yourself."

And just like that, Edward is awake. Blinking up at the ceiling, he mentally rewinds the last few
weeks - more of the same. At least the shock of being back at the Gate has worn off. At least this
time he wasn't begging for help or answers; or screaming or crying anymore. Just by the noises, he
can tell Winry's making breakfast, and Al is downstairs doing physical therapy. Groaning and
stretching crackling bones, he rolls over from his back, plopping onto his stomach. His hand limply
falls from the bed, dragging onto the carpet. The soft, scratchy, real world carpet, because he's not
at the gate anymore and hasn't been in months.

"Bastard."

///

When Winry corners Edward for a talk that very same day, he knows he's fucked. He tries just
about everything to get out of it - helping Al with chores and therapy, going for a grocery run,
cleaning the roof tiles, bloody making lunch for everyone. No matter what he did, he could feel
Winry's eyes on his back, staring him down with an intensity that makes him wonder if she ever
trained with Captain Hawkeye when he wasn't looking. Briefly, this makes him picture Winry with
a rifle - an amusing enough thought on its own - but the thought is wrong, takes him back to Scar,
and his cold, clunky hand cradling hers around the gun, and laying on the cold, wet sidewalk,
begging for his brother's safety, which makes this impending conversation seem not as bad, if just
for a moment.

It's not any bit more fun, though.

Maybe if he's standing up while she's sitting down it would make him feel better... for reasons
entirely unrelated to his height, of course.

"You've been sleeping through the night, lately," Winry starts, running her hand along the rim of
her mug. It has a kind of tea he hasn't tried yet - the smell is appealing but the taste turns sour on
his tongue when he sips. He'll try it again, maybe, after the talk is over.

"That I have."

"That hasn't happened since I've known you, even before the, uh..." the night in which you ruined
everything goes unsaid, but not unacknowledged. The late night's lamplight shines golden on her
pale hair, and now that the fight, the urgency, have left every waking moment, and the paranoia
has long since released its hold on the walls, he can acknowledge the way he wants to comment on
the picturesque view she makes, how he wants to run his hand through her hair. He can't find it
within himself to regurgitate his old guilt, not with how many wounds he's had and scabbed over
since then; the scar of his mother has long since healed over.

"If you're asking if I know what's happened that lets me sleep, the answer is that I don't."

"I know that." Her grip tightens around the mug's handle. "I just had to make sure, because... I
know it's not always bad, but sleeping medication can mess with recovery, and with the automail,
it's very hard to gauge how much one person actually needs before it's-"

"Oh, Jesus, Winry, that's what this is about?" Edward could laugh, really. She's so silly.

"It's a very serious concern!"

"No, it's not, Win, it's stupid." He can't quite fight off his grin as he leans his weight on his hands,
braced on either side of the coffee table they surrounded. "This is me we're talking about, isn't it?"
Her cheeks tint red with anger and puff as she pouts, and the return to a familiar dynamic comforts
him enough to plop down onto the seat, its legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor. "When
have I ever allowed people to force sleeping medication onto me, let alone taken it of my own free
will?"

"You're stupid, maybe someone managed to convince you."

"I'm afraid that this time, you might be the stupid one."

"I'm never the stupid one when you're in the room."

"Say stupid one more time, maybe something cool will happen," Alphonse pipes up from the
stairwell. He passes the two of them in a glide that almost passes as careless. The steps are still a
bit stiff, but they still count - every step counts, even if most of them falter in some way.

"You can't tell me you aren't also weirded out by the fact that Ed is sleeping through the night!"
Winry protests, raising her hands in the air.

"I am, but I know that interrogating him isn't going to help with anything," he gestures at Ed with
one hand while pouring himself a cup of tea with the other, "he's like an injured deer, he's more
likely to kick you away than anything else."

"Hey!"

"Brother, you know I'm not lying."

Edward stays silent for reasons entirely unrelated to his lack of retort, of course, but his silence
does force him to ponder the sentiment.

The two of them are genuinely concerned by him... displaying seemingly healthy habits. While any
other person would take this as a sign for how deep they've sunken, Edward is reminded of that
reality with every breath he takes and every move he takes. The bolts, still embedded in his
shoulder, are like the creak of his foot and the nearly invisible scar of his forehead. Not to mention
when he takes off his shirt...

He sighs.

"Look, I don't want to talk about it, I don't, but I've been having, uh, dreams." Shuffling awkwardly
in his seat, he does his best to meet either of their eyes, but he just can't do it. "They're not
nightmares, don't think I'm up torturing myself every night, but they're... strange, and they keep me
occupied through the night."

Al is the first to ask the question, barely a glint in his eyes as their gazes meet - is it about the gate?

Curse whoever said his brother is an angel; he's a sneaky little rat and a sneak.

"I can't be bothered to continue this pointless conversation anymore." He rolls his eyes, then gets
on his feet.

"Well, pardon me for being worried!"

"You're pardoned. Now, if you don't mind, I've been running myself ragged all day, and I need to
shower real bad."

Edward is practically a war veteran - a trip into town and an hour of tricep and forearm workouts
being anything more than a mild inconvenience is a blatant lie, and once more, Edward counts his
blessings that he's managed to surround himself by the best and kindest people he knows - they
won't ever call him out on his lie, because they trust he'll come to them when he's ready.

The problem, Ed thinks as he closes the door to his room, isn't that I don't want to talk about it.

He sits down on his bed, surprised by how sleepy he already feels. It seems Truth will be seeing
him earlier than usual today.

It's that I don't know how to describe it.

///

"You were much more amusing when your brother was in danger."

"Your point being?"

"I wonder what you would give next if he were to be hurt again."

"You know, I've punched a God before. Multiple times, actually, and there's very little stopping me
from doing it again."

Truth laughs, its chin perched on its hand, leaning on Edward's flesh leg - the one that's attached to
it, that is. Despite having long since made his peace with the fact that he'll never have it back,
there's something sinisterly uncanny in seeing it move so languidly, attached to another being's
body. Maybe in another dream, they'll discuss it more at length - he's has some thoughts for a while
about what people actually consider 'natural', and the flimsy nature of the definition - human nature
is to love and to kill, and everything in between.

Nature is an excuse and a fallacy at best, and it is Edward, having nightly discussions with God, at
worst.

"You remind me a bit of your brother's body, when you get all silent, like that."

Edward's brows raise, just a little bit.

Admittedly, he hadn't considered what Al's body had been doing this entire time beyond hoping it
still existed in an inhabitable way. Seeing it, for the first time in years, broke him down and pushed
him forward more than anything ever had - his biggest hope and worst failure staring him in the
face, telling him to go away.

However, never at any point did it cross his mind what Al's body... did.

"We played card games, fairly often," Truth muses, "he was always better at poker than me," it
grins.

Clearly a joke, it opens a train of thought in Edward's mind as he ponders the sentiment.

"I haven't ever actually thought of the conscious capabilities of the body by itself." His brows
furrow, looking somewhere to Truth's left. There's the faintest shadow, flickering behind him, but
whenever he looks to find the source, he can only see the endless expanse of white.

"I was relieved to find that it wasn't just a vapid, lifeless shell. That would have made those years
much harder to tolerate. Your brother's body served as pleasant company." Truth seems to mellow
down the longer it and Edward keep talking - almost as though it finds no joy in pushing Edward
further than it has.

Why it continues to pester Edward in his dreams, he has no idea - he assumes that God, or
whatever Truth is, would have better things to do.

"It never crossed my mind that it - he? - would be... anything, really."

"Why not?"

"I just hadn't thought of it that way. I assume it's possible that part of his soul stayed in his body -
maybe a connection that remained strong enough throughout the years and dimensions to bind him
back so easily, and sustain him."

Truth looks at him with the first truly blank face he's ever seen from it, and Ed is compelled to
keep talking.

"It would make sense - the body and the soul are intrinsically connected, so part of Al stayed in the
body while the rest of his soul was in the armour. But when one factors in equivalent exchange,
wouldn't part of the body have to come with? What did Al give up in the armour to get the entirety
of his soul back in the body? Was it even a sacrifice to get my arm back if he didn't even have to
give anything up?"

Ed rises to his knees, feeling a wave of desperation wash over him. Never in any of his dreams has
he felt this awake.

"Is that why he can't sleep? Has he permanently traded sleep for his soul's intactness?"

Truth steps towards Ed, who, in his panic, fails to notice the somewhat sombre expression Truth
wears.

"You would do good to discuss this with your brother, kid. Now, I'm afraid you must go. It's far
past dawn where you are."

Waking up so abruptly is now part of Edward's routine. He's start seeing Truth in his dreams a few
weeks after the Promised Day, just once, then another time, a week later. Then twice, then twice
more the week after that. Thrice then in five days, but Edward now knows to anticipate this when
he goes to sleep. He refuses to acknowledge the dreams as anything more than they actually are -
dreams - but he knows that they carry a significance beyond anything his terrible mind can throw at
him. Despite this, he no longer fears the night - he knows exactly what's coming, and the best part
is? Beyond his mild irritation and contempt for the bastard, it's not actually that terrible.

Usually, however, he wakes up alone.

He does not, ever, wake up to his brother crouched on the bed and frantically shaking him, or to
Winry, standing by the door, failing to bite back her tears with her hand covering her eyes.

"Brother!" Alphonse yells, and a tear plops from his wide, manic eyes onto Edward's cheek.

"A-Al? Winry?" he stutters, still somewhat in the throws of the Gate, and sleep. "Wha's goin' on?"

"You're okay," Al breathes, trapping him in a hug. Perplexed, Edward returns the hug, brows
furrowing at the way Al only grips him tighter and sobs harder when he rubs circles into his back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Winry, hesitantly sitting on the foot of his bed with her eyes
trained on him, as though he's about to perform a magic trick and disappear.

"Win," Edward gulps, "what happened?"

Winry's hand slides to his palm, then stops at his wrist. She's faced in the direction of his eyes, but
she isn't actually looking at him. After about 5 seconds, it hits him that she's measuring his pulse.

"Al went to your room to wake you, since you typically aren't asleep this late," she starts, slow and
shaky and everything he hates to cause her to feel, "and he told me you aren't moving or reacting to
anything. And Ed," she takes a deep, shaky breath, taking her first, actual look at him. "When I
came into the room, you were barely even breathing. I don't even know if you had a pulse."

///
Edward kind of wishes that things still surprised Alphonse. Incredibly, he's managed to sustain a
lot of his childlike wonder and endless enthusiasm and kindness, but nothing truly shocks
Alphonse anymore.

Not even his brother's soul detaching from his body at night to go visit God.

"I can't believe I didn't figure this out by now, ugh!" Al tugs at his hair, leaning his elbows on the
coffee table.

"Don't blame yourself, I wasn't exactly showing any signs of turmoil. I was well rested."

"Which also doesn't make any sense. How are you well rested when going to the Gate every
night?"

"If anything, that's the one thing that makes sense - my body is left entirely undisturbed to go to
sleep."

Alphonse's brows upturn in a way that Edward only remembers him doing as a kid, which strikes
him as strange, because it's such a common and familiar emotion - concern. They're idiots, the both
of them - they've lost so much time.

"Do you really think your soul leaves your body every night?" Winry forces herself to ask, sitting
ramrod in her chair.

"Unless you've conveniently been ignoring a beam of Godly white light coming from my room
each night for 8 hours straight, then yeah."

"Don't be rude, brother," Alphonse chastises, though he's clearly gripped by the same train of
thought Edward is galloping down. "Winry hasn't ever actually seen or experienced any of the
things that we've become, frankly, far too accustomed to."

"It's alright," Winry dismisses, "I'd rather be confused than be a hindrance to the conversation. And
I'd rather Ed be his rude, asshat self-" she rudely ignores his reaction to the uncalled for insult, "-
than be a lifeless shell in his bed."

There are quite a few minutes wherein the only sound is the birds chirping outside.

Pinako comes in at some point, but for once in her life, the crazy old bat doesn't try to break the
tension in the air in her blunt, upfront way. She quietly puts away whatever it was she's been
collecting all morning, then wordlessly heads to the workshop.

It goes unsaid that when he goes to bed that night, Winry goes into the room with him, ready to
take the first shift, monitoring his sleep.

///

When he arrived at Truth's realm again, it's back to its old, grinning self.

He can't say he's missed it in any capacity, but the serious expression the Truth donned the last time
he stepped into the realm creeped him out beyond measure - to make a diety as powerful as Truth
lose its composure like that is not a feat he wants to achieve again.
"They're watching over you while your body sleeps," it hums, "that's sweet."

"Shut up," Edward snaps, crossing his arms yet again. "It's not as though I have any control over
this."

Truth raises its hands and shrugs, saying suit yourself as clearly as possible without using words,
and sits down. This time, as Edward lowers himself too, he tries to gain an understanding of how it
feels; there's no pressure on his backside or legs in the way that sitting down in the physical realm
has, but he distinctly knows he's not floating or anything.

It makes no sense to try and figure out his tethering, and yet, he wants to try.

"I have a question," he asks, instead of anything else, if only because when he starts to think about
why he's still coming back here, it gives him a headache.

"I'm waiting."

Edward glares as Truth. "When- uh- Brigadier General Mustang was forced to do human
transmutation, you still- uh- took his vision."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? When a man tries to perform human transmutation, and the sacrifice needed is
one they have not prepared for, I must take what is needed to equalise the interaction."

"But he didn't want to do it," Edward insists, "he was forced to."

"Yet he did it, none the less." Truth stretches its back. "Besides, it seems that unlike you and your
brother, he hasn't had to suffer any long term consequences, so I don't understand the cause for
your concern."

"I'm not concerned about the bastard!"

"Clearly, you are, or else you wouldn't be asking me about it."

"Bastard. Forget I ever asked fucking anything."

Edward slumps in his seat and glares at Truth. Aloof as ever, Truth stares back at him with no
expression whatsoever.

An unidentifiable amount of time passes this way.

When Edward wakes up, it's to Pinako, sitting still and measuring his pulse.

"I'll be damned, pipsqueak," she says, drawing back and writing something in a notebook, "I
thought Winry and your brother were pulling my leg, but it's true - you slept like the dead, and
literally."

"Was it that bad?" he slowly rises to a seated position, leaning against the wall. He feels sleepy and
well rested.

"Up until moments before you woke up, you breathed 4 breaths per minute and had a pulse of 43."
Edward feels his eyes widen as Pinako's words wash over him.
"That can't be true," he breathes.

"I'm afraid so," she writes down one last note in the notebook, then snaps it shut and turns to look
at him with worried, tired eyes. "Had you been a patient in the hospital, I would say that you were
barely clinging onto life."

"During the day time, I feel better than I've ever felt, though."

Slowly, slowly, Pinako rises from her seat.

"Whether or not you feel better, we need to figure out how and why this is happening; there are no
known long term consequences to anything you've done to yourself by now, but there's got to be
something if any of the information Winry and Alphonse have relayed to me is true."

"Of course there are no known consequences for it, I'm the first person in the history of Amestris
to perform human transmutation and not get executed!"

"Shout that any louder, midget, and that won't be true anymore."

"Who are you calling-"

And on it goes.

///

"Why can't Alphonse sleep?"

If Truth could blink, Edward thinks that it would have, right then and there.

Once again, this gives him the confidence to keep speaking.

"Is a part of him still stuck in the gate? Or maybe because neither his soul or his body actually
slept in years? Did his body actually sleep here?"

"His body didn't sleep or eat. I thought you had figured out by now that you were eating and
sleeping for two."

"You're making me sound like a pregnant woman."

When Truth laughs, the sound ricochets around the space like a rubber ball.

"Ah, Elrics," Truth sighs, "What ever will I do without you?" It plops into a seated position, lazily
stretching, not unlike a cat. "Even soulless, your brother's sarcasm shone through. He sounded a bit
more like you, now that I think of it."

Edward's mind tingles with new information that could be expanded and rabbit-holed something
interesting, but a different matter has his attention this time around.

Truth's entire demeanour has shifted - it's gone from somewhat alert and intrigues to lax, amused. It
looks, for lack of better vocabulary, like it's watching a lab rat figure out it's been set inside a test,
which Edward does not like even one bit.

"Not that I'm in any rush to figure it out, at least not right now."
 "Figure what out?"

"What I'll do when you'll stop providing me company. At your pace, you aren't going anywhere."

Dread trickles down Edward's spine.

"Huh?"

Truth sighs. "You're a smart kid. Truly - I haven't seen many minds like yours."

A compliment of such magnitude from a creature as older and powerful as it should be enough to
knock Edward off his feet. However, it is washed away by the blood curling, weight-dropping
horror of what came next.

"I hope soon enough, you'll be able to figure out what's trapping us both here."

"What?" Edward asks.

"Truly," Truth says, leaning forwards, "you don't think I have better things to do than babysit you
every night? That I'm making this happen? I have a very limited field of expertise, and this is a
stretch beyond my control. Wake up, kid, and figure out what it is you want, because I can't leave
before you can."

"But aren't you the one who's keeping me-"

Ed wakes up. It's 12:43 - he slept for 14 hours.

Shit.

Chapter End Notes

While I do think Brotherhood's ending is as close to perfect as possible (I am biased), I

also like to look at canon and think "hmmm.......... what if I............. maybehaps
just............." and then things like this happen #sorrynotsorry
 It Takes A Village, part 1
Chapter Summary

Royboy gets the surprise of a lifetime. This has been a near weekly occurrence since
recruiting (adopting) the Elrics.

Chapter Notes

CW: Brief discussions of past child neglect. Didn't include that as a tag because it's not
a large part of the fanfiction, but if this is an especially sensitive topic for you, I'd
recommend to proceed with caution.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Resembool, in Roy Mustang's mind, has cemented itself as two things: the home of many
picturesque scenes, filled with greenery and sheep, and the birthplace of the most horrifying thing
he's seen since Ishval.

After his initial arrival, in which he was told about two incredibly talented alchemists in their 30s,
for crying out loud, he met a weary, hardened old woman, who lead him to the basement that
housed the second worst stench he's ever smelled in his life, and explained to him, sparing no
details, what she had found there, a week or so prior. There were leftovers of the misfortunate
creation still smeared there - clumps of hair, still attached to the flesh; old, curdled, sour blood
smeared on the floor, the walls; ripping of fabric and skin, in various stages of decay. The
transmutation circle on the floor, however, caught his eye; it was immaculate. Despite it being one
of the most complicated and difficult transmutation circles to exist, every line had been exact,
every symbol perfectly ratioed. Children or not, they clearly possessed a talent not many others did.

It was this exact circle that pushed him to demand to see the Elrics, then unknowingly transforming
their lives in an overdrawn, half-decade long transmutation that bound them all together in ways
that none of them have properly wrapped their head around yet. Or, on second thought, maybe
Alphonse has. He's every bit as smart as his brother, but much less thick-skulled.

He, Roy muses, probably has it all figured out.

"Brigadier General, sir," Hawkeye calls, "we've almost arrived."

"Excellent observation as always, Captain," he smiles at her. If her disapproval was any more
blatant, she would have been chewed out by some other, stuffy, Colonel or General by now, but
only Roy (and the rest of the team) can actually read her tells - how the flatness of her expression
smothers the dancing, twinkling light in her eyes to best display her exasperation. In anyone else, it
would have been annoying, or condescending.

It only makes him love Riza more.

But - priorities.
He doesn't quite know why they're heading for Resembool only three weeks after the brothers have
been discharged, but knowing them, they probably managed to find a way to get mauled half to
death by sheep. He received a message that was relayed to his Captain by Breda, who himself isn't
quite sure what their business in the countryside is. That being said, there's no such thing as a bad
reason to visit the Elrics - as tiring as they are, he really does love them.

Some of the time.

"Well then, Captain," he shrugs as they step off the train, "let's hope their number of limbs has
managed to stay at seven."

"You say that, Brigadier General, in a way that implies the possibility of the location and type of
limb to change." As she pauses to adjust their suitcases, he catches a small glimpse at her faint
smirk.

"Correct once again, Captain, thank you for correcting my clearly foolish thinking. Where would I
ever be without you?"

"Not a question that will ever need be answered," she mutters.

"And thank god for that," a familiar voice drawls.

Edward hasn't changed much in the last few weeks. It's still incredibly uncanny to see him with two
flesh arms, but it lends room to an excitement Roy, and surely Hawkeye, as well, haven't felt in a
while. It's a true testament, a goalpost that has been met, solid proof that things can change and
ideals can be met. He looks more well-rested than Roy's ever seen him, and foolishly, he thinks
this might ease the boy's temper just a little bit.

"Fullmetal," he greets.

"For fuck's sake, Captain, he's still blind," Edward calls, gesturing at his new arm.

"My apologies, you're correct," Roy says.

"Brigadier General, please don't," Riza warns.

"How have you been, halfmetal?"

Edward seems to short-circuit at this, blinking into empty space for a few seconds, before fixing
Hawkeye with a look so pleading and desperate Roy can barely hold back his snort. The blond
buries his hands in his hair and tugs, before wordlessly walking away from the train platform and
walking towards, presumably, the Rockbell residence.

"Pardon my rudeness, Edward," Riza begins, matching his pace seamlessly, "but I was wondering
if you could tell us why we're here."

"Did Breda not tell you?" Edward asks, all pretence of frustration instantly dropped.

"Not really. He himself was confused."

"Makes sense. Granny said she wanted to talk to you guys, God knows what it's about."

"If she asked us to come all the way here, I'm sure it's very important." Roy opts against bringing
to attention the fact that he and Hawkeye have travelled a ways away from their current base of
operations just for the sake of something that may or may not be important.
Edward clearly does not share the sentiment.

"So you really dragged your asses all the way here to talk to my grandma and you don't even really
know why? Holy shit, Mustang, the Gate must have fried your brain even worse than it did mine."

"I don't appreciate that tone, Fullmetal."

"You're not the boss of me anymore, I can say whatever I want to. You seriously, genuinely got on
a train all the way to the far end of the country for something that most likely isn't even important?
I'm assessing this correctly?"

Roy has nothing to say in response, so he says nothing.

Hawkeye effortlessly picks up the conversation again, and Roy is once again witness to how
trusting the boys have grown of her. Whether she knows it or not (she does), Hawkeye has taken up
a role in their lives that is as difficult to define as it is major in its importance. Roy severely doubts
they feel the same about him, and while he can't say he's not fond of the two young boys he's taken
part of shepherding over the years, he's somewhat relieved they clearly don't share the sentiment.
With the current, incredibly tense political climate, and the amount of backs Roy has had to, and
will have to, step on, it's crucial to keep the people he genuinely cares about at arm's length.

The Elrics aren't people he's willing to let be in harm's way ever again.

Alphonse's waiting for them at the entrance to the Rockbell residence. Seeing him in the flesh,
despite it not being the first time, is every bit a delight and a relief. Connecting the young teen
standing in front of them, all small and frail, with the hulking suit of armour they learned to
identify as 'Alphonse' for the entire time of Edward's military service gets easier with each turn. He
stands out every bit as much as his brother does, with his golden eyes and hair, but lacks his
brother's obnoxious, tacky taste.

Ever the calmer Elric, he joyfully walks down the stairs and gives Hawkeye a short, quick hug,
before surprisingly moving towards Roy. His thin arms circle around Roy's ribs for one, two, three
seconds, before pulling back and asking them if the trip over was easy. Roy's barely in the state of
mind to pat him softly on the back, still surprised by the display of affection, before Winry's
greeting call catches his attention and Alphonse moves to say something to his brother out of
earshot.

Winry's no short of reasons to dislike him and Hawkeye, so the genuine nature of the greeting is an
unexpected, but positive thing. She and Hawkeye make small talk about the travel and the boys,
notably void of any real substance on Winry's behalf, while Roy takes the chance to marvel at the
Rockbell house as the three walk inside.

It's full of warm notes, well-built and simple but inviting, with pictures hung everywhere and a few
bits of machinery spread out on a table to the side. Winry's countryside accent is thicker than the
Elrics, and it hits him like a truck that while they still sound like the country boys they are, their
accent has mellowed out a bit, developing the same Easy City drawl that his has.

"I understood that Pinako would like to speak to the two of us?" Hawkeye asks, ever polite.

"Actually," Winry averts her eyes, blushing ever so slightly, "she asked to speak to Must- uh, the
Brigadier General specifically. I'm sure that whatever she has to say to him is something you
should hear, too."

This catches Roy off guard and unnerves him. Has he come all this way only for the woman to yell
at him for all the danger he exposed the boys to?

"You don't have to refer to me by my title if you don't want to." His assurance is half reflex by this
point. "I'm not your commanding officer, and you aren't in the military. Hell, Fullmetal referred to
me as Colonel Bastard most of the time."

Winry's shoulders relax the slightest bit, and Roy gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.
"Not that I approved of it, but it just goes to show that you can call me whatever you like."

"Alright then. Thank you, Mr. Mustang. Granny is this way," she points to a hallway with four
doors. One is clearly labelled a bathroom, the second has grease stains all over it and the third has a
sign that says "physical therapy", which only gives Roy one option as to which door it is that he's
supposed to open.

Roy and Hawkeye both thank her for the help, before going to stand infront of the door that Roy
does not actually want to go through.

Frankly, this is ridiculous. There is nothing that's about to go wrong and nothing to fear. He is a
veteran of two wars, for fuck's sake, and he is not scared of one, tiny, old woman.

Hawkeye opens the door for him.

Pinako Rockbell is sat on a dark purple loveseat in the middle of the small, cosy room. This room
is clearly meant for consoling patients and their families, and is intelligently located next to the
automail shop and the PT room. Wordlessly, she gestures they sit.

Roy turns to look at his Captain, whose eyes flicker in a way that suggests compliance - a what
could go wrong if there ever was one - and they sit.

He remembers very little of the woman. Fiercely protective of all three children, wrapped up with a
no-nonsense attitude the Elrics desperately need to keep them in check, she took on the job of
parenting three orphaned children in a heartbeat. Roy doesn't remember his biological parents all
that well, and Madam Christmas did an excellent job with him, so sitting in front of the woman
who gave them what Chris gave him, he is in equal parts honoured and concerned.

Despite his initial concerns about this trip being a waste of time, he concludes that whatever made
Pinako determine that their presence is needed face to face is doubtlessly important. Perhaps it's
only to tell him to never speak to the boys ever again, which would be fair. After all, he was the
one to drag them into every bad situation they've been in since the original human transmutation.
While Edward used all the knowledge the military had to his advantage, it was a selfish move on
Roy's part. People were definitely correct when they presumed that his recruitment of the Elrics
was done so he would look good, if albeit only partially correct. He did genuinely want to give the
Elrics the foundations they needed for the alchemy potential to flourish, but he went about it in the
worst possible way.

After all is said and done, he has singlehandedly caused the four residents of this household a fair
amount of grief, and it would be more than understandable if Pinako Rockbell told him to never
see Edward and Alphonse again.

"I know you two are very busy people, so I will cut to the chase." Her voice knocks him out of his
stupor.

"I'm old."

Is Roy supposed to confirm this statement? Is this a test? The Rockbell matriarch doesn't seem like
the kind of woman to be offended by such a thing.

"I have yet to share this knowledge with my granddaughter and her friends, but the years have not
been kind to me lately." Her tone betrays no sadness, no frustration or anger.

"I'm very sorry to hear that-" Roy begins, but she cuts him off.

"Be quiet, you, you don't have reason to care and I'm not done talking."

Hawkeye is wiser than him, because she didn't bother to open her mouth, just so she could put her
foot in it. Roy follows her lead, staying silent.

"As I was saying, I've lived a fair amount of years and seen a fair amount of things, and my body
has suffered the consequences of that. I'm nowhere near my deathbed, and I resent the implication
that I'm about to keel over, because I'm not. That being said, I have a question to ask of you."

Hawkeye nods, and he follows suit.

"The boys have grown very fond of the two of you, and have come to trust you, specifically." She
gestures at Roy with her chin. "I would be hard-pressed to find more lacklustre parents than two
big-shot army people, but it seems, for some reason, that the boys have chosen to trust you, lean on
you, and allow you a certain berth of fondness."

She leans forward, and the short, tiny woman all but dwarfs Roy in her presence.

"Those boys have been through a lifetime's worth of nearly goddamn everything by this point,
partially by your doing, but they're still just boys at the end of the day. Better than most people,
you should know that an 18 year old ain't no goddamned adult. I need you to tell me, right here and
right now, if you're capable of taking care of the Elric boys the way they need to be taken care of."

With his heart all but freezing in his chest, Roy finds himself unable to process the words correctly.

"Are we really... the only ones suited for the task?"

"You're about as suited for the task as Ed is suited to being tall. That's not what this is about," she
spits. "Their teacher and her husband have opened their arms to the boys years ago, as has half of
your entire team, if the stories they tell are to be believed."

Half is an understatement, if nothing else, he thinks.

"Those boys are finnicky. They're slow to trust, easy to hurt and anger, and Edward in particular is
prone to being prickly and unpleasant. The world has shown the two of them, time and time again,
that nothing good is to be trusted. When adding their alchemical prowess and penchant for getting
into trouble, those boys need far more than one or two people watching over them. Somehow,
despite all this, you two, but particularly you, Mustang, have wormed yourself into a place of
importance in the boys' hearts. They trust you, rely on you, and want to gain your approval, Lord
knows why. This is why I need to know, right now, if you two can be trusted to watch over them
when I am gone."

Despite all the time that has passed and all the things that have happened since then, Roy wishes
Hughes was still by his side on a daily basis. He misses his best friend more than words can
describe, and he knows that his ache is reverberated through Gracia and Elicia, who do such a great
job at putting on a brave face, but he knows the house is emptier and colder than it should ever be.
Not only would Maes know what to do, he would have done a better job being the Elrics' pseudo-
parent than Roy ever would. Roy had no paternal instinct in his body. He can barely cook, doesn't
look after himself, and spent years using Whiskey as an alternative for dinner. He should not be
trusted with the Elrics in any capacity. With the Ishvallan Restoration Project only months ahead,
the only correct thing Roy should do is decline the suggestion and never see them again in his life.

"I'll be here in whatever capacity the boys want me to," he says, because this is bigger than him.

Roy does not have many people left in his personal life. He has Riza, the team, and he has
connections and common friends of people who are now dead, and he has the boys. With one or
two more losses, his existence will wither into the crippling loneliness that often awaits people like
him.

In addition, he doesn't quite know what to make of Pinako's suggestion that he is important to the
boys in any capacity beyond necessity. Beyond Alphonse's brief hug outside, there's hardly
anything to suggest that the Elrics feel anything for his presence, save the mild revulsion almost
always present in Edward's eyes.

He is the worst possible option, he's sure of it, but he will see to it that the Elrics never have to
needlessly lose another person again.

Ever by his side, Hawkeye nods as well. "We want to be here for the boys," she adds.

Pinako, however, does not seem entirely satisfied with their responses.

She clicks her tongue and tuts before starting again.

"Those kind of half-assed assurances won't get you anywhere. The tiny runt puts up a fight against
anything that's for his favour, and the young one doesn't know a foe from a kitten. With that kind
of attitude, you might as well pack up your bags right now and say goodbye, because you'll never
see them again. What they need is not a pillar that happens to be there if they so desire, they need
people that would fight to be there for them. Am I mistaken in believing you have done just that for
the past four years?"

"No, you are not. The boys are very important to us." While Hawkeye's tone is calm and measured,
her hands have clenched into white-knuckled fists. He's not sure what to do with the knowledge
that she's every bit as terrified as him.

"Then start now. Get it through their thick skulls that not everyone is like their father, and just
because Hohenheim left them, doesn't mean you two will. Because if I kick the bucket only to find
them struggling like fish out of water, I'll find my way back myself to make you right your wrongs,
and I won't need no human transmutation or other fancy shit to do it. Am I clear?"

"So, you want us to be there for them, even if they don't want us here?" Roy asks.

Pinako stares at him with no small amount of disbelief. "If you're our next Fuhrer, this country is
doomed. You're every bit as stupid as the one-legged boy that tried to cook a live rabbit for dinner.
I'm telling you that they want you here, you idiot, even if they won't ever say it. You ain't gotta
fight to win over their affection and loyalty. You already have it."

It's far too frequent an event these days that Roy is brought close to tears.

"I want to be there for the boys," he says, voice thick but stable. "I won't ever let them doubt my
loyalty or care."

"Finally," the old woman huffs, "I might be able to actually rest in peace."
 ///

After the finer details of the conversation have wound up, Roy and Hawkeye find themselves with
a free evening. Their train back to Central only leaves tomorrow at noon, so they've got some time
on their hands.

While the trip wasn't as grave as he feared it would be, he's glad they made the trip down - it was a
conversation they needed to have face to face, and he's honoured to have been chosen to watch after
the Elrics in such a way, even if he's not the only one. He doesn't quite believe they're as reliant on
him as Pinako made it out to be, but he's flattered nonetheless.

Even if Edward can never hear of this conversation in his life.

With his 4 years of handling the Elrics, saying that Edward needs to be treated with kid gloves is an
understatement. He's more than just prickly and distrusting, and worst of all is that he's within
reason to be. Maes's shadow falls over more than just Roy.

Albeit belatedly, he noticed the two brothers are out in the field, playing with a kitten that Edward
seems more uncomfortable with in every passing minute. It looks black from a distance, but it has
tiny splotches of brown and ginger combing through the fur, and Alphonse seems as though he's
going out of breath from where he twists and falls over himself, playing with the thing.

"They've been at it for the past 20 minutes." Winry's arms rest on the railing of the porch, and it
strikes Roy as a position she's long grown accustomed to. How long has she spent waiting for them
to come home, exactly? He can easily picture her small, childish hands gripping onto the railing the
moment the two of them left the first time. "Edward's only actually out there because Al is and he
wants to see his brother happy."

"Fair enough," Roy says, "it's a well known fact that Alphonse is happiest where there are cats."

"Good to know that's never going to change."

"He once snuck four kittens into the Brigadier's old office in East City." Hawkeye helpfully
supplies. Winry's eyes go wide.

"No." Her voice vibrates with laughter. "He didn't."

"I'm afraid he did."

Winry turns her attention back to Roy. "What did you do about it?"

"... It was a rainy, winter night. I couldn't just throw them back outside to die like that. Al would
never forgive me."

Winry laughs.

"Considering this was barely a week after he suggested sacrificing you to be eaten by a
homunculus so the rest could survive, I'm surprised you were so bothered, sir."

His mouth pulls into a smirk. "It wasn't the first time the either of the Elrics suggested using me as
human sacrifice, so I wasn't quite so bothered by that point."
"You're saying you got used to it, sir?"

"Against my will, yes."

"I mean," Winry adds, "they were joking, so I wouldn't hold it against them."

"They were not joking that one time," Roy absentmindedly corrects. "Besides, karma got them in
the ass for that one."

"Sir, I wouldn't put it quite that way," Hawkeye says.

"Technically, I was correct, no?"

"Sir, many things happened that night, and most of them were not good. If I remember correctly,
you did nothing to help the situation."

"With all due respect, Captain, and the respect is endless." The Elric brothers approach out of the
corner of his eye, but he chooses to ignore them. "There was not a single thing I could have done to
stop Edward from being eaten by Gluttony, along with the Xingese prince. Nothing at all."

He's not looking at any of the kids to gauge their reactions, but Hawkeye's expression as she looks
at them tells him there must have been a misstep at some point.

He turns to look, and yeah, that was what he didn't want to see. Winry's eyes are wide, and she
stares, unblinkingly, at Edward. Edward's gaze is faraway and shaky, in a way that suggests he's
guts deep in the memory, but also terrified of what may happen next. Alphonse looks as though he
wants the ground to swallow him whole.

Roy opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. It's as though the air in his lungs is too afraid to
push itself out and somehow make the situation even worse. Hawkeye grabs onto his bicep hard
enough to tourniquet, so he closes it. Alphonse takes a slow, silent step away from Winry, towards
Roy and Hawkeye, which seems to have been the trigger for the meltdown.

"Eaten, Edward?! EATEN?" Winry yells, her face red with rage. "You mean to tell me that I had to
discover from Brigadier Asshat over there that you were fucking EATEN ALIVE?!"

Bless Edward, he really does try. "Look, Win, I can explain th-"

"No, You can't! I've given you more than enough time to explain, and you haven't said jack shit!"

"You've given me three weeks to unpack four years, woman! Jeez!"

"Yeah, that does it," Alphonse mutters, grabbing Hawkeye's hand with one of his and Roy's with
the other before walking, surprisingly fast, off the porch and behind the house.

After escaping to safety, Alphonse looks behind him to check that they weren't followed -
pointless, they can still hear Ed and Winry screaming at each other from the other side - then turns
to look at them with an expression Roy hasn't seen, ever, in his life. A mix of apologetic, mortified,
abashed, embarrassed - his brows are raised and his mouth is stretched in the worst simile of a
smile Roy's ever seen, and the scene that has just occurred in the past two minutes is so funny, Roy
can't hold his laughter in.

It comes out as a small squeak, humiliating in any other context, but in front of the Captain and
Alphonse, he feels alright.
Alphonse seems to melt a bit after that, letting out the shakiest huff he's ever seen, and with how
thin he still is, he looks a second away from falling over. Before even thinking about it, Roy
extends his arm for Alphonse to lean on, and the way he falls into it tells Roy it was the right idea.

"Brother being eaten alive wasn't even the worst thing that happened that day," he laughs, but it's
somewhat hysteric.

"I'm sure Edward would disagree with that statement." The Captain tries her best to look dignified,
but at Alphonse and the Colonel's laughter, the small twinkle of amusement in her eyes shines
through.

"Despite what you may think, or what brother has to say, later, this isn't your fault." Alphonse
sobers quickly. "Frankly, it's just our fault for not saying anything up until this point. This is actual
karma."

"I bet you regret suggesting to feed me to Gluttony, now." Roy uses the arm Alphonse's leaning on
to ruffle his hair, and Alphonse leans even further into him. Perhaps Pinako was right, about the
whole attachment thing. Or maybe, Alphonse is just tired. "If you hadn't made that suggestion all
that time ago, maybe it would have bought you a few more weeks."

"We should have figured something out by now."

"I tend to agree. The outcome strikes me as inevitable."

The three listen to the yelling in silence.

"I think Winry will be less angry once she realises we've done all the preparation for the stew in
advance. Do you want to help me?" Alphonse straightens out and heads for the kitchen.

"Sounds good for me. Captain, you do the meat while I'll handle the potatoes?"

///

Only later, when everything has settled down, does Roy realise he's been led into a false sense of
security. Dinner went smoothly, all things considered, and the fight Winry and Edward had seems
to have simmered down to nothing. A regular occurrence, Pinako and Alphonse both assure him,
but he can't help but feel a little bit guilty.

Therefore, after dinner's been done and dealt with, Roy jumps in to help with the dishes before
Winry's even done clearing their plates. He and the Captain have booked a stay at Resembool's
only inn, so it's not as though they're obligated to stay, but it's nice to spend time with the Elrics
under such low-stress circumstances, being able to pretend he has any idea what a family looks
like.

Pinako's speech earlier is still running laps in his head - it's quite hard to believe his existence
means anything in the Elrics boys' lives. Sure, Alphonse is kind to him, but Alphonse is kind to
everyone. Every time he and Edward make any eye contact, Edward looks away as though he's
been burned, and Roy knows that look far too well. In short, Pinako was wrong. She had to be.
Now that everything in the boys' lives are fixed, it's high time he says goodbye and hightails it back
to central, where, at the very least, he has his career waiting for him.
But, he does owe the Elrics a proper goodbye, and after everyone has spaced out in the living
room, Edward clears his throat at Mustang and gestures to the door with his head.

Roy catches Alphonse's eyes for all of a second, but the boy looks down at his lap without saying a
word.

It seems that something might be awry after all.

Edward opens the door and Roy follows him outside, mentally prepared to be hit with a blast of
cold air, but instead, he meets the warmth of a summer night in someplace warm.

Edward refuses to look at him as he speaks.

"Listen. Bastard."

"Fullmetal."

"Shut up, this isn't about you." His response is familiar in bite and nature, but his grip on the
railing is white-knuckled. "I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead." So, this isn't goodbye?

"After you fought in Ishval, did you have dreams about it?" Edward asks, and oh - it's so much
worse.

"Is this truly something you need to know?"

"Yes. It's crucial."

"Why?" Roy presses further. "You can't just expect me to-"

"Please."

A few moments pass before Roy can gather the nerve to answer. "Yes." Then, more silence, before
- "The shortest possible answer is yes. I dreamt about it every night for years, and I still do, these
days. I will never be free from what I did back there, and I don't deserve to be."

An owl croons in the background. Roy didn't even know Resembool had owls.

"What are they like?"

"The dreams?"

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, asshat."

Another owl, this time farther to the right.

"Burning flesh, mainly. Screams, rubble, buildings collapsing. The way the fabric of my gloves
started chafing at my skin after a while. Blood, corpses, flaking skin. But mostly the smell of
burning flesh. It's different from just cooking meat - it's sweet and smoky in a sickening way.
Despite the difference, I've not been able to stomach the scent of cooking meat since then."

Edward's steely resolve is aimed at the distance, at the sky, anywhere but here.

"Are they at all realistic? Are you aware you're in a dream?"

"They aren't realistic when I wake up - just an amalgamation of everything I've ever done wrong,
out in the field. Voices and scents and sensations bleed together, all heat and red until I wake up. If
I knew I were dreaming, it might have been easier, but I don't think I can really grasp being in a
dream until I wake."

He hopes he didn't go too far. As seasoned as he is, Edward is still a kid. The last thing he wants to
do is scar him even further, break his trust once again. The kid asked him something very intimate,
and Roy only agreed to share as much as he has for good reason. Now, he just needs to know what
it is.

"I've been dreaming about the Gate, almost every single night." Edward supplies.

Roy extends his hand to rest on Edward's back, but he doesn't know if it's a good idea or not. To
hell with being a father to them - five years in and he still has no idea what sets Edward off.

"The dreams are entirely realistic, and I'm fully aware that I'm dreaming when I'm talking to it.
Truth. But the more they progress the more I feel as though... As though..." Roy's hand makes
contact, and Ed's eyes snap to him. "You're not allowed to tell anyone about this, you hear me?
Anyone. I haven't even told Alphonse yet."

This might be the universe's way to hand him a favour, to say - this is your way to show him you're
in his corner. That you care.

"My lips are sealed until the moment you tell me otherwise."

"I don't think they're dreams anymore."

Absently, Roy thinks that this might be the perfect scenery to lull him into a calm - the night is
warm and balmy, the chatter inside is equally soft and lively, and his stomach is full of a rich,
hearty, delicious dinner. A dinner that he feel is trying to fight its way back out of his mouth.

"You think you've been visiting the gate each night?"

"It kinda feels like I never left."

Once more, a measured, thought out response is key. "I think that if anyone in the world is truly
familiar with the gate, it's you. Lord knows, the one and only time I was there, I was scared out of
my mind, before being forced through, and spat out at the other side with my eyesight gone. No
one is ever there long enough to get a proper grasp on how it feels, besides, maybe, you." His hand
rubs in circles. "If you're aware, while you're in the dream, then talk to Truth and try to figure it
out, maybe. Even if he doesn't cooperate, he might let loose something that could help you figure
this thing out."

"You don't think I'm crazy?"

"Look, I think you're insane for a lot of things, but not necessarily this. It makes sense. You did
something revolutionarily crazy, on multiple occasions."

Roy avoids mentioning this, but there's a sick sense of irony in Edward not being given rest from
alchemy, even after giving it up.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

 "Trust me, I won't."

Roy coughs out a laugh at this, and even Edward's lips quirk up for the slightest moment.

Edward shifts slightly, and Roy drops his hand from where it rests on Ed's back. The eldest Elric
straightens, then takes a single step back towards the Rockbell door, before stopping. He grunts
something at himself Roy can't quite understand, then turns to look at him. His expression screams
anger and annoyance.

"It wasn't fair, what they did to you."

"Excuse me?"

Edward rolls his eyes. "Always slow on the uptake, huh? The human transmutation. The Gate.
Your eyes. It wasn't fair that it happened to you against your will. I'm the last one to speak about
human transmutation, or what people should do with a Philosopher's Stone, but I get it, okay?"

"O...kay?"

"How they let people like you get so high in the ranks is beyond me. Goodnight, Brigadier
Bastard."

Riza barely catches the tail end of the conversation as she heads out of the door, her bag moving in
her loose grip.

"I won't take that from someone like you, Fullmetal. Goodnight."

"I'm not an alchemist anymore. We've been over this."

"You're still Fullmetal, though," he tosses over his shoulder as he walks away. "Grow another leg,
then we'll talk!"

The nightmares don't stay at bay tonight, but sleep does come easier than it has before.

Chapter End Notes

Roy Mustang pathetic father figure I WEAR THAT MF TAG O N M E

 the Winry Debacle
Chapter Summary

Mentions of canon-typical violence and Edward's fight with Kimblee. You know the
one - I ain't gotta say anything.

Chapter Notes

I was originally going to toe the ambiguity line between romantic and platonic but it
seems to have gotten away from me lmao

When the words "The Winry Debacle" first appear in Edward's mind, he thinks they're accurate,
but also kind of funny, so they stick.

These days, the words, the file in his brain, the operation, has split itself into two main branches:
the one that mainly goes pretty blond girl scary and cute. Must hold and protect and keep safe.
Shiny hair big eyes, and all other forms of nonsense Edward did not have the time and patience to
deal with when he was busy busting his ass saving the country and making sure Mustang doesn't
die or something along the way.

The other branch, equal in the space it took up in his brain but endlessly more important, consisted
of only one single header: She can never find out.

Curse Edward and his penchant for getting into trouble, but he had made Winry cry so many times
in his life that just trying to count them made his chest feel strained with an aching guilt. At this
point, there's so much they haven't told her that he doesn't even know where to begin. Bless her
sweet, caring heart, she probably thinks all the times he limped back to her with ruined automail
were out of pure carelessness, instead of, well, partial carelessness.

These days, besides that one time they thought he had died in his bed, he hasn't been making her
cry, and he's been seeing more of her than he has in years - that's got to count for something! Sure,
she screams at him and annoys him and he does the same back, but it lacks malice - it always did.

Being back, however, means that his time for fighting for his life is over, and he now has to
actually digest it all, in whatever capacity he's capable of. Now, more than ever, he's thankful he
had Alphonse by his side throughout, or he'd have lost his mind entirely at some point by now.
Probably around the time Nina was... Anyways. No time like the present to ponder whether he's
going to tell her everything, or nothing - he can't do this in halves; Winry's too smart to be tricked
like that. Without saying much of anything, he knows she knows there are years of unfortunate
occurrences simmering beneath the surface, and she hasn't been subtle in her attempts to crack a
hole in his skull and spill out all the memories.

Good luck to her, he thinks, because she isn't going to learn anything until he decides if he wants to
share or if things get out of his control.
Mustang was a close call - who does he think he is, just casually telling her he's been eaten alive?!
That's not even that accurate! The scolding he got from her is still making his head pound, a few
hours later, but it seems the storm has passed.

Exchanging his sweat-stained shirt with his pyjama one in mind, he briefly considers all the ways
he can get the Brigadier General demoted back to Colonel, before a gasp behind him jars him out
of his thoughts.

It is at this moment he realises the faults in changing shirts without closing his door.

It seems he's going for the second option of sharing after all.

Turning slowly, because God, he doesn't want to turn at all, He sees Winry's teary eyes water even
further when she spies that the nasty scar on his back has its' twin on his stomach.

Stifling a myriad of swears, he does a mental sweep of the situation.

Despite his best efforts in healing himself, the scars are not very aesthetic. They're pink, a bit
concave, very textured, and the skin stretches out. The price to pay for not having a medical
professional in hand, he supposes, but he knew, even in his pain-induced delirium, that the only
other option was to accept his death, but he had too much left to do - the very same tear-filled face
appeared in his vision.

Goddamnit.

"Uh," he says, because he's a genius, "hey."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't acknowledge him, doesn't move, barely breaths - her attention is focused
solely on where the hole used to be in his stomach.

"Look, Win, I..." he can't even say it's not as bad as it seems, because, in all honesty - it's worse.

"How- uhm," she clears her throat. Her voice is thin and unstable. "How long have you had that,
um, scar?"

"Right after we staged your kidnapping in Briggs."

"Oh," she breathes; the sound is wobbly and wrong and it's all Edward's fault. "Can I - uhm, can I...
Get a better look at it?"

He wishes the situation were inconsequential enough that he could blush. "Yeah, sure."

She takes a few steps forward, then drops to a kneel if front of him, only a pace or two away. Her
mouth pinches as she gets a closer look.

"The work here is very amateur," she mutters to herself. "I can't see any stitch lines, and the pattern
seems to go almost inwards, so while it gets the job done, I couldn't imagine what kind of medical
professional would- would-"

"Well excuse me," Edward mutters before he can stop himself, "it's not as though I had that many
resources."

Her head shoots up to look him in the eyes. It's somehow much, much worse, because now he can't
hide.

"You did that?"

"Yes."

"To yourself?!"

"That's right."

"How? Why!?"

"Well, it was either that, or a slow and painful death, and I know which one I would prefer."

At last, this seems to knock her out of her stupor, because she shoots up and crashes into him.
Before he can even think to defend himself from an oncoming wrench to the head, she wraps her
arms around him and buries her face in the crook of his neck. It's a close, tight hug, which gives
him almost no room to breathe, but he knows she needs it, so he lets it happen. Almost
subconsciously, he buries his nose in her hair and wraps his arms around her, rubbing circles over
her back as she shakes. As he's still not wearing a shirt, her tears dampen his shoulder and begin to
slide down to his collarbone, and the slight tickling of the path makes him have to stifle a chuckle,
because nothing is funny about the situation, but he still feels like laughing. Is this what victory
actually looks like?

Winry's arms unwind from around his waist, and he absently wonders if he can pin this, somehow,
on Mustang.

She grabs him by the wrist, and they both sit down on his bed.

"Can I at least put on a shirt?" Edward asks.

"No. I want you to feel humiliated, at least a little bit."

The quip almost makes him feel like he could weasel out of this with some degree of success.

"It's your punishment for almost dying and not telling me."

Or, maybe not.

An order if he's ever hears one, Edward starts talking. "When all of it was going down, I fought
Kimblee. The bastard was using a Philosopher's Stone to get away from me, but I almost got him.
He had a second one hidden somewhere, I don't even know how, and he brought the goddamn
building down on me. I was all the way up on the top floor, and a support beam went through my
stomach. Darius and Heinkel helped me get out, but I knew that if I didn't treat it myself, I would
die of blood loss before we even left the building. As it was, my recovery took a while."

"A while?"

"A few weeks."

"Edward."

"That might have stretched into months."

Winry's hand bunches into the fabric of his pants, and her grip is so tight her hand shakes.

"And how did you perform this act, exactly?"

Now this - this is the hard part.

"Alchemy."

Winry's gaze locks back on his scar. "What did you exchange?"

Edward swallows down his trepidation. "I'm not sure how to answer that. Could be a few months,
or a few years of my life. I guess we'll figure it out when we get to that point."

"We'll figure it ou-" she sighs. "Edward!"

"What? What did you expect me to do? Sit there and die?"

"Edward-"

"No. What do you think my other options were? Wait for a doctor to arrive and carry my
hypothermic, bloodless body out to fort Briggs? Tell me, Winry, tell me what my other options
were."

Her hand wraps around his.

"We nearly lost you."

All the anger in his body dissipates as his head thunks against the wall. He squeezes her hand
before righting himself once more. He leans forward, his back curling, and as he pats her head, he
feels the scars on his back stretch.

"Don't worry about that. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Her smile is wobbly, but it's there, and that has to count for something.

"Didn't it hurt?" she breaks the stretch of silence.

"Like a bitch, yeah. Why?"

"How did you concentrate on performing alchemy under so much pain?"

This is another potential landmine - admitting the truth, which is something along the lines of you
can only get beaten to the brink of death so many times before pain stops mattering, is not the
route he wants to go down, simply because it would only start another conversation that he's not
prepared for in the slightest. The Winry Debacle is happening as is, so he doesn't mind throwing
one branch of it under the bus to protect the other.

Besides, it's still the truth. Just not all of it.

"I was thinking that I didn't want to be the reason you cried again. I promised."

Winry groans, planting her face in her hands and rubbing at it. Her hands move to her hair, which
she tugs at, then she just... sags. She stays in that position for one, two, three seconds before
breathing out sharply, then launching off of his bed and looking around his room.

"Winry?" he asks.

"Shut up," she snaps, still looking for whatever it is she wants. Her face is beet red as she grabs his
pyjama top and throws it at his face, where it plops down to his lap. "Put it on."

"What?"
"God, are you deaf? Put it on!"

He blinks at her. She groans again, louder, before marching over to him and aggressively grabbing
the top from where it lays bundled in his lap. Fumbling with it for a few seconds, she straightens it
out before shoving it over his head.

"Winr-what are you-"

She grabs at his arm and tries to move it, but he shoves her away before he even realises she's
trying to feed it through the sleeve.

"I wouldn't have to do this if you'd listen when I told you things, dickhead."

The process takes way longer than it should have, and his hair is an absolute mess by the end, but
he has his shirt on.

"Mind telling me what that was for?" he asks. Or rather, he tries to ask, since halfway through the
sentence, she tackles him in a hug. He lets out a grunt as they both slam into his bed, and she uses
his confusion to worm even closer, burying her head in his neck again.

"Winry?"

"Do you not know when to shut up?"

"But why the shirt?"

"This would have been too weird without it."

Laughter bubbles through him as he hugs her close, wrapping his arms tight around her body as it
vibrates with his laughter. After a while, she giggles a little, too, and she's close and warm and alive
and happy, her hair smells nice and she's tucked so comfortably into him, that he can't resist the
urge to press a kiss to her temple.

She might be crying again, he's not sure, but he does know that it's not from sadness.

"I'm alright."

"Why are you saying that? I know you are."

"Winry. Look at me."

Blond hair tickles his chin and cheek as she pulls back, just far enough to look him in the eyes. Her
eyes are red and glossy, her cheeks are pink, and her entire face is glistening. Edward doesn't have
the words to describe what she's doing to him, and he doubts he'll ever have.

"I'm right here, and I'm alright."

Realisation trickles into her eyes, and she smiles warmly, softly. Her eyelids flutter over light blue
skies before she squeezes her eyes shut and her head thunks back where it was, in the crook of his
neck.

"Thank you." Her words come muffled, but vibrate against his skin. "Alchemy freak."

He laughs.

"Gearhead."
 ///

Surprisingly, Hawkeye and Mustang do come around before they're due to leave back to base.

Their train leaves in four hours, so Edward assumes Hawkeye bullied the Brigadier into showing
up and socialising, maybe this time without uncovering a major secret of theirs. It's whatever, at
this point - Winry discovered two relatively big things, and the rest will unfold when it does, if it
does.

He's been conversing with Hawkeye for the past half an hour about Ishvallan politics and their first
moves in the Restoration Project when Winry calls Alphonse over from where he's nestled and
yawning into Mustang's shoulder to talk. Mustang ruffles his hair as Alphonse whines, but he rises
slowly and walks to the repair room without further complaint.

Without much else to do, Mustang joins the table Edward and Hawkeye have found themselves at,
clumsily flirting with his Captain in a way that makes Edward's skin crawl. It's good to know that
not everything has to change, even if last night's conversation was much too mushy for his taste.
He knows that Pinako and Mustang had some sort of talk, and ever since then, Mustang has been
weird. Edward just hopes that Pinako didn't try to make him feel bad about anything - he's already
getting himself used to seeing less and less of the man, until Edward fades into the line that all
Mustang's past soldiers stand in, and the man eventually forgets all about them. While it'll be nice
to finally get some peace and quiet from the annoying ass, the thought of never really seeing him
and his team is unsettling.

Not that he would go back there. He's never stepping foot inside a military base no matter how
much he'd get paid.

"Captain, we'll be back at work by tomorrow, why are you going on and on about it the one time
we're off?"

"Edward asked, and his input is of value and interest to me," she replies, curt and professional with
the slightest undercurrent of annoyance, "I would assume, after yesterday's talk, that you would
also be interested in what he has to say, but it seems I was mistaken."

"Last night's conversation? With Granny?"

"Captain, why are you mentioning this in front of Ed-"

"Brother."

All three of them go silent as they turn to look at Alphonse, standing in the doorway. His usual
cheery disposition is replaced by a silent, unmoving, glass-like stance that's as stiff as it is eery, on
someone like him. Winry, by his side, looks like she's about to burst.

"Yes?" Edward gulps. What did he do now?

"Winry's just told me a very interesting story that I would be more than keen for you to disprove."
He takes a step forward. His tone is level and quiet. "You see, she seems to be under the
impression that while you were in Baschool, you fought Kimblee, who had 2 Philosopher's Stones,
got impaled by a support beam, then traded years off your lifespan to heal yourself with alchemy,
then failed to mention this to me up until this point."
Oh fuck. He's an idiot.

"Oh fuck," he says, because he's a genius.

"Fullmetal?" Mustang asks in a tone that's more high-pitched than Catalina's, but Edward could not
spare him a single thought right now, because Alphonse's marching across the room with a speed
and ferocity he hasn't had since he was in armour, and punches Edward square across the face. The
momentum of the swing sends him backwards, and his knee slams into the table before he sprawls
onto the floor.

"Alphonse!" Hawkeye exclaims.

"How could you have not told me this?" Alphonse falls right by him, smacking him over and over
again on the arm, shoulder, chest, wherever his hand lands. "You went missing for
months, months, because you were healing a stab wound?"

"There were more important things to talk about!"

"More important than my brother nearly dying?!"

"Yes!"

"You idiot! We've been over this! Nothing's more important than that! What do you expect me to
do with myself if you're not here?!"

"Alright! I get it! Stop hitting me!"

"No! You're an idiot! My brother is an idiot!"

Eventually, Alphonse does stop hitting him. For someone who still kind of looks like he's surviving
a famine, Alphonse packs a mean punch. The boy stands up, heavily breathing as he straightens his
clothes, then offers Edward a hand up. He laughs, just a little bit, before sitting up and getting to
his feet himself. No need to strain his brother even further.

There's a look that flutters in Alphonse's eyes, somewhere between disappointed and hurt, and
Edward adds a mental note to see what that's about after their guests leave.

He turns to Mustang and Hawkeye, who have been openly gawking at the display, and opens his
mouth to apologize before a wrench flies over and hits him square on the forehead.

"What's your problem now?!"

"I can't believe you told me about it before you told Al!" she screeches, digging into her pocket for
yet another wrench to throw at him.

"I hadn't planned to do that! You discovered by accident!"

He and Winry continue screaming at each other before Hawkeye slams her fist down on the table.
The rattle of the loud impact quiets them down.

"I figured it wouldn't be appropriate to shoot a gun inside the house." Picking up an empty cup and
putting it back in place, she turns her gaze to Mustang, whose eyes are locked on Edward.
"Brigadier General?" she asks, ever calm and professional.

"Is what they were saying true?" Mustang asks.

"Obviously, or else I wouldn't have gotten the beating of my life from Mr. Armour over there," he
says, as if this entire discussion isn't about how he hid that he suffered through much, much worse
than a simple punch or two.

The Brigadier's reaction isn't really what he expects. He didn't think the man didn't care about him
at all, he knows there had to be some reason he allowed him to pull all the shit he did while in the
military and didn't just discharge him, or send him off elsewhere. But still...

Mustang is exactly what Ed pictures the perfect soldier to be. Besides that one time with Envy,
Edward has never seen him lose his composure - always calm and cool with the promise of power
and that insufferable, confident smirk. Now that he's free from being annoyed by the man on a
daily basis, he feels confident to say that he really does feel like he can depend on him, that his
position in the military and various titles aren't for nothing.

But man, he looks rattled, distraught. He looks shaken. Normally, he's pale, but his skin looks
downright milky. His eyes are wild and his pupils are small, his breath laboured, hands clenching
and flinching in weird, unpredictable patterns.

"You're, uh... looking kinda weird there, Colonel," he says, and then loses his footing.

Alphonse hugging him is normal, predictable, great, the desired outcome (if not for the fact that
Edward's guilt eats him alive whenever his arms circle around Al's frame). Hugging Al is one of
the things Edward's missed the most over the years that he wasn't corporeal, and getting charged at
like this, once he skips over the boniness of the hug, is great. Mustang is... unexpected. He's larger,
stronger, softer yet stiffer at the same time, and is entirely overwhelming in his desperation.
Objectively, had it been any other time, it might have been an objectively nice hug. But now? He
hugs like a drowning man, the fucker.

"Get off me, now," he speaks through gritted teeth.

"No," Al pouts, and they both tighten their grip.

"You're doing this to punish me."

"It's a good thing you're not in the military anymore," Mustang says, "because by this rate you
would have been dead before I even got to be Fuhrer."

"Let go of me right now," he tries again.

"Not happening," Al says, and oh fuck, is he crying?

"Goddamnit," Edward sighs, and brings his arms around the two idiots hugging him.

Winry walks towards them, but he glares at her before she can take another step. She rolls her eyes
and sticks out her tongue, ruffling his hair condescendingly as she waltzes into the kitchen, asking
Hawkeye if she wants some more tea. If he could bite her hand off, he would. When he turns his
pleading eyes to Hawkeye, she sighs deeply, before shaking her head with a small smile.

"Brigadier General sir, we'll be late for the train if we keep this going much longer."

Mustang huffs, before mercifully releasing Edward. As if he's taking advantage of the newfound
space, Al snuggles in even closer.

"Fullmetal," he says.
"Never speak to me again," Edward growls.

"In your dreams, pipsqueak. Don't get yourself killed. I can't have you buried as a Major anymore,
even if you're anything but that." He shrugs on his overcoat. "Alphonse, Winry, it's been a pleasure
to see you."

"You, too," they both say, though Al hasn't let go of Edward the entire time.

"I'll try to get our schedules clear for a visit every once in a while, but things will get very busy, so
I don't imagine I could clear us two days off before, at least, next year," Hawkeye says as she
follows Mustang to the door. "However, we're always a letter or phone call away when you need
anything."

With that, they are out the door and the house is mercifully clear of visitors. Suddenly, Al stiffens
in the hug and steps away, holding his arms to his sides as though he'd been struck by electricity.

"You good, Al?" Ed asks. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Alphonse dismisses, returning to a more casual stance, "don't die."

Edward debates calling out the blatant lie, but he needs his daily dose of exercise much too badly
to deal with more mushiness. "I'll do my best not to."

He ruffles Al's hair, who leans into it a little bit more than Ed thought he would, then heads to the
physical therapy room. Despite the new arm making rapid improvement, he still feels a few areas
in which it lacks. Now that the main muscles have developed enough to be useable in day to day
life, he needs to move onto exercises that work the entire arm, back and chest together, so they all
work in the harmony the way his other side does.

He contemplates this as he puts down the weights. Now, he thinks, is an excellent time to return to
doing push-ups.

He manages 10 before the long sleeved shirt annoys him too much to keep working, so he chucks it
off and gets back to work.

Edward has a decent enough relationship with his body. It annoys him when people ogle him and
call him pretty or handsome, but he's overall indifferent to how his body looks. How it functions,
however, is obviously of much more importance. He doesn't care about how marred and scarred
his skin is, so long as the scars are healed over and he can do the things he has to.

But what does he actually have to do now?

He's not sure how many push-ups he's gotten under his belt before he goes to look in the mirror.

There's quite a few smaller scars, actually, now that he's looking. The Promised Day has tacked on
at least 7 he hasn't seen before, and the scar from his fight with Kimblee is more brutal and obvious
than he intended it to be. Turning away from the mirror and twisting to look at his back, his brows
pinch. No wonder Winry reacted that way - he's used to seeing shit like this every day on soldiers,
and scars were just funny and crazy stories among peers (until said peers realised he was a solid
decade younger than them, at the least), but when it's someone you care for, or someone you love,
it must really hurt.

While not many other scars are quite as big (automail scars not included), there's a decent
smattering on his arm, standing out as light pink against the tanned skin, some sprinkled on his
back and chest that range in size, colour and texture, and the one on his forehead. He might make a
pretty scary picture, with the bolts everywhere, the muscle and the scars - when he was still
capable of doing the only thing he's ever known, he was probably downright terrifying. Edward
never intended to be this way. All he wanted was... well, what exactly?

Not wanting to waste the day away looking at the mirror, he goes back to the push-ups. The brief
pause allowed his new arm to rest, so he returns to the exercise with rejuvenated energy. He'll
figure out what it is that he wants to do eventually. Fighting's never been something he wants to do,
but he knows he can't waste away sitting at home. It doesn't even matter - he has all the time in the
world now.

As he continues his routine, eventually putting his shirt back on, and Al and Winry coming in and
heading out as they perform their own daily routines, Ed forms a list in his mind of things he can
do for now, until he can figure things out for real.

1, he thinks between curls, figure out why I keep going back to the Gate.

2, he adds some point later on, figure out why Alphonse keeps acting weird and what I've done to
offend him.

3. This is the harder one. Find out what life is like without alchemy. There's gotta be something.

It shouldn't be much of a strain. Winry's been doing it her entire life without any problem. And
speaking of Winry...

4 - tie off the Winry Debacle and finish off both branches.

The list doesn't have an official order, if only because he really doesn't want to do any of the things
on it. Albeit, they're big things. Important things.

Edward's not worried, not really.

He's got all the time in the world.

 What Does the "A" in "Alphonse" Stand For?
Chapter Summary

This is totally not me projecting onto Alphonse. Pinkie promise.

Chapter Notes

This is totally me projecting onto Alphonse. Pinkie promise.

THIS CHAPTER IS 9K WORDS OF LITERAL NONSENSE I'M SO SORRY

Also important to note that I don't feel comfortable including more than most canon-
typical behaviours in my fics. Even in my Mafuyama fic, which is entirely based on
canon but diverges rather dramatically from canon events, I still feel kinda weird about
going beyond canon-typical behaviour, and in general I find the concept of ships like
AlMei kind of uncomfortable (she's 11. 11. It's kinda weird to be shipping her with a
15 y\o) so if you were expecting that then prepare to be disappointed lmao.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"Look at the guy that just walked in. Be subtle. He's so cute!"

"His brother's pretty hot, too. Think he'll hit me up?"

"Marie!"

Not many people in Resembool have golden hair and golden eyes. Naturally, this makes Ed and Al
very noticeable, and they get stared at very often.

When mom used to take them to run errands with her, strangers and familiar shop owners alike
would comment about what "handsome young men" they'd one day turn into, and how they would
become lady magnets before she knew it.

A load of good that did them. His brother, who is, apparently, a source of attraction to many of the
girls, and some of the boys, they've met over the years (particularly after brother finally hit his
dearly needed growth spurt), has only ever had eyes for one person, and they met Winry so young
Alphonse doesn't know a life without her in it. Every once in a while, Alphonse wonders if brother
is even aware of just how many of the young girls that came up to talk to him over the years were
just stricken with how eye-catching they considered him to be. Then again, being without a body
has allowed Alphonse a perspective that not many people would ever get. Being away from the
hormones of a boy his age would doubtlessly be plagued by has allowed him to view things from a
neutral, cool-headed perspective, that was achingly and crushingly lonely.

Edward has never stayed awake wondering if never being interested in anyone is a result of being
stuck in a suit of armour for five years, or if that's just the way Alphonse is. If there's something
wrong with him, beyond even everything else.
Getting his body back means so many more things than one can imagine. After the basics of touch
and smell and food and hugs and sleep, comes just about everything else Alphonse hasn't had the
chance to write in his notebook yet. He's crossed out quite a few things back in Central, and a few
more things in Resembool, shocked by how much smaller his handwriting is now that he has
hands, and how his vision is the finest bit worse, despite the optometrist swearing it was 20\20.
Today, he gets to cross out another one - he, Edward and Winry are going out to get ice cream.

It's surprisingly easy to get Ed to go along with plans - the moment he mentions that something is
on his list, Alphonse has easy access to break down any resistance Edward might put up. Hanging
out as a trio, once more, is a dream come true for all of them, even if neither of the other two would
admit that under anything short of Drachman torture.

As per usual, Edward and Winry play the game of who-can-ignore-their-feelings-the-most while
Al wistfully ponders what that may actually be like. The idea of romantic love never even crossed
his mind as a child, and as a suit of armour, the probability of a suitor dropped to zero. Mei Chang
is an outlier to all of this, of course, but she's a child, and doesn't really know any better. She's a
good friend, a powerful fighter and source of inspiration, but he does not view her the way it's
obvious she wants him to. As previously mentioned - she's a kid. She's allowed to have dreams like
that. Alphonse thinks all kids do, or at least most of them.

Now that Ed is nearly 17, the attention he tends to attract is more of the serious kind than the
girlish squeals that stuck out like a sore thumb when he was trying to be serious. The girls that give
him spare glances out of the corners of their eyes or flip their hair or even, on a rare occasion,
approach him, do seem to actually want his attention.

Like right now, as the three of them are waiting at the counter of the ice cream shop a hour and a
half's walk away from Resembool, and Edward seems to be doing his best raspberry sorbet
impersonation.

To be fair, Al and Winry also aren't that far off from him in tone - the girls sitting on the other side
of the shop are hardly quiet about what they think about both of them, and that's new for Alphonse.
He's never been noticed like that, and while he's pleased, he's not exactly sure if it's an attention he
wants, or one he's simply happy he's capable of receiving. Occasionally, he thinks that people are
just playing it up for attention - there's no way that people actually feel that way about other
people. They're just playing it up because everyone else is.

"The one with the long hair is totally your type, though, Marie," a girl with a brown bobcut twirls a
stray strand of hair.

"Yeah, you should go talk to him!" another one, with long black hair, plays with her spoon.

"I don't know," the girl, apparently Marie, says, "I wasn't being entirely serious. What if he's with
the blond girl? She's so pretty, too!"

Al watches is delight as Edward and Winry's blushes somehow deepen even further. Al receives his
ice cream first but decides to stick around and watch how this plays out.

"I don't think so - maybe she's with the one who has short hair?"

Oh. It gets worse.

"Awe, I sure hope not!" brown bobcut sighs wistfully, "He's also really cute!"

So much worse.
Edward snaps back into reality at this, making eye contact with Alphonse and wiggling his brows.
Al would punch him, he swears, but it would alert the girls that they've been listening in the entire
time, which is rude. Besides, brother just received his ice cream - it's cruel to deny someone their
ice cream, even if they're being an idiot.

"Isn't he a little young for you?" Marie hesitantly asks. Voice of reason, thank you.

"Give it two years and it'll be fine."

"Gross," Winry mutters. "Ogling is one thing, but have some respect for the people you ogle."

"I wasn't aware that I was talking to the ogling master," Edward replies, tone equally lowly and
annoyed.

Because the person she ogles, more often than not, is you, brother, Al thinks, but wisely refrains
from saying so. Besides, he kind of wants to figure out how long they can pull their little game
along before something happens. It's bound do, at some point, right?

"Are you telling me you've never ogled anyone, Mr. Perfect?" she replies.

"Bigger fish to fry, Gearhead." He taps Alphonse on the shoulder and begins to head out of the
shop.

"More like bigger books to read, Alchemy Freak." Her ice cream threatens to spill as she stomps
out herself.

As Alphonse walks towards the exit of the shop himself, he sees the brown-haired girl is staring at
him rather openly. He shoots her a smile that aims to be polite and probably lands closer to shy, but
she blushes and audibly chokes down a squeal anyways.

It's only as he joins his brother and Winry that he starts to catalogue the feelings and conclusions in
his head, letting the other two's endless chatter wash him away.

///

Alphonse sets out to confront his brother after dinner.

Dragging him out to the open field seems like the right thing to do - the Rockbell house is
comfortable and familiar, but it is not theirs, and much as Alphonse loves and trusts Winry, he
really doesn't want her taking part in this conversation yet. He's still not sure if all that... feelings
stuff is an something he finds believable or not, but he knows his brother would never lie to him.
Right now, once and for all, he can get down to the root of things.

However, as they settle in the grass of the open field and look at the evening sky, Alphonse realises
he doesn't even know what he wants to ask, or say, or even where to begin.

"So, Al, much as this is a nice night, what the hell are we doing out here?" Edward stretches his
arms (his flesh, human arms) over his head, looking comfortable and full and as close to content
that he would ever allow himself to be.

"You're in love with Winry, yeah?"

"WHAT?"

This is, perhaps, not the best way to go about his dilemma. Still, nevertheless, he started this thing,
and now he has to finish it.

"You're in love with her."

"No."

"Yes."

"Al."

"Brother."

"I'm not in love with her! She's my mechanic!"

"She's your mechanic and you're in love with her."

"I don't know what being stuck in armour for five years does to the brain but it must have done
something to yours if you think that-"

"Brother, please. That's not what this is about," Alphonse sighs as his shoulders sag. He tries to
give his brother the best deadpan look he can, but he's a bit out of practice. "I live with the two of
you. You are my brother. We know each other better than anyone else in the world, and half the
time I know what you're thinking and feeling before you even say it. I don't care if you'll deny it to
anyone else, but don't deny it to me. It's useless."

Edward opens his mouth with hope that a retort with magically fall out of it about three of four
times before he gives up with a huff, burying his face in his hands and groaning.

"What about it?" he eventually asks, but it comes out muffled.

A little giggle bubbles through Alphonse's mouth before he can help it. Edward snaps his head up
to glare at him, but it doesn't carry much heat.

"I promise, I'm not just going to tease you about it." Right now, he silently adds. "I did want to ask
you about something."

"What? Are you having girl problems?" Edward grins, leaning forward. To Alphonse's distaste, he
starts poking him in the cheek. "Is my baby brother finally growing into manhood?"

"Forget it," Alphonse sighs and gets up, "I'll just go ask Mr. Mustang or something."

Predictably, Edward complains and clings onto his pant's leg. "No," he groans, long and loud and
annoying, "Don't talk to Brigadier Bastard about it. Come on, I promise I'll be good. Or, er, better.
It's about time I'll be of use to you."

As much as that's a troubling statement that they'll have to unpack at some point, Alphonse knows
now isn't the time. He settles back down on the grass.

"Now what is it you want to know?" Edward looks like he's settled down a little, now that he
knows what the conversation is about.

It shouldn't be so daunting, after everything that's happened. They tried to bring their mother back,
deformed themselves brutally, Edward was in the military, they fought in a bloody war. They
watched people die - both of them have; people they cared about and the enemy's side falling like
dominos. Most adults wouldn't be able to handle everything they've been through, and they turned
out mostly, kind of, fine, in the end. This isn't difficult, shouldn't be difficult, and it almost wouldn't
be, if it weren't for one simple thing.

"When did you realise your feeling towards her changed? How did it feel?"

"Hawkeye and I sat down to talk at some point and she brought the topic up, thinking I was aware
of it. She made me think about it, seriously, and the next time I saw Winry it just kind of hit me."

"But what's different? How do you know?"

Edward contemplates the question for a few long moments, then blushes.

"The two people I care about most in the world are you and Winry. You two come first without
any question. But, obviously, the ways that I think about the two of you are different. Couldn't be
further apart. Her... I want her close, you know? The thought of, I don't know, holding her hand and
making her feel precious seems important to me. She's soft and sweet and... well, I wouldn't
say nice, but still nice, and I don't know what I want to do with her, but I would like us to figure it
out together, you understand?"

Everything Edward said was sweet. Amusing, soft, surprisingly wholesome, and mushy to an
extent Edward might never be able to bring himself to verbalise again. Unfortunately, it's also what
Alphonse didn't want to hear, because it further cements the now undeniable fact in - that there's
something wrong with him. He's the one that's off, and weird, because what Edward said is what
everyone else says. At the end of the day, it is real, and actually, he is missing out on
something. Maybe, if Edward's response was different, resembled what Al thought or felt a little
more, he could fool himself into thinking that's just how life fashioned the two of them, but if even
Edward is feeling the way that everyone else says they do, the problem really and truly is
Alphonse. Have his years in the armour really done irreversible damage? Will he forever be
someone that grew up apart from their body? Is there some important evolutionary step that
requires one to be in their corporeal form that he missed out on forever?

"That sounds sweet." Alphonse can't even bring himself to look at his brother. He's not sure what
his voice sounds like right now, but he's sure it's not what he wants it to be.

"I don't know about that, Al, but I have to be honest that if it weren't Winry, it probably wouldn't
have been anyone else."

This stops Alphonse in his tracks. Could he, possibly, feel a similar way to him?

"What do you mean, brother?"

By the time he looks at his brother's face, the concern and confusion have been stored away in a
box Al will never be privy to in his life. Instead, he finds unending sympathy and understanding,
which reminds him, once more, how lucky he is to have the people he has in his life.

"The whole falling-in-love business. It's stupid, and I never understood it. With all the girls and
whoever around us making stupid, gross, weird comments, and people falling in love with total
strangers and doing gross shit like getting married and having babies. I always thought it sounded
unappealing and weird. Then the whole Winry thing happened, and honestly?" Edward locks his
gaze with Alphonse's, does a little squint. "If it weren't her, I don't think I'd ever feel that way for
anybody. On the off chance that my feelings fade, I doubt I'll ever have them for anybody else."
As a way to seal the deal, Edward claps him on the back, shaking his thin frame a little.

"There's nothing wrong with you if you've never felt that way. Or never do. You're my brother, and
whatever obstacle you face, we'll figure it out." He slings his arm over Alphonse's shoulder. "I
thought I was the same, and I wasn't stuck in a suit of armour for five years."

Al stops moving as his eyes widen, and Edward's Cheshire grin makes him wonder how long he
knew what Alphonse was thinking.

"Come on, Al, it goes both ways; don't try to hide anything from me. You've always been shit at
that."

He recovers quickly.

"And you've always been bad at lots of other things."

"At least I'm not bad at swearing."

"Cursing is crass and impolite, brother." The two of them get up and stroll to the Rockbell house.

"I'm not taking that shit from you. You're every bit the mischievous gremlin I'm accused of being,
and it's only because you act so high and mighty that you don't get caught."

"This entire conversation only goes to show how far proper etiquette can get you, brother,"
Alphonse muses as he goes inside the door. The Rockbell house is always a little warmer than the
outside world, so he sheds his overcoat as his brother ties up his hair.

"I'm gonna go talk to Winry about something, you take the first shower," Edward orders as he
takes off his shoes.

"That's suspiciously kind of you."

"If by the time I'm done talking, you're still in there, I'm kicking you out of the bathroom."

"There we go."

"Clock is ticking, Al!"

The two part with a laugh as Alphonse climbs upstairs.

Sooner than Alphonse might have realised before now, the two month mark since the Promised
Day is drawing close, and there's finally a semblance of progress in his frame. His ribs and
hipbones no longer protrude quite as much, and the pants he's wearing don't hang as much as they
used to. His skin is unblemished and unscarred, which makes sense, all things considered, but a
strange feeling settles through him when he realises that once he fills out properly, there will be no
physical evidence for anything he's done, or has been done to him.

It's not a bad thing, of course - his brother probably isn't as at peace with his scars as he tries to
convince himself he is - but it leads him down a train of thought he didn't think he'd be able to
consider - can he really leave their past behind?

Eventually the percentages of fat and muscle in his body will become normal. His thin, delicate
appearance might harden over, or fill out, and the people that walk past him will be none the wiser
that Alphonse and his brother came close to achieving the impossible. There's a comfort in the
thought - the armour always felt somewhat exposing, as if people could see right through the metal
plating into the blood crest decorating his inside, and spill all his secrets. Now that his flesh and
blood is his again, this could be his chance to try and be normal, right?

Maybe if he tries to date someone, things might click.

It could work, right? He'll meet a nice girl, go out with her, get to know her, and perhaps, if he's
lucky, he'll get to experience a fraction of what Edward is, and he could achieve what he so gravely
desires - a normal, teenage experience, followed by a normal, quiet life.

That has to work, right?

While Alphonse doesn't quite believe his own words, he leaves the shower with a strong sense of
determination. If nothing else, he always has his determination to get him to power through
anything.

///

The next morning greets him with softness. The night before, he went to bed with a slightly sour
taste in his mouth, but having a feasible goal in his mind relaxes him somewhat. He also managed
to sleep last night - definitely not something to take for granted. Sleep had evaded him almost
entirely the 2 nights prior. Thank god for Winry and her endlessly long automail nights.

He thunders downstairs with a ferocity that's entirely unneeded, and Winry greets him with a smile
and a quick hug. Not one to turn down an opportunity for affection, he pats her back before
slinking into the kitchen for tea. As he waits for the kettle to whistle, Winry and Edward join him
in the kitchen. His brother ruffles his hair while Winry asks if he's willing to help her make
breakfast. Alphonse and Edward then join her in food preparations, the trio blending seamlessly
into each other as they wander through the small room; six hands chopping and stirring and frying,
reaching for cupboards and washing dishes. Winry fills the air with a summery hum while
Alphonse and Edward chat about a rather interesting theory Edward had read about the day before
about transmutation of different types of rock, and by the time Pinako joins them at the dining
table, Alphonse is filled with a soft, hazy, lively warmth he hasn't felt in since mom was alive.

"Thank you for the food," he smiles, before they all dig in.

Now, this far into his recovery, Alphonse's appetite rivals his brother's, and by the time Pinako has
finished her small serving, he and Edward are already half way through their second plate. Winry
really went out this time, too - pancakes and eggs, bacon, fruit salad, with fresh squeezed orange
juice for everyone, and milk for him. Absently, Alphonse wonders why she went into such an
effort, but decides to refrain from asking. If he really needs to know, he will, and he's too busy
enjoying himself to question it.

As they clear up their plates and carry them to the kitchen for Winry to wash up, his brother
surprises him with a soft clap on the back.

"You got any plans for today, Al?"

Alphonse does. Now that he knows that, to a certain extent, that what people describe as 'romantic
feelings' is real (he's absolutely sure that the teenage ramblings and instant crushes are fake,
though, or exaggerated to an unrealistic extent), he wants to go test the waters. All this is, in the
end, is a roadblock. Alphonse is more than familiar with those; he'll find a way to surpass it in no
time.

"Yeah, I'll probably be out most of the day, why?"

"Ah, it's nothing," Edward dismisses, "I wanted to try and fix that leak in the roof that Granny's
been complaining about; no matter, we can take care of that tomorrow."

This raises Alphonse's slumbering suspicions. His brother and Winry are being weird.

"Why do you care all of a sudden?"

"Because if I have to listen to the old hag nagging us through the winter about the leak not being
fixed, I'm gonna go insane."

"For such a tiny punk as yourself, you have no business complaining about other people's
loudness," Granny Pinako pipes up from her perch on the sofa, "considering you're the reason I'm
just about deaf in my right ear."

Naturally, Alphonse tunes the inevitable argument out. Peace can only last so long when Edward
and Pinako (or almost any adult, really) are in the same room, and while the breakfast was nice
and comforting in a way he doesn't get to experience much, the yelling and chaos are Alphonse's
perfect excuse to weasel out of the house, ignoring Winry's inquisitive stare in the process.

On his walk into town, he mentally debates his action plan - he wants to secure a date. Multiple, if
optional, to get enough results to render the experiment worthwhile. He's a man of science, at the
end of the day, and if the sample size is too small, he'll never be able to reach any overarching
conclusions. However, he mustn't go about it in the wrong way - women are human beings who
deserve to be treated with kindness and respect, and if he were to ask a girl out on a date, it would
have to be one he likes, or one he could see himself liking one day, and he can't lie to or trick them.
It's not right to use them simply for his own knowledge - he must make each outing an enjoyable
experience for them, too - an all around win for everyone involved.

He arrives at the market with a firm plan of action in mind, but no way to implement it.

As he strolls through the market, he makes small talk with the vendors. In the back of his mind, he
rewinds the state of the icebox in his head - they're low on eggs, apples, and peaches, but is there
anything else? Winry said last night that she wanted more spring onions for-oh. He got distracted.
Oops.

Comedically enough, his mindless wandering have lead him to exactly where he needs to be - he's
standing right by a bakery, and there's a girl trying hard to conceal the fact that she's staring at him.
Her hair is a warm chocolate brown, falling in curly waves down her shoulders. She looks to be his
age, maybe a year or so older, and completely normal. The soft pink of her blouse complements the
pinkness of her cheeks that she tries to hide, and Alphonse's too far away to see her eye colour
when she looks at him, but he notices her nose is small and dainty. In her hands is a book.

Before looking back at her, Alphonse takes a deep breath.

Come on, he thinks. You fought Pride and Kimblee at the same time. You can talk to a girl.

Keeping the movement as natural as possible, he smiles at the girl, who flushes a bright, vivid red,
hiding her face in the book. Wait, he recognises that cover - it's a book of alchemy!

"Hey," he says, walking towards her and trying to make himself as non-intimidating as possible, "I
actually finished reading that book a little while ago," he smiles. Unless a little while ago
somehow translates into around about five years ago, then it's a bit of a lie, but it's a white lie.
Most adults can't even keep up with him and his brother, anyways.

The girl squeaks a little bit, then straightens out, peering at him from behind the book. It's kind of
sweet, he thinks, and her round cheeks only further instil her girlishness in his mind.

"You have?" she asks. She has a bit of a gap between her front teeth.

"Yeah, I found its approach to the theoretical explanations quite useful, easy to understand but not
childish." He sits down. "Are you also an alchemist?"

"Not yet, I've only begun practicing the basics a year ago."

"Well, this book is really great for advancing your knowledge in practical theory."

"Are, um, are you an alchemist?" She wrings her fingers nervously. Her gaze keeps fluttering from
him, to the book. This probably won't work if she's so nervous. Come on, Alphonse, what do you
do to calm her down?

"Yeah, I am," he says as an idea brews in his mind. Leaving his seat at the outdoor table, he
crouches down on the earth and claps.

As the familiar and comforting smell of ozone infiltrates his lungs and the alchemical energy
crackles down his arms, he's struck by the realisation that this is the first time he's performed a
transmutation since retrieving his body. He still feels uncomfortable performing it around his
brother, much as Edward says he doesn't mind, but feeling the crackle, the energy flowing through
him is... honestly, it's downright euphoric.

He can barely even concentrate on the transmutation itself, trusting his experience that it'll turn out
fine. As he works, he's struck by an almost overwhelming sense of rightness. This, here, is what
he's always supposed to do.

There is, however, one nagging thought - this is also what he took away from his brother.

Not the time to think about that.

Turning back to the girl, he presents her with two things - a small bunny, and a little, makeshift
bouquet. Both made of stone, so not quite as soft or mouldable as the real deals, he still thinks he
did quite well - the bunny sculpture has a fur-like consistency to it, and the proportions are alright.
Alphonse doesn't know many flowers beyond the ones that grow out in the field by the Rockbell's,
but he does know those ones fairly well. Almost daisy-like, but a bit bigger, and he thinks the
petals work well enough.

Presenting them to the girl, he realises he's been doing this all wrong.

"I'm sorry, I've done this all in the wrong order." He sits down again. "What's your name?"

"Eva," she says, or squeaks. It honestly sounds as though the syllable was squeezed out of her.
"These are gorgeous! I really like your transmutation style. I can't even see any transmutation
marks." She marvels at the bunny.

"Thank you!"

"How long have you been practicing Alchemy?"

"About 11 years now."

Her eyes widen, and she drops the bunny on the table in her shock. It clangs loudly, but doesn't
chip or break. "What? I thought you were my age. How old are you?!"

"I turned 15 a few months ago."

They didn't celebrate his birthday. Edward was still missing, and they were knee-deep in a war,
and he barely even remembered the date until Hawkeye mentioned it in passing. He didn't even
want to remember it. Now, though... Next year, he could celebrate, if he wants to. Could throw a
party. Who would he even invite?

"So you are my age... You've been practicing alchemy since you were four years old?" Her grip
on the bouquet tightens.

"Well, I wasn't really good at it as a four-year-old."

"Still," she insists, "you must be a genius!"

"Not really," he denies. "If anyone is a genius, it's my brother. He..." he punched God in the face
two or three months ago, he thinks, but he can't really say that. "He inspires me to keep learning
and honing in my skill, so I can be as good as him."

"I can't really imagine anyone being better than you are at this age, though. I'm still stuck at the
basic level."

This is it, Alphonse! he thinks. This is your golden ticket!

"If you want," he says, "we can meet up later and talk about it more?"

"Yes!" she says instantly, then blushes all over again and buries her face in her hands. Alphonse
giggles, and she straightens her head to give him a look that speaks miles of her embarrassment.
"Can we rewind, like, five seconds?"

Alphonse outright laughs at this one, giving her the warmest smile he can. "How about we meet
here later today, and then see where we go?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Is seven good?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you then."

///

Alphonse does feel nervous in the upcoming hours, but it's less in the butterfly sense, and more so
the dread before a test.

Since unloading the groceries back at the Rockbell home, Alphonse's been aimless and restless.
He's changed outfits three or so times, hesitating in the balance between casual and overdone. In
the end, he settled for a cream button down, a sage green vest, and forest green pants. Is it too
formal? He doesn't own t-shirts that aren't torn or stained by this point. Edward is not one to ask
for this type of stuff - not only has his infatuation with Winry rendered him useless, but his sense of
fashion is very... alternative.
In his time of need, Alphonse does wish he had someone to talk to. His dad, Mr. Mustang, anyone.
He even briefly considers phoning into Central, but he knows the Brigadier General won't like the
interruption to his daily routine, but would be too nice to say no. Since his brother is no longer in
the military, Mr. Mustang has no need to talk to them, and Alphonse shouldn't bother him. After
the way he leaned on him when he was here, too... He should leave him alone. That was probably
really uncomfortable for the Brigadier, but he was just too nice to say so.

But, he still has no one he can talk to, or ask.

In the end, it seems the question does come to a timely answer, but not of his own volition.

Winry knocks on the door to his room and comes in while he's still stood in front of his dresser.

"Uh..." the dirty laundry basket thumps onto the carpeted floor near soundlessly, and Winry's face
is stuck between a question and a smile. "You got plans for tonight?"

"Actually, I do, yes."

The silence stretched awkwardly.

"Are your plans the kind of plans that require a nice outfit and flowers?"

"I think I've already taken care of the latter, incidentally."

Winry's brows raise even further. The embarrassment might just smother him alive.

"These plans, are they with someone I know?"

"I met her while I was getting groceries." Winry closes the door silently. It's a testament to how
much better she knows the house than he or his brother, because every time he closes it, it always
creaks, no matter how slow or fast he does it. The lack of noise makes Alphonse feel like a guest.
"She's an alchemy beginner, and I offered to help her with some advice and tips."

"And so those tips involve your nicest pair of slacks?"

"You're worse than brother is."

Peals of laughter escape Winry as she thunks back against the closed door, her arms crossed and
her stature loose and relaxed.

"These aren't my nicest pair, though."

Winry seems to sober up a little after that, but her cheeks are still round with laughter, and the
upturned corners of her lips push dimples into them. "Do you need any help with that?"

"Please," Alphonse breathes, "I'm hopeless."

Pushing off the door, she hums as she breezes past him, headed straight for his wardrobe. She sorts
through his shirts as she airs through her thoughts aloud.

"I never pictured you to be the type to woo girls or go on dates." She holds up a cream coloured
shirt.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alphonse's stomach churns at the thought. Does he stick out like
a sore thumb? Is his abnormality somehow present in his day to day life in a way that he missed?
"Nothing negative," she dismisses with the wave of her hand, "you're overreacting. Just that it
doesn't really strike me as something you would gravitate towards."

Apparently, she found something she likes, because she hums, throws a light beige button up at
Alphonse while she moves onto the pants drawer. He moves to sit at the foot of his twin bed.

"Well, I had more pressing matters that concerned me, before," he defends. "I have the time to
enjoy things I couldn't in the past."

Winry seems to slow down a bit after the admission. Her back is to him, so he can't accurately
gauge her reaction, but he knows her fairly well by this point. She's mulling something over.

"No one deserves that more than you two," She says, in a voice too loud to be a whisper, but not by
much.

"Thank you, Winry," he smiles at her, even though she can't see it.

More rustling.

"Aren't these pants a bit small for you?" She scrunches her nose.

"I'm quite a bit thinner than you think I am," Alphonse laughs. "Just because I've improved a bit
doesn't mean I don't still have a long way to go."

"Then, improve faster," she snaps, "I need to take you clothes shopping and I'm not gonna do it just
for clothes you're going to outgrow in half a year."

"Why, so I can have more dating attire?"

"No, so you can have more alchemy attire." She throws the pants she picked at him. Dark brown.
"Now that I think of it, I haven't actually seen you perform any alchemy since you came back.
Why?"

He fingers the seam across the hem of the pants.

"Is it because of Ed?" she asks.

Wordlessly, Alphonse nods.

Winry sits down next to him on the bed, putting her hand on his shoulder. People always rub their
hands in circles when they do that to him.

"You know that he doesn't want you to stop doing the thing you both love most just because he
can't do it anymore, right?"

He bites his lower lip. "It's not right though. I can't just walk around and keep doing it when he
gave up his alchemy for me. He'll never admit it, but I know it hurts him."

Winry grunts. "Of course it hurts him. That doesn't mean you have to stop. Do you really think he
wants you to stop with alchemy just because he can't do it anymore? What do you think he would
say if he heard you say that?"

"He would tell me to stop worrying."

"And?"
"He would hit me and call me an idiot."

"Because..."

"I'm being an idiot. But I don't want to hurt him. Surely, you understand." Alphonse turns his pleas
from the endless expanse above their world to Winry. "Alchemy is something we've always done
together."

"Then think about it less as a separation and more like continuing all of Ed's work through you."
Her hand slides down to squeeze his as his eyes widen. "Edward's alchemy didn't just fizzle off into
nothingness, right? You said it yourself. Your alchemy has always been about the two of you. So,
don't think about it like a limb that got cut off, but rather Ed's alchemy passing through you."

It's not quite accurate, but it opens a world of thoughts and possibilities in his mind.

"Thank you, Winry. Seriously, thank you."

She grins at him.

"Always happy to help. Now, let's get you date ready."

Slapping her thighs, she groans as she stands up. "Put on those clothes. By the time your next date
rolls around, I want you to have a much more flexible wardrobe, so there's something there to work
with."

He laughs as she strolls towards the door. "Anything for you."

///

Seeing as the conversation he had with Winry was rather serious and grave, his date-induced
nerves are all but gone by the time seven rolls around. The walking cane was definitely a good
move - he feels fine, but that's only because he has the extra support. Eva's already there, waiting,
by the time he shows up, and though he isn't late, he still apologises for keeping her waiting. She's
wearing a sundress, and the yellow-peach-pink flower pattern is definitely one that she put a lot of
thought into - she paired it with two bracelets and a necklace. The cut of the dress suites her full
frame so perfectly that it might as well have been made with her proportions in mind. In her hands,
clenched tight enough to crackle the spine, is the same alchemy textbook she was holding earlier.
The bakery has long since closed for the day. Her eyes brush over his outfit and the cane.

"It's alright," she waves away his apology. "If anything, I should apologise."

"What for?" he asks.

"I never actually asked for your name."

"Oh," he says, then laughs. "That's quite silly, actually, yeah."

"Not my brightest moment. Do you know where we're headed?"

"Anywhere that's open fields. It's best to practice on open terrain. My name is Alphonse."

Eva freezes where she stands. "Alphonse... Elric?" she whispers. Her voice shakes in awe.
"Uh, yeah." It wasn't meant to be a question, but it almost comes out as one. "I wasn't aware that
needed clarification."

"But you're Alphonse Elric."

"And you're Eva."

This seems to shake her out of her stupor. "Everyone's talked about you. Shit, I mean, heard about
you. I mean-" she whimpers a bit, blushing deeply.

"It's alright, take a deep breath." He lays a hand on her shoulder, but she stiffens, so he retracts it.

"I'm sorry. It's just that with you coming and going and so many of the townspeople knowing you, I
think most of Resembool knows about you and your brother at this point. I even hear stories about
your mother sometimes." Her eyes widen. "Oh, uh, sorry. My condolences."

"No need."

"And there are just so many crazy stories that couldn't possibly be true, like you and your brother
becoming State Alchemists by the age of 12? And you were just walking around in a suit of armour
for all that time?"

"My brother was the state alchemist, yes."

Her jaw drops. For a few tense moments, neither of them speak.

Objectively, Alphonse is aware that his life is not, by any means, normal. He and his brother have
accomplished, in four years, what most adults can't do in a lifetime, and they did it as children, too.
That being said, Alphonse doesn't think it had that much of an adverse affect on them. Traumas
and possible romantic inabilities aside, he and Ed function like normal human beings. Often times,
he could find himself relating to Havoc, Fuery and Falman as they discussed various aspects of
their life, even pitching in on the occasional discussion. Mr. Mustang and Edward have much more
in common than either of them would like to think, and he and Winry often find themselves
circling through similar thought processes.

In his mind, this is enough proof that what he experiences and does are normal, average things.

Now, that he finds himself back in his hometown, does he realise the faults in relating too hard to
military personnel and war-torn veterans.

What do people that haven't committed alchemy's greatest taboo consider alright?

What do they do for fun?

"Does that mean all the rumours are true?" She finally asks.

This question poses yet another problem to him - there are a lot of rumours that have circled him
and his brother, and since he wasn't the one in active duty, he doesn't know how much of it is
technically classified information. And to think that before, he was most worried about the
technical aspects of a date.

"I'm not sure which ones are and which ones aren't, but how about we talk about something a little
more practical?" he gestures at the book in her hands.

"I..." she hesitates, but Alphonse really hopes she doesn't ask. He doesn't want to think about the
fact that people he's never met know so many things about him. Coming back home wasn't
supposed to be a return as a celebrity, or some sort of icon, or warrior. He fought in a war, but he
doesn't feel like a warrior. He's Alphonse. That's all there is to it.

She must recognise this in his face, because she sighs and goes along with him, suggesting a
location close to her house but not right there. Yet another reminder that he needs to work on
controlling his facial expressions.

They begin walking.

Searching through his brain for a way to salvage this, he turns to their common denominator.

"So, where are you struggling in terms of transmutation?"

She jolts, just a little. Her grip on the book tightens. "Um, I think I get the ratios a bit wrong. Not
totally wrong, I mean, I have been studying, but the more fine details, you know? The finer details,
right. I don't think there's anything wrong with how I draw the transmutation circles themselves,
but, like, you're the expert, you'll be able to tell if I'm doing something wrong. I never
actually think my ratios are wrong, but it's the most likely cause, because I-"

Alphonse absently listens to her ramblings, feeling a mixture of disjointed and relieved that he
managed to weasel out of what might be a rather unpleasant conversation.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she gulps. "I've been rambling like an idiot!"

"It's quite alright; it's a good thing that I know more about the fields you're struggling with, and
also that I get to hear more about you than your struggles with alchemy."

"More about me than- oh..." Did Alphonse mess up? Her face is tomato red.

"I'm sorry if that was uncomfortable." His cheeks flush. "I just... well..."

"No, I get it. Thanks." She grins at him. "I would like to know who you are beyond all the
rumours, too."

They arrive at a scrapyard. Pieces of metal, wood and machinery all piled up together, sorted,
seemingly, by size, and not by material. The yard isn't that big, and not incredibly full, barring a
large pile in the centre that blocks the back of the yard from sight, but there are plenty of things
they can work with. All sorts of metals, too - steel, aluminium, all sorts of alloys, too... There are
multiple types of wood, which is good to know but ultimately irrelevant, and a small, organised
pile in the corner of glass shards. Now that he's thinking of it, there are a few small, messy piles at
the feet of the larger piles that seem to be sorting through the material types.

"I've spent a little while setting this place up before I started practicing." Eva bits her lip until it
turns white, then takes his hand, walking him into the scrapyard. Her hand is clammy and warm.
"It was a disorganised mess, so I started to sort each pile by material type. It's a bit harder with the
larger ones, but I've been trying with the small and medium sized pieces of scraps."

Alphonse smiles at her in an attempt to get her to calm down.

"That's a great idea, Eva. Have you been practicing here as well, or just sourcing?"

"I've been practicing here, too, right over there."

Turning round the large centre pile, Eva's practice spot comes into view. There are 5 piles of
materials in a row - each about 30-50cm tall, one plastic, one glass, one wood, two metal. In front
of the piles is a rather large open space, with a multitude of half-smudged chalk markings - all of
which are clearly attempts at transmutation circles.

"Alright then," Alphonse instantly pulls his hand from hers. Dropping to a crouch, he leans to look
at the circles. They're pretty decent for someone of her level of experience, but he sees a few places
that could use improvement. "I see you've been working with a lot of metal. My brother would
have probably been able to help you a lot more - he's a metal specialist."

"Would have?"

"He... um, he..." he sighs. "Eva, can you keep a secret, please?"

She blinks at him, and her brows crease. "Sure."

"He can't do alchemy anymore."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that. I'm guessing you don't want the townspeople to know about that, right?"

"Yeah."

"In that case, your secret's safe with me!"

Alphonse smiles in relief with his gaze still on the transmutation circles. "Thanks. It means a lot.
Let's get to work then, alright?"

By the time he turns to look back at her, she hasn't come any closer. There's something analytical
about her expression, but she quickly schools it into a pleasant, warm smile and drops to a kneel
next to him.

"Lead the way, alchemy genius."

Eventually, between their alchemy talks and personal talks, it reaches 9:30pm. Eva has conquered
the basics of transmutation, and has transmuted a box, a horse-doll out of wood, a pair of non-
functional glasses and a picture frame, which she says is for a picture of her family. Three sisters
and two brothers, as well as their mother and father. It was at that point that they decided they
should head back to the bakery, where they will part ways.

While he definitely enjoyed the time he spent with her, he doesn't think that it's what people
describe as romance. Well, it could be? She's vey nice, he made her laugh a few times, and once
she calmed down enough, he saw a side of her that was cheeky and entertaining, and her intellect
and knowledge clearly display the bare bones of a pretty good future alchemist. He felt comfortable
talking to her about anecdotes from his childhood, and discovering parts of their paths that had
unknowingly been crossed - turns out, Mrs. Catalina is her aunt, her cousin works in a bakery in
central Edward used to frequent, and the two of them even went to the same school. She's fun to
talk to, and a great conversationalist.

All in all, they hit it off great. Alphonse had tons of fun, and he would really like to hang out with
her again, but he's not sure if this is what people feel is romance. It's close enough? Kind of? Is this
what it actually is? Will Alphonse ever actually know?

Before he can reach any definitive conclusions, they reach the bakery, and it's time to part ways.

Eva's wearing a smile that Alphonse can't quite understand.

"I had lots of fun tonight," she says once the silence verges on uncomfortable. "I think it would be
nice to meet up again."

Alphonse thinks so, too.

"It would be good to have a friend like you," she adds.

"Friend?" he asks.

"Well, yeah." Eva snorts. "At the beginning I might have harboured some kind of expectation that
this might be a date, but it's clear from your behaviour that you just want to be friends. Which is
cool and great! I'd love to! But this was absolutely not a date."

"Oh."

"Is that... something you want?"

"What do people do on dates?"

An owl coos as she ponders over his question. Alphonse doesn't know whether to stare at her shoes
or his.

"Well, they hold hands quite a bit."

"That's what that was!?"

"Haha, yeah."

"That completely went over my head, I'm so sorry!"

"Don't apologise; it was sweet. People also like to be close on dates. Guys have tried to wrap their
arms around me, or touch my face."

"Oh."

Alphonse doesn't want to do any of that with her. He hasn't met anyone he wants to do that with.

"Pardon me for my bluntness, but I didn't receive the impression that you wanted to do that with
me."

"You're a great girl, Eva, and I would really like to be friends with you, but no."

"I get it. Here's to the start of a good friendship."

She raises the hand not holding her alchemy textbook, and they both laugh as he shakes it.

"I'll give you my house number, so you can ring it whenever you want and we can set up another
time to meet up again?" Alphonse suggests.

"Oh, you bet. The last thing I'm going to do is let go of an alchemy genius that isn't going to charge
me money for tutoring."

Alphonse heads to the house with a large smile and a lighter conscience. He barely even needs the
cane's support.

Edward and Winry are both waiting for him in the living room when he gets back. The lack of a
shit-eating grin on his brother's face tells him that Winry must have yelled at him to be nice, and
Alphonse's lips might have quirked up in a smile had they not been stuck that way the entire time.
Both of them are wearing clothes that are clearly meant for comfort rather than to look good, and
the house is warm and drowsy. It smells of seasoning and pork and lots of nice things.

Unable to fight the welcoming air of the home, Alphonse crosses the sofa and plops down on
Winry's side. He's in a pretty good mood, after all, and the last thing he needs is to sour it by
making Edward uncomfortable in his vicinity. Winry's arm falls onto the back of the couch, and
her hand rubs circles at his shoulder.

"How did your plans turn out?" She asks.

"They were nice," he answers truthfully. "I made a new friend."

"Just a friend?" Winry prods, jostling him slightly, humorously.

"Win, knock it off," Edward warns, but Alphonse just shakes his head.

"It's fine. Yeah, just a friend." He stretches his legs, before getting up and walking to the kitchen.
Edward and Winry have clearly already eaten, but his brother put a plate aside for him. "She was
really nice and we got along great, but ultimately, I don't see her as more than a new friend."

"Nothing wrong with that." Edward picks at his teeth with his nail.

"Next time, you'll find someone you'll be interested in," Winry suggests.

"Or, maybe not."

"Ed! That's so rude!"

"It's alright; thank you." Although the words are aimed at Winry, the grateful smile he sends is
aimed at his brother.

"I consider this to be time well spent, after all." he sits down at the dinner table. The other two
come to sit with him as he eats.

It doesn't matter that he now has another friend instead of a girlfriend.

After all, a sample size of one is unreliable.

///

"Alphonse!" Winry's voice carries, all the way into the physical therapy room. "You have a call
from someone named Eva?"

"Coming!" Alphonse yells as he drops the weights.

It had been about a week since he met up with Eva, and while he didn't quite expect a call from her
that soon, he can't say he begrudges it - new friends are always a good thing. After he had come
home that night, it took him a while to convince himself that he hadn't accidentally lead Eva on
that night, but he's come to the conclusion that he probably hadn't.
 Definitely not, if she was calling him.

"Hey Al, how are you?" Eva chirps down the line.

"I'm good, how've you been?"

"I've been great," she says, "but most importantly - I've got someone for you."

"Excuse me?" he laughs nervously.

"Oh, don't give me that attitude," she yells, and Winry laughs from where she's leant on the wall.
"You know what I mean."

"Actually, no."

"I have a friend. Her name is Maeve. She's super cool and smart and pretty, and I think you two
might hit it off."

"What?"

"What did I say that needs clarifying?"

"You're setting me up on a date with your friend?"

"Yeah," she laughs, "Like I said, you guys have complementary personality types. I think you
would get along well."

"So, you... want us to date?"

"It would be nice, yeah."

He heard giggles down the line. Is someone else listening to their conversation right now?

"Ignore the girls, they're trying to listen in on our talk. Shut up already!" She yelps, but she must've
moved away from the phone, because the sound is weak and muffled. Alphonse chuckles.

"Fine, sure, sounds great."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Just tell me when and where and I'll be there"

"Great! I'll call you later today for the details."

"Alrig-" he says, but she's already hung up.

Winry has the biggest smirk on her face when he turns to look at her.

"Maybe this date will be different, huh?"

"If you still want to go clothes shopping with me, I would really appreciate it."

Chapter End Notes

I think it's so funny how different the struggles I gave Edward and Alphonse are.
It's like
Ed: Truth is appearing in my dreams and fucking with my sleep. I am a wreck because
of my own guilt.
and then there's just Alphonse Dating Simulator

Another note (I literally cannot shut up) is that while Eva and maybe her friends will
have cameos in the rest of the fic, they are not going to be main characters - their
purpose is to highlight certain aspects of the Elrics' return to normal society
 Circular
Chapter Summary

I torture Edward a little bit more

Chapter Notes

CW: This chapter contains elements of CPTSD, as well as vague mentions of canon-
typical violence, and Ed-typical self loathing\almost self-gaslighting. There's no
specific scene in which this takes place, but it's spread out through the chapter, and
starts in the second scene all the way to the end. I would recommend to proceed with
caution if this is a sensitive topic for you.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Edward's starting to get tired of the gate.

Much as he's aware that this is an incredibly unique position that should be used for exploration
and the advancement of knowledge of human kind, the shock and awe have long since worn off,
leaving room for an annoyance that's relieving in its familiarity. Since he has no alchemy anymore,
there's nothing that he can actually do here, besides sit and talk to the same fucking bastard he's
been talking to every night. They've run through every single conversation topic. Multiple times.
And the worst part, the very worst fucking part of it all is that-

"You still have no idea why you're here, right?"

For all that people call Edward a genius, he's never felt more stupid in his life.

"I can tell that it's pissing you off, you know. Even though you haven't spoken to me in three days."
Truth lounges in a sprawl that annoys Edward even more than when Brigadier Bastard would yap
at him for not submitting proper reports.

Edward does his part and stays silent.

It's not as though anything changed in the last few weeks. He falls asleep, goes to the gate, fucks
around for the night, wakes up. Time passes differently in the gate, he's found. It doesn't feel like
he's there for nearly as long as he is. Maybe he does manage to spend some of the time asleep
(finally getting some peace), but whenever he wakes up, on either side of reality, he's alert and
awake.

The biggest question he has, besides how to make it stop, is that he doesn't know how he keeps
getting there. Not in the sense of what draws him in, which is still a mystery, but rather the
mechanics. One has to pass through their door to reach the gate, but his door is gone. Has been for
months. That's entirely out of the question - every time he's here, there's no door. Only a pearly
white endlessness, and an occasional flicker of a light grey shadow out of the corner of his eye.
Maybe Truth is playing tricks on him, or maybe the returns to the gate are just a result of his
dwindling sanity.

Maybe the Drachmans or the humunculi kidnapped him, and the last three months are entirely his
hallucination. Hah - isn't that a thought.

"You got a pet up here?" Edward asks.

Truth performs a gesture not unlike a man raising his brows. "Why do you ask that?"

"'Cause something keeps flickering out of the corner of my eye, and it's starting to piss me off."

"A rare occurrence, indeed."

"Fuck off."

"Do continue, please." Truth gestures with a grin.

Edward grits his teeth. He hates Truth more than he does a lot of things in life, but he figures that
his only way out is to cooperate.

"There's nothing here, since my gate is gone, but I keep seeing something flicker somewhere in my
peripheral vision, and I don't know what it is."

"You got any theories?"

"Do you honestly think that if I had any ideas I wouldn't have fucking shared them by now?!"
Edward yells.

"You strike me as the kind of person that tries to hold their cards close to their chest. I'm just trying
to be helpful."

His eyelid twitches.

"You seem very agitated."

"Get me out of here, right now."

"Are you sure about that?"

"What do you even mean by- you know what? Never mind. Yes."

Truth sighs.

"Alright," it drawls.

There's a blink of consciousness in which Edward feels as though he's been sucked through a
vacuum and split in half at the same time, before his eyes fly open and he's in his bed.

As opposed to every other time, it's still pitch black outside when he gets up. Considering he spent
less time than usual in the gate, it's to be expected, but the untimely and unexpected banishment
felt strange. Stretching his legs and planting them on the floor, his head starts to swirl the moment
he sits up. A part of his brain is buzzing, but he feels like a radio that's chord was yanked mid-
broadcast. There's a silence that feels wrong, and a distant ringing in his head, telling him he made
an error somewhere along the way.

A hum not unlike tinnitus starts building in his left ear as he pulls on a shirt and heads downstairs,
padding as quietly as he can with one automail foot. In between footsteps, he tries to listen to any
other noises in the house, but nothing sounds unusual; he can hear Alphonse's soft breathing in the
hallway, and Pinako's snores are audible from almost anywhere. Metallic whirring from behind a
closed door keys Edward into Winry's wakefulness, and he dearly hopes she doesn't leave the room
she's in any time soon.

The kitchen looks normal. The house looks normal. Everything looks and feels and sounds normal,
but he can't help but feel as though something's wrong. He's entirely too awake for someone who
only went to bed two hours ago; for someone who, for all intents and purposes, just got thrown out
of the gate. Nothing is amiss as he opens the icebox and takes a slice of apple pie, which is always
in supply, because everything is normal now, or grabs himself a glass of water, but in his gut, he
feels a sense of... something, clawing at the corner of his mind.

Blinking out of sight, a flickering shadow that's more subconscious than entirely present.

He slinks back up to bed after doing the dishes he left.

He's not in the mood to argue with Winry come morning.

///

Heedless of the fact that he never went back to sleep during the night, Edward is determined to
power through the day.

Once he convinces himself that the flickering and strange emptiness in his gut are normal,
explicable feelings, he is capable to go on with his life. Despite his body being far from fully
healed, Al's been trying to goad him into sparring, and Edward privately maintains the notion that
if anyone saw how far the Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother have sunk, Mustang would never
let him hear the end of it. Maybe, in half a year or so, they'll be able to come back to it, but time
stretches ahead of Edward like a never-ending dirt road as he tends to a flower box jam packed
with herbs, leaning half way through the kitchen window. Winry says she got it when Edward was
missing. She probably should have gotten herself better friends, too.

"Ed, can you pick up a chicken from the butcher shop in town?" Winry calls from the laundry
room. "Al forgot and I want to set it up on time for tonight's dinner."

"Yeah, sure," he yells back. A walk downtown is surely enough to wake him up.

At a certain point during his trek, his automail limb starts to falter - the motion of the ankle halts
for just a split second before it jumps back into motion. An issue unique to the latest model Winry
made for him - she probably upgraded something in the heel, and this got sacrificed in the mix.
Nine times out of ten, this is a simple fix - at some point, one of the inner mechanisms gets a bit
banged up, and the wire gets snagged on the bend whenever he works the ankle. It's not actually a
problem, as he usually transmutes the problem away before Winry even knows something's up, so
he can just crouch down and-

Ah, right.

Luckily, he's still walking down the dirt path that leads to the Rockbell residence and not
surrounded by other people, because he would look pretty stupid otherwise, crouched over himself
with his ankle resting on his knee, clapping his hands like a moron and expecting something to
happen.

Nothing's going to happen, because he gave his alchemy up.

"Right, right," he says aloud, as if that would make him seem more normal. It's right. It's alright.

He is completely alright. Al is also completely alright. Everything won't be okay, it is okay.

Alchemy isn't a necessity for survival. He's spent the past 5 years missing two limbs. He can do
this.

The stiff ankle continues to bother him on his walk into town, but a mild inconvenience is
meaningless compared to coming home sans a chicken, so Ed limps his way through the market
and ignores the endless stares of shoppers and vendors alike.

The butcher is near the end of the market, by the bakery and the fish shop, which means that by the
time Edward gets there, he's already pretty pissed. Honestly, the citizens of Resembool must be
fucking deaf if they think he can't hear them whisper about him, or how he's limping. He can feel
the weight of their stares, and it's a lot heavier than the fucking chicken.

As he fishes his wallet out of his pocket, the area clears up, and he can hear the three girls giggling
at the bakery. And, joy of joys - they're talking about him. What a surprise.

While he was heading down, he did catch a look at them. Since joining the military, it's been
ingrained in him to always be on the lookout. Constant vigilance, especially when the lines
between friend and foe got even more blurry. In a space that doesn't contain Hawkeye, Mustang or
Al, Edward is always with his finger on the pulse, waiting for something to happen, even if
logically, he knows it never does.

The three girls openly looking and giggling at him do not have this experience, therefore are
probably not aware of the fact that he can clearly see or hear them. One of them has long, blonde
hair, lighter than Winry's and a bit thinner, and she's slim and cool-toned in an almost Drachman
way. The second is short, plump, and speaks with a Xingese lilt in her voice, and the third he
vaguely recognises as someone who was in his class when he was a kid. Clearly harmless, the way
everyone in this goddamn place is. If Edward could see that and stop trying to battle nonexistent
foes, that would be great.

"That's him, right? That's gotta be him?" the Xingese girl says.

"Absolutely. There's no mistaking him," the blonde replies.

"That's Al's older brother," the blonde and his old classmate say in unison.

That's- he's - what?

He freezes. Blinks once, twice, three times.

Huh?

"What the fuck?" he mutters, then regains his awareness of his surroundings.

"No, she said we needed chicken, but what else did she want from me?" he speaks in a purposely
loud voice. They won't realise he's onto them if he masks the source of his atypical behaviour as
something else. Or, well, not onto them - it's not a cover operation or anything, for crying out loud.
This is a market, and he's holding a chicken while Al's new friends gossip about him.
He's being ridiculous.

"Al said that his brother is even better than him in alchemy, but I don't think that's possible." His
old classmate's voice flows back into his field of attention. Eve is her name, he thinks. "Al is so
good at alchemy, his brother would have to be, like, a world renowned genius or something to be
even better!"

"Alphonse did show me a few things about the transmutation process that he learned entirely from
his brother when we went on our date," Tall Drachman says, "and even corrected a few things in
my fighting stances."

"It could be that he's learning what his brother does, and taking it to the next level?" the Xingese
girl suggests, resting her chin in her palm, her elbow perched on the table.

"Could be," Eve or Eva or whatever says, "but either way, it's nice to pin a face to a name."

"What even is his name? Alphonse only ever called him 'big brother' when we met up."

Edward tunes the rest of the chatter out. They'll definitely notice his attention is on them if he
keeps stalling.

There's no need to correct the girls in anything they're saying. While it is true that while he was still
practicing alchemy, a lot of people considered him a prodigy (not that he considers understanding
basic alchemy quite the feat), but with no practice...

He's been going over the same line of thought again and again today. Like the snake that eats its
own tail, it's starting to get predictable, bending at the edges like the faulty wire in his ankle.

He should probably get back home before he loses the ability to do so entirely.

Between footstep and stumble, he ponders the peculiar nature of their situation. Al might be trying
to fool himself into thinking he can instantly, seamlessly blend himself into normal society, but
Edward does not delude himself into thinking anyone would accept him as he is, and that was even
while he was still useful.

At the end of the day, there's no cut-off deadline for when Ed has to start acting like an adult. The
perks of being a child soldier, he supposes; but, there is a strange, ironic entertainment in going
from being a key player in a war to, three months later, hurrying and carrying a chicken home
because his foot will stop working if he takes too long. Winry seems to have adapted to the two of
them being home with a speed and agility he wishes he had; it's only with her that the shadows of
his past stop crawling at him, pulling at the seams of his pants to drag him down. Al is looking
better every day, but the harsh contour of his cheekbones is notable in its presence. Four days ago,
Edward saw him trip over himself going upstairs and the anger inside him boiled so suddenly and
violently that he almost felt the urge to hit something.

Truth is, they all are nursing wounds that need bigger and better attention than the solitude they're
receiving, but Edward doesn't know what to do about it. Judging by Winry and Al's behaviours,
they both think that no one notices something is up with either of them, but Edward knows.
Honestly, as though he's ever cared about anything else. It's sad at this point, and he would mock
them into the grave if it weren't for the fact that a deep fear is wrapped around his earnest
intentions of sharing what's going on in his head.

What a strange, umber-toned picture they make; three teenagers, playing house by themselves and
the presence-like thoughts they keep at bay. They probably intersect at more places than any of
them know. Maybe Granny will find a way to make them all talk - she's never had the patience for
anybody's pretences.

Edward is not going to be the one to push for the change. He's barely regained his balance as is.

///

The shadowy flickering followed Edward around the entire day, now that he thinks about it, but he
knows it was in his head. The only thing one sees both inside and outside the gate is a
transmutation circle, and whatever that shadow is is not that.

In his bed, though, in the dead of night, it blends in with everything else. Keeping the window open
means fresh air, moonlight, and the awareness of his surroundings - three things Edward is always
glad for. Tonight, sadly, it's a different story. No longer can he tell the flickers of his mind to the
flickers of the tree outside his window. No longer can he tell the time between nine and three. No
longer are the sounds of the creaking house and its nocturnal residents separate from the strange
gap in his chest, felt more acutely now than it ever was.

Screw this.

None of them are asleep, anyways. It doesn't matter if he goes downstairs.

He gets out of bed and his automail foot jams. Goddamnit, he never got that fixed. Well, seems that
he now has a reason to be up.

The worst part about the foot jamming, he thinks as he pulls on socks, is that it kind of hurts in a
weird way. It's most similar to the ache of a cold muscle that moves unexpectedly - stiff at first,
then painful, verging on mildly annoying.

Going downstairs takes longer than it should have, all things considered, but the last thing he
wanted was to deal with Granny's yelling in whatever time of night it is, and his automail is not
known for being quiet. Quite a few minutes down the line, he's right outside the door of the
automail workshop, listening to Al and Winry laugh about whatever. For a moment or two, he
leans against the door in silence, not alerting them to his presence. It's nice, hearing them talk so
lightly and laugh like that. He hasn't gotten to hear that much in the last few years, so whenever the
opportunity presents itself, he's going to milk it for all its worth.

Unfortunately, he does have to get this fix done, and eliminate any and all excuses he has to evade
sleep. This night, he has to catch at least a few hours - he's no good under sleep depravation.

"... me the specialised Frearson, would you?" Winry calls out to Al, reaching out a hand without
looking.

"The number 3 one, right?"

"Yes. You're a peach, Al."

Al, after doing what Edward assumes to be just that, takes note of his presence and turns to him.

"Brother," he says, his brows furrowed. Winry spins around in her chair to look at him, too. "What
are you doing up?"
Edward points to his leg. "Couldn't sleep."

Winry's eyes, hidden by the goggles, are nevertheless felt as her gaze zooms into his leg. "You've
done something to it."

Had Edward been able to sleep, he might have found it within himself to argue with her. Instead, he
limps into the room, towards a leather chair. "Nope. Wasn't me this time. This has been happening
with your newest update, but I haven't had the chance to discuss it with you because, well, bigger
fish to fry."

Biting her lip and scrunching her eyebrows, Winry leans forward, examining the leg. He's wearing
a pair of oversized shorts, so there's nothing obscuring her view. "Are you saying there's something
wrong with the model?"

"Yeah," he breaths as she unscrews the outer panel's bolts off. "Just by the feel of it, I noticed you
made improvements to the main ankle joint. However, one of the changes was to its size, which is
a problem for the skeletal part the mimics the frame, so the wire snags-"

"And shorts out the ankle movements." Winry breathes as she uncovers the problem. "I'm sorry,
Ed, I never even thought about that. How often does it happen?"

"Not that often," he waves his hand, "once every few weeks when we were on the run, and even
then, I'd fix it myself."

"Why didn't you do that now?" Alphonse asks.

"Look me in the eyes," Edward deadpans, "and ask me that again."

Al stutters and blushes, but Edward only laughs and ruffles his hair. The two share chuckles for a
few spacious seconds before Winry's head shoots up.

"Wait," she says, "you mean to tell me you've been transmuting my beautiful automail this entire
time?"

"Yes?" he stretches out the words.

"How could you? You have no respect of my art! No wonder you always used to come back and it
was ruined!"

"Look, usually I was just transmuting a blade out of the arm's outer panelling, that's all there was to
it!"

"All there was to it! You made a knife out of my automail!?"

"Well, it was either that or die, so I think the choice is pretty fucking clear."

This sentence is a blessing and a curse, because it consistently gets Winry to stop yelling at him,
but each time, she gets this look in her eyes that's horrified and sad and now Edward has to do
something to change the topic of conversation before she cries.

"How did you figure out the problem with the joint?" Alphonse asks, breaking the tension suddenly
and blessedly.

"Whenever I do - uh, did - alchemy." The mix-up is lost on none of them. "The moment before the
decomposition, I would map out the entire structure of whatever it was I was transmuting. Down to
the molecules, of course, but also on a more macro level."

"Is that not what everyone else does?"

"Apparently not - they skip over focusing on the 'before' in favour of the 'after', which is stupid as
hell, but sometimes people are that, so it doesn't shock me."

"Ugh, that explains so much!" Alphonse slaps himself on the forehead, groaning. "I've been going
about teaching Eva and Lee all wrong!"

Edward laughs while Winry loosens a bolt and removes the ankle joint in its entirety. The foot
flops, useless, on her work surface.

For one short moment, panic flows through Edward's veins. It's stupid, and useless, but he knows
that the second an intruder comes into the house, he would be useless in a fight to protect the other
three. Admittedly, it is only one short moment, and once it passes, he feels pretty silly. There's no
intruder, no war, no nothing. They are in the outskirts of a tiny, insignificant town, and it is the
middle of the night. Nobody's coming after them. Nobody's trying to get to him anymore.

Al definitely caught onto that little mood switch, but since he's the best brother anyone could ask
for, he sends Edward a sympathetic, understanding smile and tries to distract him with a
conversation about mental mapping during transmutation. Edward's talking from the heart, but his
mind isn't entirely there yet. It won't be until his foot is usable again, and that's alright. If it isn't,
then it has to be.

That's all there is to it.

Eventually, the foot gets done. According to the clock, it's gone just past 3A.M. and it's glaringly
obvious in how Winry holds herself that she's barely awake. Alphonse isn't far behind her - his
sharp observations pattered off into half-sentence ramblings, and his eyes are glazing over.

Edward barely lets Winry finish screwing on the last bolt before he shepherds them both upstairs to
their respective bedrooms, ruffling Al's hair before he plops onto the bed, falling asleep instantly.

Most likely, Edward himself will not share the same luck.

Four hours later, the sentiment is proven correct. The clock strikes seven, Winry's come downstairs
to make coffee, and Edward's second day without sleep is beginning.

When he gets to that Truth bastard again, Edward's going to punch that fucking smirk off its face.

Again. Isn't that an interesting thought?

If this is what Alphonse had to deal with for all that time, Edward owes him another myriad of
apologies on top of everything else. God, he's the worst big brother in the world.

The morning passes relatively uneventfully (Winry and Alphonse keep glancing at him then at
each other, thinking he doesn't notice. Pinako and Winry don't yell at him even once, and every
time he gets up to do something, one of them suddenly has an available hand in case he wobbles or
missteps. All three of them speak in tones that are low and clear), and when Winry says she's going
to the other end of town for an at-home automail installation, and Alphonse says that he has a
doctor's appointment for a round of check-ups and reacquaintancing himself with needed vaccines,
Edward just tells them he's in the mood for a lazy day and he's going to stay at home (the other two
have a conversation with their eyes that he knows is about him but he's too frazzled to follow, and
they all know that if he takes a single step out of the house, he might collapse. Two days without
sleep should not have this much of an effect on him).

Alphonse returns first, three hours later. By that point Edward has tried to read five different books,
nearly cried of sheer frustration and boredom, folded five origami cranes, and slinked off into
Winry and Pinako's blueprint office corner, and has stolen a single piece of chalk.

He has an idea that he's desperate to be proven wrong about.

Alphonse has asked Edward to stop escorting him to his doctor's appointments. Not because Al
doesn't want him there, but because he knows Edward drives himself insane each time, worrying
excessively about something different in every appointment. It's done them both quite a bit of
good, actually.

What does make Edward feel bad is that his brother is tense and shifty while he talks about the
technicalities of his visit, the vaccines he received, and the 'nice' nurse that wouldn't stop trying to
set him up with her daughter.

"Al," he cuts him off, "what is it?"

Alphonse's ramble dies off mid sentence, and he does this strange little pout. They have their own
stare-off, with Al's eyes telling him I don't want to say anything, don't make me, please, and
Edward's are hopefully saying I will force the information out of you if I have to and not I'm about
to fall asleep.

"uhh..." he says, then his fist clenches in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment. "Brother, your hair
looks a bit knotted. Will you let me help you detangle it?"

"That's it?" Edward laughs. "That's what all the fuss is about?"

Thankfully, Alphonse does seem to relax at the words, melting a little bit of his stiffness off.

"Don't blame me for being worried, you react like a rabid hyena every time I do something for
you!"

"I do not!"

"Do to!"

"Al," he yawns. "I'm tired. My hair is a mess. If you do actually want to help me, I don't mind.
Don't do it just because you feel like you have to."

"I do want to. I want to help you."

Alphonse's smile is soft and warm as he leaves the couch to go fetch the comb in Edward's room.

Logically, he knows Alphonse is gone for all of two minutes, but time blends a little when one
reaches a drastic state of exhaustion. Still, the smile Al gave him before he left was nice. It lacked
any of the stress and agony his brother went through for that one stretch of time, and it feels like a
little victory. He looked like any other teenage boy, and it makes Edward feel like maybe, he hasn't
failed in every regard. Maybe, he does have it in him to be able to make his little brother happy.

By the time Al returns, Edward's body is half-way to sleep, but he knows his brain won't let him
cross that line. There's something missing.

The acute feeling in his chest settles, however, when Alphonse sits down behind him and starts
combing through the messy gold. It does not disappear. While he's never had long hair, Al clearly
listened to Edward and Winry complain about theirs throughout the years, because he starts from
the ends of his hair, sections it off, and works from the tips up. Alphonse's grip is hard enough to
keep his head in place, but soft enough so that it doesn't hurt.

He's not sure if it's the calming, repetitive motions, that feel quite nice, the gentle scratching of the
comb against his scalp, or something else altogether, but Edward might actually be able to fall
asleep like this.

"You always help me whenever I need something. I wanted to be able to return the favour."

Alphonse gets up to discard the hair stuck in the comb, and Edward returns to heavy wakeness.

"Al," he mumbles.

"Hm?"

"Do you think that out alchemy was connected after we performed the original transmutation
together?"

Alphonse pauses in his picking of the comb. "What?"

"Never mind. I'm tired."

"Do you know why you can't sleep?"

I'm pretty sure I do. "No idea."

"Brother, you're a terrible liar even when you're alert and awake. Don't try to fool me, please. It
won't work."

Edward turns to look at Alphonse's face. His brows are furrowed, his mouth pinched. He looks a
bit angry, but it's a necessary sacrifice. If Al figures out what he's about to try to do, he's fucked. It
doesn't matter if he knows something's up - that's unavoidable. What matters is that he doesn't
figure out what it is.

"Al," he says, "let it go. We'll talk about it once I've rested. I'm too tired to even think."

Alphonse grunts, taking quick, heavy strides back to the couch. Throwing the comb onto the
couch, he drops to a kneel in front of Edward, and wraps him in a hug. There's an aggression to his
body language that makes Edward laugh as he hugs back, and the comb bounces once of the
cushions before flopping onto the floor.

"Stupid brother," Alphonse mutters, "you manage to beat Father in a fight but kill yourself off by
not sleeping. Idiot brother."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm dumb." Edward raises one hand to stroke Al's hair, just because he can and there's
nothing to stop him from doing so.

Eventually, they split off. Alphonse uses some excuse or another, but Edward knows better - it's a
dismissal to go do whatever he sees fit, so that maybe he can rest and they can start figuring things
out.

Edward crawls up to his room, fetching the chalk he hid in his pocket earlier in the day. Winry's
supposed to be back in half an hour, and he needs to be done by that point, as to avoid arousing
 suspicion. His accuracy is a bit shoddy, all things considered, but he does a semi-alright job. The
lines are accurate, the proportions on point, and the scrawl is messy, but legible. The rug in his
room covers almost everything, and, like he suspected, it's not glued or nailed onto the floor, so all
he has to do is move the furniture as he picks it up. Let it be known that carpets are heavier than he
estimated them to be, because the damn thing nearly knocks him over on more than one occasion.
But, in the end, he is done, so all he has to do is put it back in place without messing up his work
and trotting back to the real world.

When he comes downstairs, Winry's ranting about the client's overbearing mother and how she
nitpicked every single one of Winry's moves. As she quiets down, Alphonse asks her a question
that gives her tirade second wind, and his eyes flickers to Edward's. Did you finish doing your
thing? he asks. Edward nods, and drags himself over to the couch.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. Mindlessly, he had slotted himself to rest on Winry's shoulder
until lunch, when they ate... something or other, and from there he barely even remembers
anything.

By nightfall, he is nothing short of completely dysfunctional. This needs to work, if only for the
fact that his body is not physically capable of putting up with this for much longer, and he's not
sure what will happen if he spends another night awake. Mustang is the insomniac out of them all,
and he's pretty sure even that fucker gets a few hours of sleep each night.

He makes sure to completely seal off the edges of his door from any light leaking through after he
closes it.

When he attempts to reach the bed, Edward trips over his own feet, falling to a kneel and hitting
his head on the soft carpet. He's lucky the bed isn't pressed to the corner, the way it was up until
now, or else he would have hit his head on something much less forgiving and haemorrhaged to
death in Winry's second guest bedroom. Groaning and cussing, he presses his hand to the spot
where he thinks his hand needs to go for the circle to activate, then climbs onto the bed.

By the time the light begins to shine, he's already asleep.

///

Truth is standing in front of him, smirking wider than ever.

Something's different.

It's back.

Chapter End Notes

I promise the Elric brothers sappy scene is coming I swear I promise also I had Lost
One's Weeping playing in my head the entire time I was editing this chapter and I'm
pretty sure it shows lmao
 No Gate Needed
Chapter Summary

You people deserve a break from the angst

Chapter Notes

Instead of a self insert, I, for some reason, inserted my grandparents into this
fanfiction. I need more time with my therapist.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"You've returned." Truth smiles at him.

"Take my limb again and I'll tear a hole into this place myself to take it back," Edward threatens.
"No Gate needed."

"Don't give me a reason to and I won't do it. Why have you come back here?"

"Is it not obvious? I need to sleep."

"That's not what I'm asking you." Truth takes a step closer to him. At this moment, it resounds
through Edward that he hasn't actually seen Truth do that at any point thus far, since his returns. It
always stood or sat there. His remaining stub tingles a little more with every step closer it takes, as
though it wishes for his leg to be reconnected once more. "I'm asking you what draws you back
here."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We could play this game forever," Truth drawls, "and I won't be the one that gets tired first. If
this is how you want to act, go ahead."

Plopping down on the... surface, Truth pulls a deck of cards out of god knows where, setting them
in its palm and dividing them. Edward briefly considers his options, but in the end begrudgingly
chooses compliance.

As he slowly leans into the surface, he sees the flicker just out of his field of vision again.

"How about a round of Go Fish?" Truth suggests.

"Sure. Haven't played in a while, though."

"I'm sure someone of your intelligence level won't find it too challenging."

The truth is that Edward has never played the game in his life. Card games normally aren't a point
of interest for very young children, and by the time he was old enough to be interested in cards, he
was so absorbed in alchemy that nothing else mattered. Then, guilt and grief sucked all the joy out
of what were once his biggest sources of pride, leaving him hollowed out and limbless in the very
wheelchair that Mustang shook him to life out of. After that, with the automail and the military and
the homunculi... card games could be nice, right? A good place to start.

It would be nicer without it being with Truth, though. Preferably with Alphonse. Edward would
like to think Breda would be good at that type of thing - Mustang's other soldiers have terrible
poker faces.

Truth takes seven cards from the pile, so Edward does the same. He vaguely recalls the goal of the
game being to have four cards of the same kind? Or was it number?

One way or another, it's not a great hand. Seven of Hearts, Nine of Clubs, Five of Hearts, Two of
Diamonds, Three of Spades, Eight of Spades, and Ace of Hearts. Is he supposed to aim for 4
sevens?

"Do you have... the five of clubs?" Truth asks. Technically, he has a five of hearts. Is he supposed
to mention that?

"No," he says, after a moment of contemplation. His tone is a bit too questioning, and Truth
performs a gesture not unlike the raising of a brow before it picks up a card from the pile.

"Do you, uh..." It feels strange asking Truth for things. Will it take his fingernail if he asks for the
wrong card? "The... seven of Spades?"

"That I do not." It shrugs. "Go Fish."

Edward thinks that means he needs to pick up another card, so he does.

Jack of Hearts.

The flicker behind him happens, a bit stronger and a just barely out of his field of vision.

"Is the flickering behind me something I'm doing?"

"It's not your turn," Truth hums. "Do you have the five of Hearts?"

He does. He's supposed to hand it over, right?

"Yes, here." The card doesn't tremble in his grip, but it does falter when Truth's fingertips brush
against his nails. It feels strange, vapid and cold, like touching pure ozone, or perhaps outer space.
Edward desperately wants to be with Alphonse and Winry right now.

The moment passes, and then it's his turn.

"Do you have the seven of Diamonds?"

"Luckily enough for you, I do."

As Edward reaches for the card, Truth adds, "the flickering, as you call it, behind you is directly
correlated to your actions."

Edward pauses in the middle of his return to his spot.

Oh. This is the game they're playing.

Fine. Edward's played worse games before.

"Do you have the three of Clubs?"

"Go Fish. Since when has the flickering been happening?"

Truth raises a card.

"Do you have the seven of Spades?"

"Go Fish."

Edward knows better than to wait for an answer.

"Two of Hearts?"

"Go Fish."

Truth's back looks strange as it leans down - like the gesture is an imitation rather than a true
movement. Come to think of it, what's Truth's body even made of? It made contact with Edward,
so clearly, it has a corporeal presence. Unless Edward himself isn't corporeal right now?

"I need the seven of Spades."

Truth grins. "Lucky boy, you are," it says, and it makes Edward shiver. "I suppose I could date it
back to your last, and grandest sacrifice."

"The flickering?"

"Yes."

"You mean the Promised Day?"

"I want the five of Spades. Yes."

"Go Fish."

When Truth picks up a card, Edward mulls the situation over. Will Truth be more helpful if he has
a set of four? Will it tell him something if he wins a round? Is there even a point to playing this
game or is it just another way that Truth is fucking with his head? The flickering is driving him
insane.

"It's like there's a faulty lightbulb in here. It's bugging my eyes. Gimme the seven of Clubs."

"No luck, kiddo. Go Fish."

There's no point in waiting for another response. The card Edward picks up is the seven of Clubs,
and he barely manages to hold back a grin.

He doesn't wait before putting the four cards down, face first.

Truth smiles at him.

"Good job. Now, I need the Ace of Hearts. Do you have it?"

He does, but he makes sure to lean over slowly as he hands it over.

"Without turning around, and very slowly," Truth murmurs in a tone that carries too much
amusement for his liking, "look behind you."
Knots tense his stomach from the intestines to the sternum as he slowly dips his chin, ever so
slightly sideways, and strains his eyes to look as far back as he can.

"It's not quite there yet, but it'll be well on its way at this pace. Chin up, kid, you're about to wake
up, and then you'll have all day to mull over the implications."

"Son of a bitch," Edward manages, before the warm grip of sunshine peels his eyes open.

A knock on his door ties him back to the outside world before he's quite ready, only mere seconds
later and he doesn't need the door to open to know it's Alphonse. He's looking better than ever
these days, with his cheeks finally kind of filling out, and the thinness almost near normal rather
than saddening, or scary. He's still too weak, but it doesn't show. He's smiling warmly and lightly,
holding a cup of coffee that's clearly for Edward, and humming something that sounds like the sun
under his breath as he sets down a few folded, clean shirts.

"Good morning, brother. I see you've finally managed to go back to sleep?"

Edward takes a moment to digest both the last evening, last night, his actions, and Alphonse's
words, before it all catches up with him and he barely holds himself back from launching out of
bed and checking for missing limbs. Truth didn't actually take anything that he's aware of - all they
did is play cards, after all - but one can never be too sure when dealing with Truth.

"Uh, yeah, I did. About damn time, too. I was going insane."

"It wouldn't be any good if both of us aren't sleeping properly," Alphonse hums, and Edward's
chest pinches when he realises that he'd gone five years without seeing that smile. In between the
lines, he can hear Al's question left unverbalized: Did whatever you need to do work? Was it worth
it?

"Totally. That coffee for me, Al?"

"Yeah; thought it would be a good idea to wake you up before it's too late in the day." and check to
see if you haven't died or anything.

"How long did I sleep?"

"I don't know exactly when you went to bed, but it's just past 10."

A bit more than 13 hours, then. Sheesh.

Edward scrunches his eyes shut for a few seconds before they peel open again. The sun is up,
casting warmth and light into the room. Alphonse and the furniture are cast in the bright midday
light, and Edward's body feels heavy in a well-rested way. Everything feels close to perfect as is,
and Edward is so, so tempted to just, forget about the whole Truth thing and carry on with his new
life. The Gate nonsense. He has Alphonse and Winry and Granny one or two doors down, and he
can spend the rest of his years doing whatever he wants in his life, and forget about the fact that he
has to draw a human transmutation circle under his body if he ever wants to sleep at night.

But, he's not a kid anymore. For the love of god, he's nearly 17; too damn old and too damn
experienced to be keeping secrets.

At some point, he's gonna have to discuss this with Alphonse.

Not right now, though. He'd hate to ruin such a tender, happy moment.
"Well, thanks for the coffee. We got any plans for today?"

"Not much I can think of," Alphonse shrugs, then stretches as he falls back onto the mattress.
"Winry wants to take me clothes shopping before my date tomorrow."

"Another one? Goddamn, Al, don't go breaking too many hearts!"

Al giggles, then chokes on the giggle, which makes him laugh even harder. "I don't think that's
ever actually happened. Eva was a bit disappointed for a day or two that it didn't work out, but then
she got over it, and we've become pretty decent friends. Most of the other girls and I stayed friends
as well, and even Carrie, who doesn't really talk to me much, is still really nice whenever we run
into each other."

Still, Edward isn't entirely convinced. "And you're sure you aren't leading these girls on?"

"I'm sure."

"How?"

"I think they kind of know. About me, that is. I don't think anyone really takes me seriously
anymore." Al straightens back up, turning to look at Edward. "Everyone I meet up with always
giggles and smiles and jokes around with me, and I don't think any of them look at me as a real
dating partner anymore."

"So, it's a friend date?" Edward's brows wrinkle.

"Yeah."

"And you've made peace with it?"

Edward hasn't ever really heard of people that don't fall in love. Winry's been in a special place in
his heart for longer than he knows how to measure, and the few people that he knows who aren't
actively looking usually do so for a reason. Mustang and Hawkeye have their weird, gross,
unofficial relationship thing, and Edward doesn't really have a problem with it beyond the fact that
it's a lot like catching mom and dad kissing, which doesn't even make sense because they aren't
even his parents. Nevertheless, the point is - love is a driving force for everyone he knows. Love is
the way Teacher and Sig defend each other, it's in Hawkeye's hands as she guided Mustang through
a warzone when his eyesight failed him, and Mustang's steadfast refusal to ever let her leave his
side. Love is the scar on Edward's abdomen. He doesn't know what life is without it.

But, that's not the only kind of love. Love also exists in the way teacher stuck by them through all
their failures and mistakes. Love existed in Hughes and Mustang's externally strenuous friendship,
hiding bone deep loyalty and affection, which carried through even after General Hughes' death.
Love is in Gracia's gentle care for Elicia, and the space they leave open in their home for anyone
who needs it. Love is the fact that only few bolts remain in Edward's shoulder, and every breath
Alphonse takes.

Perhaps Al simply has so much love in his life that he doesn't actually need any more.

Edward would give any possible part of his body for that to be the truth.

"I'm getting there." Alphonse scratches the back of his neck. "One day at a time, you know? It's
hard to think about what I'm missing out on when it's all people talk about sometimes, but I've
already got so many good friends. And, of course, you."
"Well, that's obvious," Edward grins, toothy and large and obnoxious, just like when they were
kids. "I'm not goin' nowhere, Al."

His younger brother shakes his head.

"Good. I'll kill you if you do," he says sagely.

They laugh, and Edward ushers Al out of the room with the excuse that he has to get changed. Al
reminds him their conversation is due, but leaves peacefully. While his excuse is technically true,
he just wants to... Make a little check. Both arms are still there, so that's good. All 10 fingers, too.
Al saw his face, so clearly nothing's missing, or amiss, there. Hearing and eyesight are both fine,
and so's his sense of touch, running his hands down his legs - one's still human, and the other hand
gets stuck on the automail port.

Edward next drags his hands upwards, over his chest and abdomen. Nothing feels amiss with his
sternum and ribs, so he goes further down. There's nothing overly soft or concave in his stomach,
therefore Truth probably didn't take anything in his digestive system. Everything feels right.
Maybe his sense of taste or smell is gone?

Before he can question himself, Edward takes a sock from the carpeted floor, brings it to his face,
and inhales deeply. Nope, he can smell fine - that sock's disgusting.

There's only one option left, and he knows how to test it.

Unceremoniously, Edward shoves himself into the first day clothes he can find and thunders down
the stairs.

He ignores Granny, ignores Winry, ignores the fact that he nearly knocked over a painting they
have hanging on the wall - all those things can wait. This, cannot.

Jogging to the icebox, he throws it open and grabs the bottle of milk, tossing the golden cap onto
the counter and taking a big sip straight from the bottle.

Thank fuck - milk still tastes like shit.

Residues of the unpleasantness still linger on his tongue as he sputters the bulk of it down the
drain, but it calms him down a bit - Truth hasn't taken anything this time. Not that it should've -
Edward didn't ask for anything and he had nothing to sacrifice - but still. He had to make sure.

He doesn't yet know what to make of the fact that he repeated the greatest sin of his life once
again. Doesn't know what to make of the fact that he might have to do it every single night if he
ever wants to sleep again, and he wouldn't be able to stomach the disappointment everyone would
have in him if they realised what was going on with him. Once he wakes up enough to get a grip,
he'll probably be first on the train to hate himself, but right now, he's just glad he has all his senses,
and nothing was taken from him. All he did was fall asleep, no sacrifice made, but if there's one
thing Edward knows, it's that Truth will never cease to surprise. Ed would rather be ready, is all.
That's all there is to it.

When he closes the lid to the icebox, Winry is stood at the doorway of the kitchen, a glass of water
held loosely in her hand. Her brows have climbed up practically to her hairline, and she stares at
him, blinking once, twice, and opens her mouth slowly.

"You know," Edward says, "you should switch to an electrical fridge. I've seen those around a lot
more in central - they're very efficient."
"Good morning?" her voice is toned in incredulity. "Hello?"

"Fridge."

"Fridge?"

"Yeah. Good morning, Win." Edward brushes past her as he exits the kitchen. In a daring move he
wouldn't have otherwise considered had it not been for the adrenalin and relief rushing through
him, he brushes his hand over Winry's cheek before ruffling her hair. "I'm gonna go finish off the
tiling in Mrs. Jones' roof. For some reason, she hasn't realised I can't actually perform alchemy
anymore."

For some reason, Truth hasn't, either.

"Okay," Winry says, obviously still deep in her bewilderment.

Holding back his snickers, Edward silently and calmly heads to the stairs back up to his room, and
goes up.

3, 2, 1, he thinks.

"Wait, what the hell was that?!" a yell resounds from downstairs.

Edward finally lets go of his laughter.

"What did you do to the fucking milk?!"

///

Winry calms down fairly quickly, but Edward realises, as the relief of not being rendered disabled
in yet another way, that he forgot something important; her earrings are still kept in the safety of
his pocket. The ragged, worn pair of black pants hasn't been in use since then, and frankly?
Edward's rather keen to retire them. Not for fashion reasons, of course, but rather because they
carry many unpleasant memories with them, and this cenotaph is one he can just stick in the
wardrobe and banish to the comfort of oblivion.

Before doing that, though, he has to take out the earrings.

Now, Ed's not that stupid. He knows what they are - a declaration, a warning, a gamble to weigh in
on a promise. They were Winry's way of saying I expect these earrings back, so you're not allowed
to die before you give them to me. It's all kinds of stupid, but begrudgingly, Edward had to admit
that it did actually work.

Despite the state of even the pocket, the earrings are in good condition. No scratches, bends, dirt or
dents. Four hoops and two studs, all metal, as is appropriate for the mechanic maniac. Edward
swears the only reason she even tolerates him is so she can stick bolts and wires in his appendages
without consequence. This is a game he could spend a lifetime doing, toying with giving them back
and making it so they stop burning a hole in his pocket, or postponing it so he doesn't have to deal
with the uncomfortable, sentimental conversation it may carry. Edward cares, so much, but the
chick's way to emotional than he knows what to do with, and it gets too much sometimes.
He feels cornered, these days, between overdue talks and heavy conversations. It may stunt his
growth-his emotional growth, but goddamnit, he deserves a moment of peace before diving into it.
Alphonse and Winry seem like they're waiting with bated breath for him to do or say something,
and even Granny Pinako has been giving him the look. At the very least, Al was upfront about it.

Winry, however, proverbially looks like she's biting her tongue.

It's unfair to everyone involved, but he can't help it. He's afraid, and he's wounded, and he doesn't
want her to know every bit of it yet. He just needs a little more time.

All he really wants, in the end, is to not be treated with kid gloves. People think losing a limb or
two is the hard part. It's painful and strenuous; getting used to it is months of agony, even before
factoring in automail surgery. But, the very worst part is that the people around him make it so
much more difficult. In the times that Edward spent most of his days on base, he sometimes forgot
that he wasn't like everyone else. Mustang, for all his faults, never gave him shit for it, and he
holds the rest of thei-his team on such tight a leash that even if they thought anything of it, they
would never have said it.

Everyone else is the problem. Edward fucking hates the pity, the useless helping hands, as though
no one sees the fact that he has-had two completely functional automail limbs, and is as capable of
handling himself as any adult around. Whatever people think they're doing when they speak to him
like he's a pre-schooler and offer to help him with anything he needs, it does the opposite. If
anything, it only serves to remind him of his predicaments and his sorrows. He's disabled, not an
invalid, and he wishes people would finally wise up and see the difference between those two
things before he snaps at one of them and shows them just how far two metal limbs can get
someone. It's not easy, or fair, and the fact that his port still hurts when it's raining 6 years down
the line is bullshit, but the stupid, condescending, valueless pity makes it that much worse.

Never mind the fact that Winry's not the same. Of course she's not. She's Winry. But, she's only
human, and those seem rather infatuated with treating the wounded like they're worthless.

On the flipside, though, are those that look at him, and before seeing child, they see Fullmetal.
Those are the people that do not care where he's been and what he's done or gone through; they
know his title and his rank, and they fear it. The biggest relief of dropping out of the military is
knowing that the set of the shoulders that the military blues tends to cut will no longer shape him
into something he's not, and in his downtime, he has the privilege of just being Edward. People in
impoverished areas, or those near the borders, or the residents of the Ishvallan slums have no
reason to fear him. They didn't have one, even beforehand, but they saw his pocket watch, and it
had been enough.

Edward has not had the privilege of existing sans a context in a while. Shucking off the endless
stream of titles that range from Major to Orphan is an arduous process, one that he's in the middle
of. In a manner most frustrating, he's come to learn that these titles not only don't coexist, it's as
though one is worn in the absence of another. He can stop being Fullmetal, but it comes at the cost
of Poor Orphaned Child. War Hero and War Casualty are two sides of the same coin that his
family seems to flip mid-air when bored. At the very least, he doesn't have to be most of those
things around Al and Winry. But Al's been there; he's seen it all. There's very little Edward has
done in his life that his little brother isn't keenly aware of, or was there at the time of. At some
point, Winry will know, and he might even be the one who voluntarily tells her.

After all, he feels... That way, and he's pretty sure she feels the same. That can't happen without
some more openness on his part.

But it can't happen today.

At the forefront of his mind, he doesn't want to worry her. He likes it best when she's happy and
healthy and calm. But deep down, he's scared that if she knows, the way she treats him might
change, too. He needs the act that they pull, where they cuss and yell and she throws things at him,
because he needs people that don't treat him like he's made of glass, or that he's some terrifying
monster. He needs her to be happy, and he needs to be able to relax, and that can't happen if she'll
start looking, acting, feeling like his shadows are about to drag him into the under realm, or more
realistically, through the Gate again.

Jokes on her, though.

That happens every night.

It's at this that Edward's swirling thoughts pause, and he figures out he's wandered down to the
automail workshop.

Without even sparing him a flinch or a glance, Winry's already noticed his presence and deduced it
as harmless in her brain. He wonders whether this is something that happens with him, from time to
time. That he just... zones out and winds up by her desk. It must be, for her to act so unaffected.

It's a balm to his aches. The last thing he wants is a big deal.

All he really has to do is put the earrings down by her side. No fanfare or pizzazz or anything, and
maybe he'll be able to weasel out of the conversation, or lecture, whatever it ends up being.

Creaking floorboards alert Winry of his movements, but she doesn't give him a spare glance. It
looks as though his presence hasn't even crossed her mind. The goggles hide her face, but her hair
is pulled back, displaying her ears. The holes where the earrings go are on full display, clean and
precise, fully healed and not at all irritated.

With a complete and utter lack of finesse, Edward leans forward and, while keeping an eye on her
hands and face, puts all six pieces down on the table. He was aiming for cool and indifferent, but in
reality probably landed on twitchy and weird. She's doing something with the wires that he's seen
her do on his own limbs before - he's pretty sure the mechanism she's attaching them too is the one
that allows for more precise movement control. Another fighter, perhaps, or maybe a craftsmen.

"Are those my earrings?" she asks, barely budging from her work. Her nose is practically buried in
the arm she's designing, with how close she is.

"Yeah." is all he chooses to say.

He's waiting for the drawn out, overemotional conversation that will leave him drained and antsy
at the same time, but all she does is nod once, ever so slightly, and say "thanks."

Her tone is levelled and indifferent in a way that's clearly forced, but Edward can't bring himself to
care with the realisation that what she's doing is letting him off the hook.

Edward must have been silent for too long, because then she talks again.

"Don't be shocked," she mutters, "you're predictable. I know today isn't right." She tightens a bolt,
grunts, and asks him for a... Phillip's head? They don't know anyone named Phillip?

"Cross shaped screw tip. You're as bad as Alphonse was."

"Shut up, gearhead," he snaps. "I've never done this before."

"At least Al is the nicer alchemy freak of the two of you."

"Next time you ask me to safeguard your shit I'm going to have Al transmute it into a toothpick."

"Just for that," she grunts, "I want you to put them back in my ears."

This stops Edward in his tracks.

"Excuse me?"

"I know you're not deaf," she says. "My earrings are small and delicate. They'll get lost with
everything else going on here. The studs are identical to the T3 screws, and I have so many of
those, and I-"

"Jesus, fine," he plops down on Alphonse's seat, right next to hers. "If it gets you to shut up, I'll do
it."

If he's expecting some weird tension, then thankfully, it's not present. Her left ear, which is closer
to the lamp, is warmer than the right, but they're both still ears, and she's much more occupied with
the arm than bossing Edward around or making any actual note of the situation. Edward would
think she's not focused on the moment if he didn't know any better. The first hoop is a bit of a
fumble, but he gets the other three on with a better degree of success. The studs don't screw on like
he expected them to, but rather, the ball has a small pin that slides into the bar. When he asks, she
explains that if it were to have a screw tip, it would agitate the skin of her ear more. The thought
process is logical to him.

When he gets up to move along with his day, geared up and motivated to dock another thing off
the to-do list, he's compelled by the need to let her know how grateful he is for everything she
does.

He doesn't want to make a big deal of things.

"Thanks," he throws over his shoulder on the way out.

"Thanks." She doesn't even lift her head to throw back the word, but he knows exactly how much it
means to carry, and how grateful he is that she doesn't elaborate.

He makes sure she has a nice, filling, light lunch ready and waiting for her by the time she realises
that she needs a break.

It won't do any good to pull her out of work when she's this focused.

///

Mrs. Jones, their neighbour one house down, became a widow while Al and Edward were at war.

For the most part, Edward remembers her late husband to be funny and very kind. He had a
woodworking shop at the basement of their house, and he allowed some of the neighbourhood
children to watch from a distance as he worked. Privately, Edward felt that watching him
peacefully, quietly work was very calming. Mrs. Jones was a bit sour-faced and straight-backed,
the way some women tend to be, but mom used to say the woman has a heart of gold, and many of
the children that used to go to the elementary school she teaches at say the same.

It took more time than Edward realised it would to catch up on everything that happened in their
sleepy town while they were gone. Mr. Jones's absence caught him in a strange moment, and it felt
like the first dip back into reality - a little turn stop moment that said hey. That's all over now.
There's more blood and loss in the world than just yours, and Edward accompanied Mrs. Jones to
her husband's grave with the excuse that he was visiting his own parents. He hadn't given
Hohenheim more than a spare glance. He wasn't ready to look, then, and he still isn't now.

As is, Mrs. Jones is supplying him and his brother with biscuits and tea, never really cracking a
smile or raising her voice, not an ounce of any emotion beyond mild general displeasure at...
anything, really. Still, she emphasises the importance of feeding the two of them before they
perform strenuous activity. Between biscuits and brisket, Alphonse and Edward exchange glances,
and then, Edward knows that he and Alphonse are in agreement about the fact that Mrs. Jones
feeds them because, perhaps, she just feels the need to do something with her time. One can only
leave the house to go on walks for so many hours of the day. Resembool is a quiet place full of
versatile people, and while they may not fit in with the rest of the people their age around town,
Edward finds a strange sense of belonging and peace, sitting with this sour faced woman whose
focus does not lie entirely on the living.

After about 30 minutes of a mostly silent lunch, Mrs. Jones sends them to opposite ends of the
house to work on different, menial tasks. She has them for the day, and she seems to be making the
most of it.

Edward starts with cleaning out the fireplace. It hasn't been used in nearly 10 years, and the build-
up certainly feels like it. If he were still an alchemist, it would be a simple enough fix, but manual
scrubbing it is. Then, he moves onto fixing the dining chairs and evening out the legs of the table.
Once more, this is a job suited for an alchemist, but this dead horse has well and truly been beaten.

Besides, from Al's verbal breakdowns of his thought processes, it doesn't seem like he's having an
easier time, though - muttered frustrations and watered down, censored curses keep floating over to
where Edward is working. Stifling his chuckle is pointless when it registers that they're both
struggling.

After he finishes off dealing with the table, Edward decides it's high time to put his little brother
out of his misery, and strolls over to the scene of the battle.

Al and Mrs. Jones are crouched over a radio. While it looks to be perfectly functional on the
outside, the inside probably has something inside of it that befuddles even Alphonse. The model
isn't one that Ed is familiar with - it's a bit older than the ones he's fixed thus far, which is probably
what's stumping Alphonse. Even the choice of metals is a bit off - there's iron lining the netting,
which is just a strange choice for anything regarding audio equipment.

"I'm glad that at least I'm not the only one struggling with the build," Alphonse mutters. When
Edward crouches down to get a better look, he also casts a glance Alphonse's way; his brows are
ever so slightly pinched, betraying his frustration and confusion. "The mechanics inside are
strange, too - the device itself is old enough to still be following Marconi's design, but the angle the
refractors are built in is kind of off, and choice of materials is only furthering my confusion."

"Is there anything in particular that you think might be the cause?"

"Not exactly? First of all, I need to figure out what the normal set-up for this model is supposed to
be like. It doesn't even feel like a radio."
"Well, I don't think I'll be of much help, but let's see if I can figure anything out if I get a closer
look."

The next moment is one both Edward and Alphonse will remember with startling clarity for
decades to come.

Edward falls to his knees, bracing himself on his right hand to take a closer look at the radio. His
hand is slightly angular and braced flat on the floor; the warning from Central City's
physiotherapist to never completely straighten a joint still vivid in Edward's mind. He's heard too
many stories from the man, so his arm is bent outwards, curving just enough. The actual palm
itself is directly on the left of the outdated piece of machinery. Alphonse leans in, bracing his hand
just right of the machine at the exact moment he does, too, and in the blink of an eye, a familiar
feeling buzzes through his arm again, and all at once, for that exact moment, the acute vapidness in
his chest is gone.

Edward was aware of the ache the way one with chronic illness knows the symptoms of their
disease; it is a trickle in the back of the mind that never leads anywhere. It is an unruly guest that
comes gradually, passively and unintentionally filling a drawer in the closet of the mind with their
clothes, and will never leave, supposedly. Save for the cases that are truly peculiar, these things do
not happen. One does not achieve relief on a Wednesday noon. One does not reattach their limb,
connect their lungs, fill their soul back in their body again. Most importantly, one does not perform
the almighty sacrifice and then... Those are cases the likes of which, frankly, the world has never
heard of, and probably never should. They are very extreme cases, and those rarities are most
usually quite well known. Rumours of Edward's arm making a miraculous return are as wide
spread as they are unhinged in their nature; though, perhaps, not more so than the truth itself.

Speaking of Truth, it must be laughing its ass off, that bastard, because placed in front of Edward
and Alphonse, fully functional and spitting out tunes, is a rather outdated radio. Made at least 30
years back, with a mechanism from Marconi's time, and a rod that overheats gradually with
overuse, now moved the few millimetres back to its correct positioning, most likely knocked over
by a reckless grandchild or a pet. Maybe Mrs. Jones dropped it during the Promised Day.

This does not matter.

Edward and Alphonse Elric sit, crouched, over a fixed radio, corrected by a joined transmutation.
One performed, of course, by two of four people in the world that know clap transmutation, and
the only two familiar enough with the craft to do it subconsciously, or by accident.

Skill can rust over with disuse, but a quick refreshment course should scrape the excess right off.
Edward's never truly forgotten anything.

It's at this exact moment that he pieces a few things together.

"God fucking damnit," he says, heedless of Mrs. Jones' scowl deepening at his choice of words. He
can barely even feel Alphonse's incredulous stare at the side of his face. The only thing that
registers is the gaping, throbbing cavity in his chest, forcing Edward to acknowledge it for the first
time in months by shrinking just the tiniest bit. "It was the door."

///
 "I've got questions, fucker," is Ed's greeting call. He fell asleep with a deck in his pocket, and he's
more than grateful it showed up with him. At least the bruise on his ass from sleeping on a
rectangle all night will be worth it.

Truth smiles. "How about another round of Go Fish?"

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the all the love my silly little story has received thus far. What do you
think will happen next? Do you think the Elric brothers storylines will interlock at
some point? Or will they not?
Write your guesses in the comments!
I'm dying to know what you guys are thinking (Or maybe steal your ideas if they're
better than mine\j)
 Figure 8's Meet in the Middle
Chapter Summary

Alphonse goes detective mode. The Elrics don't know how to sleep. They fight, make
up, then Al almost goes to bed.

Chapter Notes

ngl I've read Our Futures, Overlapping by premeditated and I thought that was
GREAT but I deliberately didn't tag it as an inspired by work because that's not where
I'm pulling inspiration from, however I do acknowledge that it has some similar
themes and ideas going on, especially in the next 2-3 chapters of TOTDEM.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Alphonse doesn't transmute with one hand.

Beyond the fact that it's kind of physically impossible, it also seems highly impractical. What's the
actual use of something like that? Is it for the purpose of doing two transmutations at once? No
human can do that. No human should try, probably, lest they fuse a cardboard cut out with a light
box, or something along those lines.

As do very many things, this seems to not be the case for one Alphonse Elric and his older brother.

Once Mrs. Jones sent them on their merry way, Alphonse and Ed decided to take a small detour
(which meant that Alphonse grabbed his older brother and started dragging him away before he
had the chance to complain), with Alphonse taking the lead down to a place he knows will be
deserted for the next few hours - Eva's practice lot. The walk is long, tense, and full of one of the
most awkward silences they've ever experienced in the presence of one another, but it gives them
both time to mull things over.

Much as he wishes to say he understands, he doesn't. Edward has been avoidant, cagey, and
secretive. He went from never sleeping through the night, to pulling 10-12 hour nights, and then
not sleeping two at all, then going back to long nights and pretending nothing had happened.
Always flitting away from meaningful conversation, but recently, with a fervour that has even
manged to catch Alphonse off guard.

It scares him to know that even now, there's something plaguing Edward enough to the extent that
he feels the need to hide it from him.

Much as he's tried to approach his brother with this talk multiple times, from every possible angle,
he's been met with dismissal and refusal each time. If he didn't know better, he'd think that Edward
doesn't trust him. Fortunately, he does know better, and it boils down to his inane belief that since
their parents are dead, it's up to him to protect Alphonse. It's this exact blend of annoying, stubborn
and heart-touchingly emotional that composes the person sitting before him; his older brother,
dusting off a sector of soil and concrete to sit on while his automail leg groans at his settle.
"Spend a lot of time in seedy places like this, Al?"

Alphonse rolls his eyes, plopping down where he always does - right behind the largest pile, in a
spot that's shaded from the sun by a bent piece of steel.

"This is on the outskirts of the nicest part of town. You've been avoiding me." Alphonse's tone is
stiffer than he means for it to be, but he's tired of this cat and mouse game, and he's tired of always
being cat.

"How am I avoiding you? You're the one that spends more time out of the house than me."

"You've always told me I need to make friends that aren't you or Winry."

Edward doesn't have anything to rebuke that with, so he puffs his cheeks, crosses his arms and
looks away, pouting.

For a glimpse of time, Alphonse finds the gesture amusing in its childishness, and then Ed's sleeve
shifts to show a big, gaping scar on his forearm and he starts remembering what might be at stake.

Alphonse tugs at the cuff of his sleeve. Handling Edward is like handling a wild animal - if he
wants to get him to talk, he's gonna have to start somewhere delicate and easy.

"What did you do last night that you didn't want to tell me?"

That was... not great.

Edward stutters out a vague nonverbal protest and starts talking before Alphonse can bite it back.

"I don't really know how to say it."

Alphonse bites out the next question with difficulty. Back when they were having the conversation
about crushes, Al could have faced the possibility of being othered by everyone else. So long as he
has the people he loves by his side, Alphonse doesn't have much to say about the way his life is
lead.

"Do you not... trust me, anymore?"

If that were the case, Alphonse doesn't know what he would possibly do with himself.

Thankfully, Edward doesn't give him an extra moment to let the doubt sink in.

"What the fuck? No! Of course not, I mean, of course I do! What the fuck? Why?! Why would I?"

At the very least, it gets Edward to look at him. Anger and confusion overtone his demeanour,
bruising his expression and voice with purple and orange hues, and it somewhat relaxes Alphonse
for two reasons - the first is its assurance of the truth of Edward's response (brother has always
been bad at telling lies), and also because brother at his angriest is brother at his most familiar, and
also, most easily mouldable. It doesn't detangle the knots in his stomach, but loosens them,
perhaps.

"You never talk to me about anything anymore." Alphonse's voice cracks towards the end, and
maybe the loosening of the knots was just a red herring to distract Alphonse from the nausea
roiling in his belly. "You tell me you've been dreaming about the gate, then you start acting weird
and say they're 'not really dreams anymore', whatever that means, and now you've performed
alchemy? I don't even know what to say because I don't even know what's going on!"
"It's not that I don't want to!" Despite his tone, Edward's actual words are soft. In equal parts an
admission and a surrender. "I really just don't know how!"

"You don't know how to tell me what you've done last night?"

"Yes!"

"Stupid! Stupid brother!" Alphonse brings himself forward to slap at Edward's shoulder.

"Ow! Al! Stop it!"

"Not until you tell me what's going on!"

"I don't know how!"

"Then figure a way out! It doesn't have to be all at once, but tell me something!"

The words seem to have flipped a switch in Edward, because he stops resisting, stops talking back,
stops yelling. Rather, his face crinkles in concentration and his hands wring together.

Alphonse doesn't think Edward is fully aware of this, but when his brother got his hand back, he
developed a whole new set of mannerisms, after his body adjusted to its number of limbs rising to
three. He tugs his hands through his hair like usual, but also picks at his fingernails and pulls at his
knuckles absently when bored or nervous. His knuckles aren't as mangled and his fingertips aren't
as stiff, so he sometimes runs his fingers over the softer pads, pushing at them with subconscious
curiosity. He wrings his fingers when he's deep in thinking.

"I have an idea, Al. Gimme a minute."

With a suddenness Edward has definitely come to love, he practically leaps to his feet and starts
going through his pockets.

"I know I have them in here..." he mutters to himself.

"Have what? What are y-cards?"

Triumphantly, Edward holds up a deck of cards. It's a completely standard playing set, from what
Alphonse can see, if not a bit crinkled.

"I knew I had these in this pair of pants!"

"Brother, why?"

Al's exasperation draws an ugly snort out of Edward, but at the very least, it settles the ambiance
back to a more familiar place.

"I spend my nights with Truth these days." Edward plops back down on the ground again. "Not
that I want to, fucking bastard, and since I'm stuck with it so often, it refuses to cooperate with me.
We've spent last night playing Go Fish. Says it used to play the game with your body, too, back
when it was..."

The concept catches Alphonse off guard. Does his body have the same level of intelligence that he
has? Is it the same intelligence? Does it have the ability to perform cognitive behaviour beyond
instinct?

The options are fascinating and endless, and Alphonse almost misses the fact that Edward is
extending an olive branch, but he manages to reel himself in. This is Edward's way of forcing
himself to be truthful and communicative on his terms, barring that Alphonse doesn't know how or
why this is happening, and this is a matter bordering on pressing.

These other things are important, but this is much more urgent.

"And why Go Fish?"

"Whenever I asked for a card it had, it would grant me an answer to a question I asked. Whenever I
had a set of four, it would go even further, and answer the question I was getting at. It's stupid, but
it helps me organise what I'm trying to say and pace myself."

"That doesn't mean you have to have the cards in your pocket for that, though?"

Edward pulls a face at this that Alphonse doesn't exactly like, but spreads out the cards and takes
seven anyways, so Alphonse does the same.

His hand isn't terrible - five of Diamond, Queen of Diamond, five of Hearts, Ace of Spades, Ace of
Clubs, four of Clubs, Queen of Clubs.

Granny used to play Go Fish with him when Edward was going through various automail
procedures with Winry. He's not good at it, per se, but he does get the basics.

"You first," Edward says.

Alphonse wonders where exactly he wants to begin with this. Edward is notorious for being tricky
to get to talk, and with how cagey he's been, and how illusive this opportunity is, he has to tread
carefully.

"I didn't know you knew how to play this game," he chooses. "Do you have the five of Clubs?" he
asks.

"Go Fish." Edward messes with the order of his cards.

Alphonse pulls the Joker.

"Do you have the, uhh... Ace of Clubs or Diamond?"

"Generally, you aren't supposed to ask for two," Alphonse corrects, "but here you go, anyways."

He hands his brother the card.

"Do you have the five of Spades?" Alphonse asks.

"Yeah, c'mere."

If this game works the way Alphonse thinks, then Edward has to answer his question, right?

"I didn't know how to play it, but Truth taught me last night. I'll be playing with it again when I go
to sleep tonight."

Ed's gaze locks with his. The look in his eyes is serious, but not grave.

"Do you have the King of Hearts?"

"Go Fish."
On the one hand, he wants to know why his brother isn't asking anything of him in return for his
honesty, but Alphonse doesn't want to waste his turn or his time on it. He has three fives. This is
important. He's only missing the five of Clubs now.

"Why are you saying that Truth is saying things to you and teaching you things you never knew if
you're only dreaming of him? I need the Five of Clubs, please."

It's less so a question and more a request to confirm his suspicions, but brother has never made life
easy.

"Go Fish."

Alphonse picks up the four of Spades. Hmm, better than nothing.

"Ace of Hearts?" Ed asks.

"Go Fish. Four of Hearts?"

Ed grins at him, still hunched over the deck.

"Didn't even wait for me to finish taking it, huh, Al?"

The card slots in to his grip seamlessly.

"I'm saying that I'm not dreaming about Truth, Al. It's visiting me. Or, much more likely, I'm
visiting it."

Never mind. It flutters out of his grip, along with half of his hand. Luckily, the cards flutter face
down, as unreadable as the clench of his brother's jaw.

"Ace of Spades?" Edward asks.

"Asshole," Alphonse murmurs, but hands it over anyways. Edward puts down his set of four, then
settles more naturally as an uncomfortable feeling settles in Alphonse's gut. If he wins, does it
mean he doesn't get to ask any more questions?

"Why would you be-no. Wait, give me a second to think."

"I'll even give you two," Ed quips, seemingly undeterred by Alphonse's glare.

"I haven't really dreamt in six or so years. I'm a bit out of practice." Edward's face twists with
sorrow at Alphonse's admission, and this is simply something he'll have to broach at another time.
"What makes you so sure it isn't a dream? Five of Clubs."

Guilt swims through Edward's eyes for a moment, warring with relief. Whatever it is that he was
hesitant to talk about, they're getting close.

"Go Fish."

It's the five of Clubs. Alphonse waits for his turn, anyways.

"Do you have the seven of Spades?"

"That's a strange hand you've got there. Go Fish."

"Don't be mean, Winry worked hard on that thing," Edward grins, and Alphonse snorts out a laugh.
"She'd kill you if she heard you refer to her automail as a thing."

"Not just a thing, that thing, Al; there's a big difference."

"I'm sure there is." Alphonse shrugs, setting his set of fives down on the floor. Ed's head drops as
his other hand clutches at his knee. Alphonse is almost tempted to tell Ed he doesn't have to, except
for the fact that he kind of does.

"I know I'm not dreaming," he says, gathering Alphonse's set of four, "because when I'm dreaming,
I never know it's a dream. It doesn't hit me that something isn't logical or real until I wake. And...
the night I couldn't fall back asleep, it, uh... it kicked me out of the Gate. Said I could try to figure
things out for myself, and then I couldn't go back to sleep."

He sorts both of their sets in one neat pile on the side, a small grimace straightening his lips. "No
matter how much my body begged, or how much I begged, I couldn't sleep. I'm not like you or
Winry. I needed sleep, and I wasn't getting it. That night. That night, I..." He sighs. His gaze flits
from Alphonse, skyward, to the soil, to the playing cards. "I did the only thing I could think of
doing to get myself back to the Gate, and it worked."

Alphonse's heart drops. "Surely you don't mean..."

"I do, Al. I do. It's not your turn anymore."

"But that-that's--"

"Al, please. It's not your turn."

My terms, he's saying. Please be fair to me.

There's no one else he would think to ask of that, so while Alphonse feels like he's about to cry, he
soldiers on.

However, he wasn't the one who was actually in the military. His voice wobbles when he tells
Edward he doesn't have the cards he needed, and his hands shake when he goes to grab the two
cards from his two failed turns.

His hand is in an interesting point. He's only missing the four of Diamond, but he also has the two
of Spades and three of Hearts, and he's still left with the Queen of Diamonds and Ace of Spades
he's practically begging Edward to ask for.

"So it's not that you wanted to do... that." The actual mention of the words is unneeded, therefore
goes unsaid.

"God forbid." Edward declares, and the clear disdain in his voice helps calm Alphonse down.
"Never again."

Good, Alphonse thinks. "You do it because you have to if you want to sleep. Then, four of
Diamond?"

"Is that your question?" he asks, handing over the card.

"No. What I want to know is why," Alphonse replies as he takes it.

"You and me both, Al."

The set of fours spreads on the ground with a feeling that's not as triumphant as Alphonse would
want it to be, but this is progress.

"And why didn't you tell me any of this?"

Edward scowls at the set on the floor.

"I don't like this game anymore."

"Brother," Al deadpans.

"Fine," he spits, an aggressive front to cover up the fact that he's treading murky waters. Alphonse,
once more, doesn't know why he still tries. "I was thinking that if you found out you would, I don't
know, feel betrayed or think that I wanted to do it again. I didn't want you to..." he stutters, then
falls silent.

"Brother, I have a full set."

"I didn't want you to hate me, okay?!" he bursts.

Oh, brother. Stupid, short-sighted brother.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because of what happened last time. It was my fault-"

"It was our fault."

"-and I can't stomach the thought that I would fail you like that again. You already have enough
reason to hate me as is."

"I have no reason to hate you at all. I don't hate you. I don't think I can."

"You have plenty reason! I'm the shittiest brother in the world!" his voice cracks.

This situation is terribly silly. They're sitting in a scrap yard, fighting about human transmutation,
of all things, over a pile of cards. They were playing Go Fish less than a minute ago. It's so
ridiculous, Alphonse wants to laugh, or cry, or anything beyond listen to his brother list all the
reasons he hates himself. He shouldn't; not after everything he's done, helping everyone else, other
than himself.

"Even if any of those reasons were valid, which they aren't, the fact of the matter is that I don't hate
you for them. I don't hate you at all. Neither do Mr. Mustang, or Ms. Hawkeye, or Winry, or
anyone you try to fool yourself you aren't concerned about."

"I don't give a shit what Mustang thinks about me."

"Yes, you do."

"Shut up!"

"You are the last person that gets to say that right now."

"Look, the fact of the matter is tha-"

"You don't know what the fact of the matter is! The fact of the matter is that you think I should
hate you for being a terrible brother, which you've failed to elaborate on why that is, so until you
tell me what you've done that's so terrible, your argument is invalid."

Edward stares at him like he grew a second head.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"I'm afraid not."

"I convinced you to perform human transmutation."

"We were both children, and I also signed up for it of my own volition."

"I trapped you in a suit of armour for six years!"

"You saved my life."

"And by the time you got your body back, it was only skin and bones!"

"Yeah, I know you're ashamed of me; trust, I am too."

"I-what?" Edward stops. Freezes, more accurately. He just kind of stops in place. Doesn't talk,
doesn't blink, doesn't breathe.

"Ever since I saw my body for the first time after the split I felt it, too. It's alright, really,"
Alphonse explains. "I know it's near useless, and weak, and after nearly half a year of daily work I
still have miles of work ahead of me. You don't have to feel bad about that."

"You- I- what?"

"It makes sense."

"No! It doesn't!" he bursts back to life. "I'm not ashamed of you! What the fuck? Why would I be!
Of course your body is thin, it was fucking starved for five years, which is my fault, by the way,
and you think that has anything to do with--no! I'm not ashamed of you! I never was! I never could!
What's there to be ashamed of?!"

This... doesn't entirely make sense. While Alphonse knows he drew many of his conclusions from
context clues, he knows, nevertheless, that the context exists to begin with. Alphonse is a man of
science. He doesn't make up evidence and run with it. Sure, with his brother's added perspective, a
few things begin to take a different shape, but there's still something that bothers him.

"Then why do you cringe away whenever you come into contact with me?"

At this, Edward crumbles. His bangs fall in front of his face and his shoulders sag. He trails his
hands to rub at his face, then tug at his hair. He pauses, again, and lets out a humourless laugh.

"Brother?"

"I really am the worst brother ever," he says, and then they're hugging.

Edward's gripping onto him with a fierceness Alphonse is glad to see in his brother again. One arm
circles around his back, gripping hard and unrelentingly. His other hand is on the nape of
Alphonse's neck, guiding his head to rest over his shoulder. Alphonse's body catches on with the
motions before his brain does, because when he grasps what's happening, his body has already
sunk into the embrace.
'Touch-starved' is a phrase Alphonse has heard very few times in his life, but he thinks it fits. It's
hardly ever a conscious want, but moments like these are the balm to an ache he didn't ever fully
register. It almost makes everything hurt a little less, like his skinny hips digging into the concrete,
or the fact that his back has been hurting for the last few days. It feels like his mother's warm palm
cupping over his forehead when he had a fever, or his father's rough grip as he shook Alphonse's
hand. It's something he needed, even if he didn't find the words to say it, or even knew he needed
to.

"I'm so sorry." Edward's hand pats at his head. "That was never the reason."

Alphonse worms his face into his brother's shoulder. "Then, what was?"

"Whenever I saw you, it just felt like everything I've ever done that hurt you was being thrown
back at my face. It's so stupid. I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was hurting you even more."

They both sigh.

"It's okay," Alphonse says. "I get it. Now that you've explained it, that makes sense."

"I'm still sorry."

"And I forgive you."

In silence, they stay in this position for a few more moments. Now that the urgency of the
conversation has been settled, and many of Alphonse's worries have been brought to light and put
to rest, the stress rolls off of him in waves, and he feels lighter than he's been since the Promised
Day was over.

"It's good that this conversation happened now, because you have the shittiest hand ever," Edward
snorts out with a laugh. "There's no way you're winning."

"Try me." Alphonse pulls out of the hug and pulls back his cards. He doesn't miss the contact the
second it's over. "We're finishing this game, and I'm handing your ass back to you."

///

"I can't believe you beat me in fucking Go Fish." Edward opens the door to the Rockbell house.

"I've never seen someone lose so spectacularly in the game, either," Alphonse hums as he steps
through. It's gone dark by the time they got home, but it doesn't matter. Winry hardly spares them a
glance as she stirs a pot. She's discussing something out of their earshot with Granny, but the
conversation is half hearted at best.

"Shut up, you have, like, half a decade of subconscious experience. You must have muscle memory
of winning at Go Fish or something."

"Muscle memory of winning at Go Fish?" Alphonse repeats, incredulously.

Edward closes his eyes and shrugs, as if to say it is what it is.

"Are you sure you didn't exchange that night of sleep for braincells?"
"Big talk coming from the guy who butters me and my intelligence up to all of his new lady
friends," Edward grins.

"Don't say it like that." Alphonse's nose wrinkles. "That sounds weird."

"It does sound weird," Winry chimes in from the kitchen, "but that's because Ed's weird, so it fits."

"Tough talk coming from the gearhead."

Despite the sheer effort of the act, brother fails to appear annoyed as he strolls over to the kitchen
and begins setting up the table.

"I'll let that slide if you mash the potatoes, alchemy freak."

He does as she says, and when Alphonse suggests helping, Edward shoos him away and tells him
to rest while Winry asks him to prepare the salad, and then it's an all out war between the two of
them, with Edward claiming that Alphonse is still healing and needs to rest, and Winry claiming
he's done enough of that and he's more than fit enough to start helping more around the house, and
it's with this resounding, fond chaos that Alphonse lets himself melt into reality, for just a moment.
It's nothing special; they go at each other's throats five times a night, but something in the moment
catches Alphonse's mind. Clashing voices, overwhelming in any other context, that are almost
muted by the fact that neither of them stray from their original tasks or chores - Winry's expertly
watching over the stew, and Edward's mashing and seasoning the potatoes as though it was what he
was born to do, pausing his yelling to check for seasoning, and curses with the spoon still in his
mouth, licked clean.

Suddenly, Alphonse is struck by an overwhelming thought; the absolute realisation: we've made it.
We've made it home. No matter what happened before, and no matter what happens next, they've
gotten what they truly wanted, more or less.

Between Edward's bellows and Winry's shouts, though, he catches onto the more subtle undertones
of the thought. It's not exactly true to say that everything is how they wanted; Edward's still
missing a leg, and he has no alchemy. Alphonse seems to have carried on somewhat inhuman
habits from the times he was just that, and every once in a while, when dusk stretches shadows
until they paint the entire hall, Winry can be just a bit too quiet, too. It's not the tomorrow they
always dreamed of. Foolishly, might he add; that hypothetical future died a long time ago. Perhaps
that's alright, though. There shouldn't be anything grand about what happens next (nor do either of
them want any more grandness than they've already seen).

The perfect future, to Alphonse, is a vignette of moments time latches onto, and refuses to let him
forget. The duality of events that are neither good or bad, or are more so one than the other, but still
allow room for complexities to shine through. Edward's State Alchemist Application exams.
Hawkeye draping her coat over him after his first battle with Scar. Alphonse's fight with Kimblee
and Pride (which he should definitely tell his brother about), and meeting his body again for the
first time.

Perhaps, there will be time for these things to be discussed aloud, but for now, Alphonse allows
himself to sink into the back of his own mind as the rest of the evening plays through without his
active, present involvement.

In the sanctity of his mind, Alphonse allows himself to recall the painful moment that he reunited
with his body. In stark contrast to that harsh, hostile environment coupled with stress, fear and
uncertainty, he lies down on his soft, warm bed, borrowing under the bedsheets while his mind
calmly goes downstream.
 The first time he saw his body, he felt a crushing disappointment and fear. It goes to show how
rotten the mind becomes when one has to fight for their life, because Al's first thought shouldn't
have been how weak and useless his body had become; how unequipped for battle. It should have
been joy - joy at having a body that's still there, joy for it being within reach, joy at the clear sign
of a goalpost, after they had been clawing after it for so long. Edward's deconstruction of his fears
had helped clear his head, and after mulling it over some more, he feels a bit of pity for the
Alphonse he was back then, less than a year ago, a boy stuck in a suit of armour, standing in an
empty field between two Gates.

Wait.

Alphonse shoots up from his position lying down on the bed, and his heart feels as though it just
dropped into oblivion while his eyes shoot wide open.

Why the hell were there two Gates?

Chapter End Notes

Ah, yes, the return of everyone's favourite FMA;B character: Go Fish

 Meeting the In-Laws
Chapter Summary

I make use of a few of the character tags.

Chapter Notes

It's been a while since I watched the show so I don't actually remember if Mei and
Winry met in canon but I don't think so??? In any case if they did meet no they didn't

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Since the return of the Elric brothers, Winry has found herself cataloguing many changes.

It's strange to say, but ever since they came back, she's found that her brain has split down two
pathways: the scared, admittedly lonely girl who wanted her best friends back and finally has them,
and a curious observer, watching from afar, the way one does when discovering a new animal
species.

While she knows it's shitty of her to say, she can't help it. In reality, besides little glimpses she's
had every once in a while, she said goodbye to the boys as 11 and 12 year old little kids, and
opened her arms to full-blown teenage war veterans just shy of four months ago. Ed, who used to
smile toothy grins at everyone and everything whenever he wasn't yelling, is often times found
silently stewing over some topic or another, lost in memories Winry somewhat dreads to have
access to. Alphonse, sweet, sun-shiny Al, picked up more traits from his time as a suit of armour
than he seems to have realised, but having returned back to his body, the overcompensation borders
on excessive. His completely silent footsteps and small handwriting are remnants, ones that will be
pushed aside in favour of dealing with more pressing matters, then transform into habits that were
seemingly always there, and always will be.

They're not inherently bad things. Winry enjoys Al's placid accompanying presence on the nights
that neither of them can sleep, and now that he's matured a bit more, conversations with Ed feel a
lot less like pulling hair. He's no more receptive of emotions, hers or anyone's, but at the very least,
he's capable of acknowledging them.

Nevertheless, she's caught onto the sense of unease that surrounds the two of them. Unease around
other people, around each other, around themselves. It eased a bit when Mr. Mustang and Ms.
Hawkeye were around (not that Ed would be caught dead admitting that), but it seems that
whenever either of them is left alone to his thoughts, both boys will set sail into their memories and
whatever troubles happen to lurk in the waters, and it's up to Winry to pull them out of there.

Her biggest problem in that regard is that her go-to way of insuring that used to be to fix Ed's
automail and yelling at him for ruining it, but these days, he's practically stationary. Besides the
one time he pointed out the flaw in her design (stupid, stupid girl, you could have gotten him hurt
with a mistake like the last time!), he hasn't needed any fixes, and she hasn't had any excuses to
break the tension that seems to grip the two of them by the shoulders.
Around about the time Alphonse went on a date with that friend of his, Ed had asked her to help
him be a little nicer to his brother. Thinking she had finally managed to find a way in, she'd agreed,
but he stubbornly refused to let her know even a single thing more. That was the last bit of
information she'd been able to squeeze out of him.

At the very least, Alphonse is more responsive. He communicates his emotions more clearly, and
he's also more aware of them than his older brother. Figures that Winry had to fall for the most
thick-skulled, trouble attracting idiot she's ever met, but in their rare, quiet moments, that have
become more frequent these days, he offers her a pleasant company and bone-deep understanding
that she so dearly needs and loves, and she just wishes she could return the favour, but she can't.

The one problem about the Elric brothers, she thinks while sketching out a design for a set of
fingers, is that they're both too tight lipped for their own good. Even when they talk about their
experiences, they've developed this weird, unencryptable code that only they and their military
friends seem to understand. Slowly but surely, she thinks she's managed to unravel some of it due
to sheer exposure, but it's guess work at best. The only things she knows are the ones that she
witnessed, or, like the nightmare she envisioned the first time she saw Ed take his shirt off, things
she had irrefutable evidence for.

Of course the thick-skulled, trouble attracting idiot got eaten alive. Of course he got impaled and
traded years off his life to avoid making her cry. Because why not?

Thankfully, her silent pleas that the two of them work out whatever has been eating them alive
seem to have finally been answered. A few nights ago, after the two of them came back
suspiciously late from fixing Mrs. Jones' roof, they seemed right as rain. That being, they still talk
in code and act like the whole world isn't privy to their little secrets, but it no longer feels like
they're hiding things from each other, either.

For Winry, this is enough. She doesn't need to intrude on their brotherly bond, and she doesn't want
to. Those two are the only blood they have left, and that is a sacred thing.

But, in the privacy of her mind, she wishes she weren't left out of the loop so often.

What she knows is that Edward got impaled, and eaten. Not necessarily in that order. It's a scary
thing, knowing that her friends were exposed to that much danger, and worst of all is the
knowledge that they've gone through so much danger that the topic of being eaten is more of a
casual, fond memory to them. Sometimes it feels like she and Granny are the only two sane people
left, left alone in their house that became far too quiet after the boys left in a temporary bid that felt
more and more permanent as time stretched on.

"The model is similar to Ed's old one, but I sacrificed the strength of the fingers for a slimmer,
thinner design that would fit her hand better. Do you think it would work or did I go too far?"
Winry asks.

Granny, who's sat only a few paces away, cranes her neck to look at the design. "I don't know,
sweety, what do you think?"

Winry rolls her eyes. This is Granny's favourite game to play.

"I don't know if the mechanism would run into any troubles during actual work - it shouldn't,
theoretically, but I also couldn't spot any potential troubles with Ed's ankle model, and I was wrong
that time, too."

"And you learned from that mistake when creating more spherical joints, yes?"
"Yes."

"So what do you have to be concerned by?"

Winry glares at the blueprint. The dark shade is soothing on the eyes.

"That's what I thought." Granny hums as she returns to her own work.

This, Winry thinks absently, is how four entire years passed. They spend decent stretches of time
like this, too, in the last few days. Now that the latest mystery has befuddled the brothers, they've
gone back to spending whole days stuck murmuring to each other in desolate corners, hunched over
textbooks. It's as though danger could never leave the Elric brothers alone, too busy to take a step
back and acknowledge the family they have here, more than willing to come forward and help
those stubborn, annoyingly, selfishly selfless brothers-

"You might not have a blueprint left if you keep tearing at it like that." Granny hums.

Mortifyingly, Winry realises that she's right - her grip on the sketch has tightened so that her
fingertips have been stretching the paper.

It flutters when she drops it back onto the table.

The next few hours pass in a similar blur, but in the end, she has a functional exoskeleton and a
somewhat fickle assurance that she's not going to fuck this up.

She also has a guest in her living room.

Only one person, of all the people that Ed and Al told her about, could fit the description of the
child sat politely in front of her. Mei Chang is dressed in a regal yet simplistic looking pink robe,
six long braids trailing delicately over her shoulders. She looks energetic and excited, and when she
stands up to introduce herself, she barely reaches Winry's chest. The tiniest panda Winry has ever
seen and will probably ever see is perched on the young girl's shoulder.

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Winry!" her voice is bright and chipper. "I'm Mei Chang, it's an
honour to meet you!"

Instantly, Winry is fond of the small girl. She's polite, sweet and energetic, and Winry kind of
misses that energy in her life. "It's a pleasure to meet you, too." She extends her hand. "I'm Winry
Rockbell."

At this moment, Alphonse chooses to leave the kitchen with two glasses of lemonade. Mei's eyes
grow near imperceptibly wider, sparkling with a youthful sort of excitement that comes with first
love, and it's at this moment that she realises that Ed was not at all exaggerating or lying when it
came to the girl's infatuation. A bit of a shame, all things considered, but Winry can't exactly pity
her when considering that her own disposition is arguably worse.

Alphonse looks equal parts happy and nervous, which is a funny mix of emotions to see warring in
one's expression, but it washes away when he takes note of Winry's presence.

"Oh shoot!" he says, and Winry snorts. "I didn't tell you about Mei coming over, I'm so sorry!"

One of the glasses spills ever so slightly as he sets them down on the coffee table, and now that his
hands are free, it seems he doesn't really know what to do with them, frozen mid-air by his sides.

"That you did not." Winry cocks one hip, leaning her weight on one foot more than the other.
"How was I supposed to know to prepare dinner for five people instead of four?"

"More like eighteen, with how much everyone eats." Edward passes by her with a hand trailing
across her waist. "Good afternoon, Mei."

Mei Chang's eyes dim the slightest bit when she sees him, a sort of annoyance in her eyes. "Nice to
see you, straw hair."

By the feel of his fingertips still on her side, Winry doesn't even have to look at him to know he's
stiffened in place. He's sucked in his lips as his eyes flutter closed and oh, he's so barely holding
back an outburst, but he doesn't say anything, wordlessly strolling into the kitchen with soldier-like
steps.

Done with that headache, Winry fixes her gaze on Al once again, who looks even more nervous.

"Exactly how many people have you invited to my home?" she drawls.

"It's not as bad as brother is making it seem!" he begs.

"It's worse," Ed pipes up from the kitchen.

"It's not!"

"You've invited two parasites and Mei Chang to our house."

Turns out what Ed was making in the kitchen is two sandwiches. Wordlessly, he hands her one,
and how long exactly has he been preparing her lunches that he knows the perfect ratio of
ingredients that she likes?

"And, to add insult to injury, you forgot to tell Winry and Granny about it, even after I told you to."

"I was distracted! I forgot!"

This does not surprise Winry in the slightest. Out of the two brothers, Alphonse is doubtlessly the
flakier one, floating away into his own mind and forgetting about all his responsibilities, from
things he has set up to eating, drinking and going to the bathroom.

"So, you have two more people on the way?" Winry cuts in.

"Yes." Alphonse's gaze is locked downwards shamefully, and Winry would cut the act short but
she's too amused. "I don't think you've met them. Their names are Lan-Fan and Li-"

"Of course I've met the lovely Winry!" a voice cuts from the doorway, and Winry flinches at the
intrusion. Her heart just about falls out of her chest, and she slips on the landing, just a little bit.

"Bastard," Edward greets. Ling Yao is as loud and obnoxious as he was the first time they met.

"Lan-Fan," his voice softens just a notch, taking on a more respectful tone that she doesn't hear
often. She turns to her left and her heart drops again when she sees a woman somehow managed to
materialise on her and Edward's left. She's dressed in all black, with her hair done up in a simple,
efficient do. Her arm glints in the light of the room, and Winry already knows she'll be asking to
study the model at some point.

"Ed," she says, gripping onto his sleeve. "Can you please explain what is happening before I go
into cardiac arrest?"
"Al here," he laughs, "has taken it upon himself to bring on a third party to help settle a dispute
between the two of us. However," he gestures at the three travellers in the room, "he has somehow
managed to pick the most biased third parties in existence."

Winry looks at Ling as the Elrics resume their bickering. She tunes them out on instinct.

"Are you still, uh..."

How does one ask another, politely, if they're still possessed by a monster, or whatever the hell it
is?

"No, I am no longer a host for Greed." Ling Yao's tone is coloured with soft remorse. "He died in
the war."

"Oh," she says. Is that a bad thing? Is she supposed to console him for no longer being possessed?
"My condolences."

"Thank you, but it's quite alright now."

... Okay. Maybe Ed and Al's solutions to constantly being accused of being weird was to surround
themselves with people who are even weirder.

Winry turns to Ed, who's engaged in conversation with the girl - Lan-Fan - about adjusting to the
prosthetic, and Winry feels a small, bubbling sense or pride at the display, not unlike a teacher
watching their pupil succeed at something. Entirely misplaced and inanely strange, but
nevertheless true. However, they have more pressing matters to discuss.

Grabbing him by the back of his shirt, Winry tugs him away from their busy living room into the
kitchen just as Granny enters to investigate. She can hear Al's stuttered apologies clear as day, and
she hopes for his sake that maybe Mei Chang's politeness will help wash over their sudden
intrusions.

"Edward Elric." Winry grips onto the kitchen counter. "You are going to explain and you are going
to do it quick."

Ed gulps. Good.

"Look," he sighs, "you know how I don't have alchemy anymore."

Immediately, this conversation path sets off a thousand alarm bells in her mind, but he goes on,
regardless.

"I don't really know how this happened, because I've never done this before, obviously, but
something went... weird."

"Weird? Weird how?!"

"Win, please just let me explain." His hand holds onto her arm, a grip that's meant to stabilise and
reassure. She knows from experience, having been on the giving side of it countless times. Having
the roles reverse in such a way is strange. "The only way I can get through this is if you don't
interrupt me."

Once again, as she is prone to doing, Winry finds herself trying to make sense of the person
standing in front of her. Edward Elric stands tall(er) and calm, the explosive outbursts kept
bubbling under his skin rather than shooting out, all because he knows this is an important
conversation to have. He's placative, communicative, and even willing to share vulnerable
information without the two of them doing their tried and true safety dance beforehand.

This might be the first signs of the Ed she's been hoping to see more of. The one can leave the past
in the past.

"Alright," she says, "sorry."

"It's fine," he dismisses. "So yeah, things went weird. I don't feel bad, per se, but very strange, and
as much as they act like two bumbling idiots, Ling and Mei are two of the most talented
alkahestrists we've ever seen. Mei can do things Al and I never even knew to be possible
beforehand, and the ease in which she picked these things up at her age makes me think tha-oh.
Sorry." Blush paints his cheeks as his ramble died down, and she keeps that frame in her mind's eye
for later. It's cute. Sue her. "Anyway, she and Ling both have vast experience with alkahestry,
which is fitting for a princess of Xing and the future emperor, god bless them all, and Al figured
that if there's anyone that would be able to give us further insight, it would be them."

Winry takes a few seconds to blink as the information settles. Ignoring even the fact that they now
have two Xingese royalties in their living room, she knows Ed and his way of veiling over his
words. Even allowing himself to say that something doesn't feel right is scary. Worst of all though,
is the fact that, once again, there's nothing she can do to help.

For all the brothers talk about it, she knows jack shit about alchemy. It doesn't interest her, it
confuses her, and it tore apart the family of her best friends. That's all she needs to know to know
that she's going to stay far away from the subject, thank you very much. It feels better to know that
the two of them feel confident enough to actually ask for help these days, even if it's not from her
or Granny, but there's another pressing matter to discuss.

"And you asked an 11 year old girl for help?"

"She's 12 now, but it's not like Ling is much better."

"What do you mean?"

"Dude just turned 16 last month."

"Excuse me?!"

"It took me three weeks to explain to him that I don't have, nor know how to drive a car, and I can't
just, hop on a train ride to Xing on no notice for a birthday party, of all things, and-"

"Ed. Ed. Ed. Please shut up."

Blessedly, he does as she asked. If only that were a pattern of behaviour rather than a statistical
outlier.

"Don't you have any responsible adults you can ask?"

Ed pulls a face. It transforms his normally handsome features into something more resembling of
an ogre, or those horrid gargoyles he loves so much. "Like who, Mustang?"

"He would help if you asked him to."

"He's too busy."

"He would drop everything in a heartbeat if he knew you were in trouble."

"He would not, and I'm not."

"That man thinks of you like a son, Ed," she says in a sing-song tone as she turns to the icebox. "Or
maybe that weird Armstrong guy would also like to help." Ed splutters in rage and finally lets lose
on the pent-up aggression he's been burying in his belly.

Winry laughs, just a little bit, now that she's settled some of the worry in her belly. It doesn't matter
if she can't help this time; they managed to collect themselves a fine, albeit eccentric, collection of
people that would come from far and wide to help the brothers, should they need it. This time,
instead of running a hole into the rug with endless pacing, she gets to make sure they're all right.
Besides, it's nice to see the house so full of friends and life after so much time spent in near silence.

It's time to let someone else do the worrying for a change.

///

Winry decides to go shopping herself this time.

The boys bring home good produce, but she knows they want to talk about whatever's wrong with
Ed without her in the house, and she buries that hurt deep down inside because she knows it's for
the best, right now. Let the world's first Elric-Rockbell alchemy convention happen without her -
she'll just hound one of them for details later. She's spent four years being left in the dark, and in
some ways, that may never change, but lately, they've left the door a hair open, shed some light
into the room.

Winry picks up a few leeks and some goat's cheese for tonight's quiche. She had enough, before,
but even though Ed and Al's friends aren't staying the night, they'll likely stay for food, and if Ling
eats as much as Ed says he does, she needs to be prepared.

Nothing beats having friends over for dinner, even if the circumstances are a bit unconventional.
Lan-Fan is contemplative and quiet, but Ling is vibrant and energetic, and Mei looks at Alphonse
as though he hung the stars in the sky, so she hopes that maybe the three of them will help bring a
little bit of light into the house, and complete the Elric's transitions from whatever gloom held onto
them before.

All five of them, when she enters, are in the midst of a serious discussion. Alphonse's eyebrows
crease while Mei's are slanted in determination, and Ling's lost his trademark easy smile. Edward
looks like he's half way through swallowing a rusty nail, and simultaneously looks dangerously
close to punching something. Or someone.

"Obviously, I'm not fucking dead, moron!" He shouts at Ling.

Well, she found the someone.

Much as the statement is concerning on a surface level, Winry knows there's more to unpack than
they have the patience to explain, so she adds that to the list and heads off to wash the leeks.

Infuriatingly enough, now that they know she's back, they've switched back to using some sort of
code and avoidant tactic that makes everything they say fly over her head. Her grip on the leeks
tightens as she focuses on breathing deep. This is something they need to do. They'll tell her once
it's over. This is a recurring statement in her mind, a mantra that gets her through dinner prep as
they discuss the thing, or, you know, or, the problem, or, in Ed's case, the omnipotent fucking
bastard, and the lack of begrudging fondness and familiarity in his tone lets her know they aren't
exactly discussing Mustang.

Winry sticks by her statement. She kinda hates the guy, a little bit, but she knows he would haul
ass all the way from Ishval if Ed was in serious turmoil.

She'll call him if her developing stress ulcer decides to rupture.

Goddamnit, she thinks, I used to think things would get easier once they came back home. I really
don't know a damn thing.

In between listening to Mei Chang wax poetic about Alphonse and Ling's endless nonsense, her
good mood from earlier has just about vanished; a headache grips onto the back of her head like a
cradle from the nape, only much less pleasant. They seem to have reached some sort of settlement,
the five of them, and the serious conversation from earlier has descended into the regular
yammering people their age usually get onto when left with no other things to do, but the sour
feelings from earlier have been piling up for over an hour, and now that the dough is chilling
before it bakes, she has the time to compose herself before returning to her obligations.

Winry doesn't make it far into the bedrooms' hallway, but she doesn't need more. Her legs bend
into a more comfortable position as her head thunks back against the hallway's wall. Her hands
wring endlessly with each other and when one of her controlled exhales comes out shaky, she gives
up altogether.

She wasn't really expecting anyone to come upstairs to check up on her, but now that there are no
distractions, the soft padding of Lan-Fan's footsteps is just about audible.

"I hope you don't mind if I join you," she says. Her voice is low and soft. "The Young Lord and his
friends tend to get a bit loud for my preferences after a while."

"Not at all," she sighs, but her head doesn't move from where it's rested. "I know that they're doing
something important, but it was getting a bit much."

Winry tilts her head sideways, cracking her eyes open the tiniest bit. Lan-Fan is sat in a somewhat
stiff, cross-legged position that is every bit fitting for a woman of her character, but it makes
something in her feel a little less alien to Winry.

"The Young Lord was worried when he got Alphonse's message. It had to go through multiple
contacts in order to reach us, most of them Amestrian military, so he knew it must have been
important. It took longer than he wanted to to arrive, but our last trip across the desert took months,
and we both knew that if we wanted to arrive in a relevant and timely manner, it would be wise to
properly plan our trip this time."

"I'm assuming it was easier this time around?"

"Yes, it was." Despite it being an obvious statement, Lan-Fan's tone doesn't try to make her feel
like she's an idiot for asking. "Brigadier General Mustang and his Brigade are hard at work with
the Ishvallan Restoration Project, but he also has multiple divisions assigned to building bridges
with Xing, both literal and metaphorical. The Young Lord has been present in many an important
meeting on the topic, after his involvement in what has become known as the Promised Day. We
both have great hope that these relations will improve public opinion of his inevitable, future rule."
All at once, Winry feels like the lone child at the playpen. All the adults are sat around her, talking
about things that go way over her head; she's too busy playing with her toys and her automail gear
to pay attention, and none of the grown-ups around her having grown-up talks even feel the need to
clue her in.

In many ways, Winry hasn't felt like a kid since she still had her parents, but there are still ways in
which childish emotions have their hold over her. At this moment, she wants to pout, to scream at
Lan-Fan, who has done nothing wrong and whom Winry barely knows, about how things are
unfair, or annoying, or assholish, or something of that nature. It's pathetic, how at that moment, she
feels a chasm tear through her chest into reality, and settle a canyon between her and everyone else,
cracking right between her and the other teenage girl sitting on the hallway floor with her. Winry
doesn't know alchemy, or transmutations, or Dragon's Pulse, and she doesn't want to know, but for
God's sake, for one moment, she wishes she wasn't left aside like a poor little housewife that can't
fend against reality.

"I'm sorry if I've said something upsetting." Lan-Fan's voice pulls Winry out of her head.

"No. Why would you think that?"

"You had a look in your eyes that was desperate and sad. I hope I haven't triggered any unpleasant
memories, and if so, I'm incredibly sorry."

"No!" Winry's hands shoot out, but stay stagnant in the air. "No no no. Not at all. That's not what
happened."

Winry sighs and her head thunks backwards again. "I guess I'm just tired of hearing about
Promised Day this and alchemy that without actually knowing what anybody's talking about. It can
get a bit frustrating s'all"

Lan-Fan seems to accept the statement for what it is, and thankfully doesn't try to analyse the
emotion behind the statement too much.

"Alkahestry is a field that holds very little interest to me," Lan-Fan says, "but the Dragon's Pulse is
an inherent part of our culture. Similarly, Equivalent Exchange can be implemented in almost every
part of your life, if you look at it that way."

Winry straightens her back, looking at Lan-Fan more directly than she has this entire time. This
seems to give Lan-Fan the conformation she needed to keep going. "The Young Lord, for example,
practices no actual Alkahestry, but has enough knowledge in the field to rival-" she pauses and
swallows, her brows twitching, "-the Chang clan princess."

The blatant dislike and disregard in her tone is so shockingly out of character that Winry can't hold
back her snort. "What do you mean? Do you think I need to start studying alchemy?"

"Not at all. What I mean to say is that if you look around you, the concept of Equivalent Exchange
is something that is already put into practice in dozens of ways in your life. You take an egg and
warmth, and you have a chicken. Sacrifice metal and experience for an arm like my own." Ever so
slightly, she tugs at her sleeve. "You put vegetables, time and seasoning into water and it becomes
soup. One doesn't always get back what they give, but often times, in relationships that are as
pivotal as the ones that seem to worry you, you get back every much as you give, if only in ways
that you weren't really expecting it."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That you don't need to know everything, or even anything, about what the Elric brothers do in
order to support them. You give them more than anyone else does, and they try their best to give it
back to you, and because it's only in the ways that you three know how, it often gets
miscommunicated."

The acknowledgement of her statement takes longer than it should have. Frankly, it's the kind of
viewpoint that requires a complete recontextualization of the way Winry thinks, but in reality, it
could probably be a good exercise if she really wants to better understand her best friends.

"That sounds kind of transactional."

"The way human relation at its core often is." Lan-Fan leans ever so slightly forward. "The Young
Lord has taken it upon himself to lead our country with passion and dignity, and my grandfather
and I have granted our lives to his protection and well-being. On the surface, it seems unbalanced,
but that is not at all the case. The Young Lord is fiercely caring and compassionate, even to near-
strangers, and it is those traits of his that make my life's mission worthwhile to me. My work is
repaid in the prosperity of Xing under the guide that the Young Lord will bring."

Suddenly, Winry's mind is whisked away from the present. She doubts Lan-Fan minds - the girl is
absently clutching at her automail port, and also seems to be drowning in memories of her own.
The chasm hasn't been taken away, but rather bridged over with a rickety, worn rope ladder. Two
girls sit, cross legged and lax, in the hallway of a small home in Resembool, and their minds are so
farther away than the ambient ruckus they can barely hear downstairs.

Winry doesn't know what Lan-Fan is thinking about. She doesn't have access to her mind.
However, she thinks the direction of their thoughts might not be too different.

After all, Winry's thinking about the lunch sandwiches Ed has started making her, apparently
subconsciously. She thinks of Al's hands, handing her his physiotherapy notes and guides with no
second thought, as though it was obvious that she would help him handle it. She thinks of how far
Ed goes to fight for and accommodate his little brother, even goes far enough that Al doesn't even
realise he's being met half-way in the first place, and how both brothers now seem to materialise
when Winry's at her loneliest, and the genuine happiness Alphonse's eyes shine with when he
convinces Ed that it really is okay for Ed to skip his turn grocery shopping if he's really not up to it.
In their own strange ways, Winry supposes it's their form of payment for the arm and the leg and a
place to sleep at night, even if they know full well they really don't have to. Good grief, these boys
will never stop making her worry even once in their lives.

All in all, once Winry gives Lan-Fan the respect she deserves by carefully mulling over her words,
she knows the other girl is right.

Eventually, the two of them make it downstairs. Or, well, they try to. About four steps down,
Winry's honest attempt gets intercepted by a hand locking around her arm, and long, golden hair
assaulting her field of vision.

"Sanity break," Ed forces through gritted teeth, "please."

Lan-Fan's lip quirks up in a way that says I told you and amusement, packaged together under the
pretence of dismissal, before disappearing from the staircase. Ling Yao's screeches change both in
tone and volume, letting her know that he's noticed her return.

The two of them do head downstairs shortly after, but Lan-Fan's demeanour catches Winry
somewhat off-guard. Ramrod straight and fully attentive to her charge, she's focused, if not slightly
exasperated, by the other teen at her side. She does not match the appearance of someone who is
annoyed, tired or has had too much, like her earlier claims.

As if she felt Winry's eyes on the back of her head, she turns around, lifts a brow oh-so-slightly,
and tunes back in to the conversation Alphonse, Mei and Ling are having. Perhaps she hadn't gone
upstairs for her own sake, then.

Well, if that is the case, at least Winry knows how to pay it back.

"So, Ed, feel like helping me out in the kitchen?"

"God bless," he says, and she laughs.

Setting up another small station by her side is no business at all, and she hands him a basket of
oranges to zest and squeeze for a juice and a cake.

"Were you at least able to have a good conversation?"

He shrugs. "I think we've got a few lines of thought going on, nothing concrete, but definitely
something worth exploring. My, uh... my problem, isn't something that I ever thought would
happen, but at least I know that those guys know what they're talking about."

"Even if they're insufferable?"

Ed snorts.

"Mei Chang will probably grow out of it at some point," he says, "but Ling is a lost cause. And I
love Al, but he gets so overprotective sometimes that I don't even know where to begin. He makes
up problems that don't even exist."

"It's probably to balance out your tendency to ignore your actual problems." The farmer girl from
further south has been giving Winry butter, milk and cream nearly for free after she made her
younger brother a new foot after his accident. The butter she's just unwrapped is perfectly room
temperature, rich and white as she slides it into the bowl. She gives the sugar to Ed for him to mix
with the orange zest once he's done and feels a sense of contentment wash over her once more, now
that some of the emotions have been uncorked, left to bubble over and engage.

"Well, yeah, and then there's you in the middle," he says.

"What, like Goldilocks and the three bears?" she asks.

"Al is definitely the mom."

Winry chokes on her laugh while Ed's rings loose and lively in the small room.

"And you're the dad, with your propensity for doing way too much."

"So that makes you just right," he winks and hands her the juice from the oranges. There's
something small and breathless that flutters in her chest, and it feels like acceptance and belonging.

"Did I say you were done?" she asks. "I didn't even get you started on the lemons."

"Why would you not hand them to me with the oranges?"

"Because your presence is loud and annoying and it distracted me."

"You were the one who dragged me in here!"

"After you pounced on me and begged me for help!"

The preparation of the food and cake take way longer than they should have, but neither of them
stopped smiling the entire time.

///

Winry doesn't get a chance to talk to Mei Chang until it's later in the day, when everyone is just
about powering down. Ed, Al and Granny have all gone to bed, and Winry was supposed to, as
well, but a project kept her mind going for quite a while longer - a soldier from Briggs requested a
hand with retractable finger knives from her, and he paid well.

Mei Chang sits, alert and awake, on the floor of the hallway. Her back is pressed just to the side of
Ed's room, and she her brows are furrowed. Though her eyes are closed, she nods at Winry when
she senses her approach.

"What are you doing?" Winry asks, in a voice that's nearly a whisper.

"I'm monitoring Edward's soul," she says, her voice soft and low. At this moment, Winry locates a
small, strangely shaped throwing knife stuck in the floor. "The Yao boy will take over monitoring
in about five or so hours. Al said that Ed usually manages 10 straight hours of uninterrupted sleep."

"And why is there a knife in the floor?"

"I will fix the gash come morning," she dismisses, "this is more important."

Mei's brows raise, though her eyes stay shut. "Oh, wow," she mutters to herself. "I've never seen
anything like this." The small panda that seems to find eternal comfort on the young girl's shoulder
stiffens, suddenly, curiously padding along Mei's shoulder, down her arm, and onto her palm, at
which point Mei stops her, cradling the small pet to her chest. "I know it's distressing, Xiao-Mei,
but Edward and Al say this happens every night, and we have to trust them."

The darkness of the early night amplifies just about everything, and an emotionally tumultuous day
has left Winry drained and entirely unwilling to play any games.

"Can someone please just tell me what's happening already? What's going on with Ed that's so
important that you all came here from Xing?"

Mei does open her eyes at this, and turns to look at Winry. Her gaze tinges with sympathy.

"Edward's body is alive, but his soul is missing."

If she were anyone else, Winry might have questioned this statement, or called it an outright lie.
Absolutes of that kind have been wiped away from Winry's lexicon as she grew older, and
especially with the brothers at her side, she learned that there are very few things that simply
cannot happen under any circumstances. She's not the most educated in the field, and she hasn't
seen a tenth of what, say, Ed has, but she knows of some things. As is, the one thing that jumps to
her mind is Alphonse's body, spending six years locked in a way in a place that shouldn't exist, and
a small boy trapped in a seven foot body of armour, and it doesn't make sense to her at all, but she
knows that it can exist.
She thinks of how happy she was to be able to hug him again, and to see him eat and sleep and
laugh and hurt and breathe, but also knowing that he really was here the entire time his body was
gone.

She doesn't get it at all, and part of her wants to barge into Ed's bedroom and tell him to stop
playing games, but past experience has taught both her and Alphonse that since they've returned,
there is not a single thing in the world, short of human transmutation, that could wake him up
before he wanted to.

"Is his soul here in the mornings?" Winry manages to ask.

Mei's eyes flutter closed again. "When he's awake, his soul is here. That's for certain. From when I
arrived, all the way to when he went to bed, his soul was present. Different, somehow, but there.
But the moment he laid down, it was gone."

"And his body is still alive?"

"Yes. It's being sustained in the subconscious senses - heartbeat, breathing, digestion, brain
activity. I monitor him through my knives in a formation I set up before he went to bed. The Yao
boy has his own methods."

Winry turns her gaze to the knife embedded in the floor. Her hands lay limp between her legs
where they're stretched out on the floor.

"How do you use the knives to do that?"

Mei shifts, ever so slightly. Xiao-Mei, the panda, curiously paws over to Winry, who offers a
hesitant hand.

"I don't really know Amestrian alchemy all that well, so I'm not sure how well I'll be able to
explain."

"It's alright, I barely know the first thing about alchemy as is."

Mei turns to her again, but her eyes stay closed. Winry's not sure what the girl is after. "You don't?
But you've been friends with Ed and Al this entire time!"

"Ask either of them to build an automail arm from scratch and see how well that goes."

At this, Mei giggles a little, and some of the graveness bleeds from her tone.

"Fair enough. In alchemy, from what I understand, there's the concept of the transmutation circle,
which contains the objectives and the barriers of the transmutation. The symbols written in the
circle dictate the transmutation type and its goal. Alkahestry is not like this - the guides we follow
are much more spiritual and innate. My tools create the circle which I am connected to, and
Edward, who is in the middle, becomes a part of this connection. One day, I will be able to feel
everything that goes on inside his soul and body, if I try hard enough.

"I don't know how to do that yet. I've studied a lot of healing alkahestry, but my teacher says I'm a
bit too young for some of the other stuff. I don't get it, but I guess I'm not supposed to understand
yet."

In a way, this lets Winry feel a bit closer to the brothers. Their transmutation circle is like a
blueprint, and they build their desired model in their minds. The before is their materials, and the
artistry is where the result variation comes in.
 It's all a form of creation, in some type of way.

"I think I'm starting to get it," Winry says. "Thank you."

She thinks Mei might have been able to pick up on Winry's distress, because she hums once but
stays otherwise silent.

Winry hadn't intended to stay out with the girl for quite so long, but every time she decides to try
and go to bed, the thought of Ed's body just sitting there, lifeless and empty, springs to mind, and
all of a sudden any pre-existing drowsiness just escapes her mind and body.

At three in the morning, Ling Yao comes to take her place. He pauses a bit when he sees Winry,
just sitting there, but he doesn't pay her any mind beyond a polite, quiet "hello" before switching
his attention back to Mei.

Their interactions are forced and stiff but overall polite. Mei dryly recites information to him, some
of it goes over Winry's head and some of it doesn't, and then gets up, takes Xiao-Mei and goes to
bed.

Winry sits in silence by Ling Yao's side until well after dawn.

"He's back," Ling says a bit before eight. "I'm assuming he'll be getting up in no more than 20
minutes, if he hasn't changed that much since the time we were on the run."

"But if you," Winry pauses to clear her throat, "if you were on the run, wouldn't there be some
things that you did differently, that you wouldn't do once you came back?"

Ling smiles at her in a way that should be condescending but doesn't quite land on his tired, young
face. "You'll find, Miss Rockbell, that when a man spends enough time on the run, he never quite
leaves that state of mind, no matter how much time you give him."

With that, he gets up.

"I don't know about you, but my job here is done and I am starving. I'm going to go see if there’s
anything I can fetch before one of you people decides to cook breakfast."

Ling doesn't even spare her a glance as he strolls down the hall. She decides to stay put until she
hears Ed groan in that way he does just before getting out of bed.

She sighs, before stretching her legs and getting up. It's no matter that she hasn't really had the
chance to sleep - that was her choice anyway. Tomorrow is already here, and it's every bit a day as
any other one.

Chapter End Notes

Why did I insert my literal grandparents into fullmetal alchemist fanfiction. What is
wrong with me. This is such mental illness behaviour.
 Inequivalent Exchange
Chapter Summary

Our friends from Xing stick around just a tiny bit more. Edward learns that he might
be hated by some people, but not as universally as he likes to think.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is so fucking stupid I'm so sorry

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mei Chang is an annoying little girl.

Her infatuation with his younger brother isn't doing her any favours.

While Edward does genuinely appreciate the fact that she hauled ass all the way over from Xing to
help out doesn't mean he wants to see her ogle his brother. She's 12. It's weird. It's also weird to
have Ling skulk around the Rockbell house like it's his own, and watching Lan-Fan, Granny and
Winry quietly converse about automail over tea and breakfast. They brought over a special kind of
tea from Xing - Pu'er, and the sweet, deep scent almost serves to lure Edward into a sense of
security, if it weren't all so weird.

Truthfully, Edward is shocked they even arrived, let alone so quick. The last time they came in
from Xing, all those months ago, they spent nearly the same amount of time on the trips to and
back. Al hadn't specified what he told them, but the quick and timely arrival feels strange in its
urgency. He had half expected them to show up two months after the whole ordeal is over, yell at
them a bit for wasting their time, eat them out of a home (Ling), yammer about nonsense (Mei) and
leave.

When Edward ventures into the living room, his brother and the other two... visitors are deep in
discussion about him. Mei and Ling are affirming what both he and his brother already know - his
soul goes to the Gate whenever he sleeps. Thankfully, he doesn't have to use the, uh, just-in-case
circle again; it seems that one time was enough to do the trick. After the first and only time last
week, he's back to sleeping like the dead.

Maybe in more ways than one.

He slithers down between his brother and a pile of books on the sofa and rests his hand on
Alphonse's shoulder. Al instantly relaxes into the touch and a part of Edward beats himself up for
not noticing sooner, but there's no use dwelling on what once was. With his permission, he
discussed the topic of Alphonse and touch with Winry as well, a day after their original talk.

By the time they had sat down to talk about it, most of the conversation was spent with Winry
frantically dragging Edward away from the edge of his paranoia while he described the ways in
which he ruined everything before it ever begun. To her credit, Winry did a fairly good job at
convincing Edward he's not some massive failure, at least for a little while, but consuming himself
with worry and rage has been Edward's default for years now, and it'll take a little bit more than
some kind words from someone who's biased to be in his favour for Edward to believe he's done
something right in his short, miserable life.

At the very least, he feels a little more sane now, having slept. It's been eight days since his fourth
fucking human transmutation, and after that, Edward is glad to say that at least, the circle he drew
half out of his mind lays unused under the carpet. One day, he'll get rid of it, preferably before
someone else finds out about it (namely Mustang or Winry), but right now, the uncertainty is too
much for him, and he's honestly still not sure he can sleep without it. The strange empty tension in
his stomach is back, but now at least he knows it's something tangibly alchemy related and not
something that's tearing him up emotionally or whatever. He's been dealing with too much feelings
bullcrap as is, so it's relieving - knowing it's not some emotional nonsense he'll have to talk through
or something, but rather a problem he can tackle, solve, and call it a day.

"Brother?" Alphonse's voice tunes him back in. Ling and Lan-Fan are staring at him.

"What?"

"Usually, when people ask you a question," Ling drawls, "the polite thing to do is answer it."

"Maybe if you had been interesting enough, I would have listened."

"Brother, knock it off."

"Why should I? They know what they signed up for."

"That doesn't mean you have to be so rude to our friends, who came over from a different
country just to help you." Al gestures at the two said visitors, sitting pointedly rather far away from
each other.

"It's to be expected," Ling dismisses, "I've never known Edward to be the daintiest of flowers, and
surely not while we're discussing his vulnerability."

"What the fuck are you even on about?" Edward asks.

"Oh God." Al buries his face in his hands while Mei pinches the bridge of her nose, but Edward
doesn't spare it more than a glance.

"I'm saying that I didn't expect much cooperation with you, and you having been so docile so far is
nothing short of shocking," Ling smiles.

Edward can barely feel his face with how stunned he is. These people have the audacity to
just walk into his house, watch him while he sleeps, and expect him to be grateful for it?!

"Fuck this," he says, getting up. "I'm going for a walk."

Edward's leg squeaks the slightest bit when he shoots up, but it neither hurts him nor is
uncomfortable so he can ignore that until later. "Al, you can stay here and play shrink with people
that don't know shit about me until the cows come home, but I don't have the patience for this right
now. I'll see you later."

Someone says something from inside the house, but the rattle of the door slamming cuts them off.
He doesn't know, or care, but this stupid, ridiculous parade has gone on for far too long, and he
needs a breath of fresh air. Absently, he can hear the phone ring from inside as he walks away.
He's not as angry as he thought he would be, but Edward figures that the healthiest thing he could
do is walk away with his nerves still somewhat in tact, and then, maybe, try his luck at a
productive conversation.

This entire escapade has been humiliating. First of all, the insinuation that he can't take care of his
own problems by his own damn self is demeaning as hell - he was the fucking Fullmetal
Alchemist! Youngest State Alchemist in history! To think he can't handle a little sleep troubles by
himself is so goddamn stupid he doesn't even know where to begin. And Al, don't get him started,
putting his own healing and progress aside for something that's had no known side effects on
Edward is the exact brand of selfless kindness Alphonse has that drives Edward crazy with worry
sometimes. How is he supposed to care for and protect his brother when said brother goes out of
his way to be as stubborn as possible?

There's a man that's walking towards him and he has kind of a crazed look in his eye. Edward
vaguely recognises him from some place or another but he can't really be bothered to give a shit.

It's as though people think that now that he doesn't have his alchemy, he can't fend for himself!
They don't know what he can or can't do. They don't know what Truth does at night. They don't
know fucking anything!

"Hey, kid, watch where you're going!"

Honestly, he's starting to think that even Al and Winry subscribe to the thought. The looks they
give him are so fucking soft and pitying, it makes his blood boil. He was supposed to protect them,
not vice versa, and he doesn't need his pillows fluffed, or for some mornings to be a little more
slow and quiet on nights where he still can't really go to sleep, or the extra effort to skip around
painful topics. He can handle uncomfortable discussions. What he can't handle is the babying.

"Wait, you're the Fullmetal Alchemist? Finally; I've been looking for you for weeks."

"Not interested."

The only person that treats him like they used to, these days, is Granny. She yells at him every bit
as much as she used to, and he knows that once he comes back she'll be screaming her head off at
him for being rude to their guests. And thank fuck for that, because at least that would be
something expected. Something reliable, that he can base himself off of.

The man he bumped into earlier is pointing a gun at his head, but Edward doesn't really spare him
much attention. What's he gonna do, shoot him? As though nobody's ever fucking shot at Edward
before, come on. Really, this is just another example of people thinking he'll just, what, fold at the
first sign of pressure? What, like he can't just step closer, swat the man's arm so the gun points at
nothing, hold onto his wrist and just break his elbow?

The man screams in pain, shooting once, reflexively, into open air, then groans when Edward kicks
him down. As he fucking should! Edward is no damsel in distress, and now he's holding the man's
gun in his hands. The question remains what to do with it; obviously, he's not going to shoot
anyone, he's not a monster. But what should he do with it? Keep it?

"Where the fuck do you think you're going? I'm not done with you!"

"Yeah, you are."

He kicks at the man again for good measure, stomps on his sternum hard, and keeps walking. As
though a single man with a gun posed any actual threat to him. Now that he thinks about it, he
might've seen the guy in Central command a few times. Maybe he was an officer? Will he get
arrested for assaulting military personnel?

Eh, he'll bitch to Mustang until the man gets him out. Edward still owes him those 520 cenz, and
he knows the bastard is going to hold him to that promise. Can't earn money in jail.

Maybe if he buries the gun somewhere deep in the woods it would get rid of the issue? It's not as
though any animals would be able to access it. He feels no better than an animal holding a gun,
these days, with how he's being treated. Like he might cry or snap or scream at any given moment,
like he's one bad day away from a meltdown.

The worst of it comes from other people, well-meaning neighbours thinking he's going to snap and
start hurting people once he finally breaks. As though he wouldn't rather destroy himself from the
inside out than hurt Alphonse or Winry. As though his entire life's mission isn't to make sure that
the two of them are happy, healthy and safe.

What a fine fucking job he's done thus far, huh?

At the very least, the people close to him know he would do no such thing. There was a time, a few
weeks back, that he and Winry were hanging out in town, arguing as per usual, and an older
woman scolded Edward and told him that he needed to treat girls like that with delicacy and
respect.

Winry had set the lady in her place faster than he could blink.

At least outwardly, things are more or less the same, but too many things remain unspoken.
Honestly, they should do the card thing even more, the whole Go Fish nonsense. Well, maybe
after Edward washes his hands - they're covered in soil.

On his way back, he finds Farmer Robert's three young boys circling the guy that tried to shoot
Edward, still crumpled and groaning on the ground. Maybe Edward broke his sternum? He knows
that hurts. He briefly converses with them, explains what happens and offers to take care of the
situation, and they insist he leaves it for them to handle. Edward still thinks they're trying to repay
him for all the times he's fixed the pig den's metal gate, but he doesn't really care.

Edward's musings don't stray far from where they began, going in a spherical pattern and centring
the same topics, but at the very least, on his way back to the Rockbell house, he's managed to calm
down and zone back in. Maybe they could actually have a productive conversation now.

...

Yeah, wistful thinking at best.

The house is in complete pandemonium when he returns. Winry barrels into him with a bone-
crushing hug, and Ling and Mei both hurdle more questions at him than he knows how to process.
Al's rubbing his face with his hands in frustration.

"Uh," he says, blindingly intelligent as ever. "What the fuck?"

"Mr. Mustang called when you left," Al sighs, "and he said that there's a former lieutenant colonel
with a gun chasing after you all across the country. He said that lieutenant colonel Schumacher was
one of Bradley's followers, and lost his jobs after the Promised Day. And he's in Resembool, too."

"Oh." Edward doesn't really move to hug them back, or move at all. "That's what that was."
"What was what?" Winry pulls back.

Edward turns to look at her, despite her yell being close enough and loud enough to still be ringing
in his ears.

"You can call Mustang and tell him it's been taken care of."

"Taken care of?" Winry disengages from the hug, and at least now Edward can breathe properly.

"Well," Edward adds, "Brigadier Bastard should probably send someone to pick the dude up, but
unless he has a second gun somewhere, there's nothing to worry about. Farmer Robert's sons
probably have him stashed somewhere close to the pig den."

"Pig den?" Mei's head tilts in question.

"Yeah, their sense of humour is like that, not that I'm one to judge."

Edward plops back down on the couch.

"So. Human transmutation?" he grins.

Six people stand silently and blink at him from various places in the living room.

"You kids will send me into an early grave," Pinako shakes her head.

"Not that early!" Edward cheerly quips.

"Ungrateful brat, I'll take you with me!"

"Sounds right, coming from a hag like you!"

"Are you really trying to gloss over the fact that you got held at gunpoint half an hour ago?" Ling,
never one to be known for his nuance, adds himself to the conversation.

"I wouldn't call it held at gunpoint - that would require the gun being pointed at me for more than,
like, a second." Edward closes his eyes and waves his hand in dismissal. "There's only so many
times your life can be threatened before the thought kind of looses its glamour."

Alphonse sighs shakily before plopping down on the couch.

"I suppose I can't be surprised," he says. "It was a matter of time before somebody tried to kill
brother again. I'm just glad that this time, it wasn't with Father."

"Or a homunculus," Edward helpfully supplies. Winry's eyebrow spasms.

"Or Armstrong."

"Which one?"

"I'm pretty sure that if he intended to, Alex could crush anyone to death between his forearm and
his bicep."

"That's a gruesome image. Think he did that in Ishval?"

"Brother!"

"You were right before," Mei interrupts, looking a bit green. "I don't want to be here anymore; I'll
be heading off now."

"No, wait!" Al shoots up from the couch. "We haven't found a lead yet!"

Ling, and therefore Lan-Fan, sit down next to Edward while Mei and Alphonse converse by the
door.

"Winry was very worried about you when she heard the gunshot," Ling explains, "but we assured
her it was nothing unusual."

"Not sure that'll actually help, you know. If nothing else, it might make her worry even more."

"It's all in the name of her care for you, you know," Lan-Fan supplies.

"And she's not the only one," Ling adds.

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you think we're here, Ed?"

Edward doesn't have to think about his answer.

"Because Al pestered you to come here because he's a meddlesome little brother."

"That he may be, but think about it carefully. I am Xingese royalty, and I'm sure the Chang clan
girl is also fairly busy herself. We wouldn't have taken so much time away from our sacred duties
if it weren't something important to us all. So I would like you, before we sit down to talk again, to
think very carefully about the actual reason we all came here."

With this, Ling leaves the living room to try and steal a slice from yesterday's cake from the
icebox.

Oddly enough, it's the last thing that he said that sticks with Edward for the rest of the day.

///

By the time dinner is over, Edward thinks he's mostly understood what Ling meant.

Everybody's been walking a strange tight-rope between curious and wanting to give him breathing
space, and he can't say he doesn't appreciate it, but it does send him into the same cycle of thought
as before.

Overall, though, the rest of the day has been uneventful. The ex-lieutenant colonel Schumacher has
been seen by their local doctor, and after it was confirmed that Edward has not done the man any
fatal damage, he was tied to the wall in the shack by the pig den in Farmer Robert's farm. The five
men in question have, thankfully, not breathed a word about this to the rest of their village.

The three intruders leave shortly after dinner, but the meal itself is filled with light-hearted talk
about nothing of actual importance, but is coupled with Ling's usual jittery motions and Winry and
Al's brands of roughhousing. He might be being too optimistic here, but Edward thinks that maybe
the incident with Schumacher showed everyone that he's not actually as vulnerable and fragile as
they think he is, and just because he's not at peak position yet, doesn't mean he's not fully capable
of kicking ass. Alchemy or no alchemy.

And speaking of...

''I spoke to Mustang earlier on the phone," Pinako yells from the other side of the room. "He and
his team are coming over to pick up the man and see that you're well."

"No!" Edward can feel the blood drain from his entire face. "Why?! Why the team too?!" he asks,
in a tone of voice that is neither annoying, nor whiny.

"Stop whining. It's annoying," Winry swats at him.

"Fuck you," he says.

"Fuck you, too," she replies. "Is it really that shocking that they're coming over?"

"I just don't get why for the life of me."

"Ed," she says, and her brows wrinkle just a bit. "It's because they care."

"Bullshit," he denies, instinctively.

"When brother got drafted, Mustang's men set up a betting pool for if Mustang would first call him
'son' or brother would first call him 'dad'," Al, the traitor, says between sips of chamomile tea.

"The bastard shut that betting pool down the moment he caught wind of it, and Winry did not have
to know about that."

Truth is that the urgency in which Mustang shut down the pool only further cemented in Edward's
mind how much the Brigadier truly disliked him. Sure, they had developed the familiarity people
do once they're forced to spend enough time with each other, but he has no doubt that once the fog
of shock lifted off of Mustang and his team, they were glad to have him out of his hair. Not that he
really gives a shit, but he brought along much more trouble than he was worth for the rest of them,
and though they acted familiar and fond, he knows life must be better without him.

Maybe they even brought on a new State Alchemist. Not that anyone could be better than him or
his brother.

"See, Al's right! I don't like any of those people or the ways that you know them, but at the end of
the day, you have to know that they care."

"And what I'm asking is why would they?"

Winry and Al stare at him in silence. Once more, Edward feels like a bit of a spectacle.

"I wish we could go back to arguing about dumb shit," Winry breaks the sudden, awkward silence,
"and not things of actual importance."

"We'll get there at some point, Win," he grins, but it falls flat.

"You're an idiot," she says, and smacks the back of his head for good measure, but they all know
her heart isn't in it. There would be a wrench flying at his skull if it was. "Have you ever
considered the fact that they don't need an actual reason to care about your dumb ass, and that they
just do? Not just them, too. I wouldn't haul ass all the way to Xing for someone if I didn't really
care about them."
"But why?"

"You sound like a 7 year old, Ed. No reason. They just do."

It's illogical at best. Frankly, if there were an Elric brother that deserved their kindness and care,
strange and dysfunctional as it was, it should have been Alphonse. Not that they don't treat him that
way, they do, but the treatment also extends to Edward himself and he just doesn't get it. There's
nothing to gain off of him anymore. No reason to put up with him. Honestly, Edward wouldn't put
it past them that they've been treating him nicely if only so that he doesn't feel bad, but it also
doesn't entirely line up. For every kind thing they've done over the years; all the times Mustang
took heat for his blatant disregard for the military and their stupid, pointless regulations; Havoc
teaching him how to shave and Fuery teaching him about different radio systems and how they've
evolved; Hawkeye's gentle, caring way she spoke to him about feelings that one time, and how it
almost bordered on paterna-

Anyway. It just doesn't make any sense.

He thinks Winry might have caught onto a bit of his thought process, because she sighs and leans
her head on his shoulder. Her body weight sags into him a bit, and instinctively, he puts his hand
on her head, ruffling her hair a little bit. On his other side, Al leans into him a little bit, too, and if
those two think they're slick, then maybe they're due a few lessons in subtlty. Lord knows who
would do it, though.

"Your brother is a self sacrificial idiot," Winry explains to Al, as though Edward wasn't even in the
room, let alone sandwiched between the two of them. "And he doesn't realise that not every single
thing in the world is an act of equivalent exchange, or that sometimes, people just do nice things
because they want to. You're due that lesson, too, but you aren't as bad as he is."

"Some exposure to the outside world might do him some good," Alphonse nods sagely.

"I think that if anything, the outside world might run away from him," she snorts.

"I am, contrary to popular belief, right here," he grumbles, but ruffles Al's hair. "Did you just
fucking purr at me?"

"Be nice to your brother," Winry chastises, but she takes his hand off her head and starts playing
with his fingers. The strange intimacy of the moment between the three of them is slightly ruined
when Edward realises Winry is just mapping out his old automail digits on his human fingers.

"Alright, enough of that for now," he says, gently pushing the two most important people to him
off his sides. "If Mustang really is coming over tomorrow, I definitely need a breath of fresh air.
I'm going for a walk."

Al and Winry seem to take this with ease. Winry throws her feet onto Al's legs, and he balances his
elbows on her shin when he cracks open yet another book.

"Be careful not to get shot again," Al calls out.

"No one's ever actually hit since I was 15," he reminds on his way out.

He'll probably be out for the rest of the evening and dipping into the night, but before he allows
himself to sink into the back of his mind, there's one more thing he needs to figure out.
 ///

"Yo."

Ling and Lan-Fan's inn room is surprisingly bare. There's not much going on in it besides two beds,
two dressers, a door to the bathroom and a window they've cracked wide open.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

Ling is sprawled out on one of the medium-sized beds. He looks, for all intents and purposes, as
though there's nowhere else he'd rather be. His sense of style does clash with the rose-coloured
bedsheets, though. "You'll be seeing me tomorrow morning before we take our leave - what did
you want to say that badly to me?"

Leave it to Ling to make everything much, much harder than it has to be.

"I-uh." Edward's fists clench. There's a faded spot on the carpet. "I wanted to say, well..."

No use stalling. His gaze snaps back to Ling. "Thanks. For, uh, helping out."

Ling's smile widens, insufferably gleeful. "It's my duty as the future emperor of Xing both to help
those in need and to strengthen my international contacts. Trust, the pleasure is all mine."

Edward rolls his eyes. "And what a great connection I make."

"Absolutely!" Ling gestures at him in a movement so overdramatic the bed actually bounces a
little. "Not only are you one step away from the Amestrian military, and in good contact with a
man who believes himself to be the future Fuhrer, you would also make an excellent strategist and
diplomat!"

Edward's eyelid twitches. "Never say that to me. Never. Ever ever again."

Ling snorts.

"Ah, it was a good dream to have."

Tired already, Edward just sighs.

"I guess we can just settle for being good friends."

"Why, short of company back home?"

"Not at all. I'm just a bit picky."

There it is, yet again. The notion that Edward isn't just conveniently there; he's... wanted.

Gross.

He takes a few steps forward and plops down onto the bed. Thankfully, it doesn't make much
noise.

"Your taste is strange, but there are worse connections to have than the future emperor of Xing, or
whatever."
"I thought I'd never see the day where you acknowledge our relationship, my friend."

"Never say that also. Just don't speak to me again."

This leaves something in Edward feeling settled. It's a bit hard to believe still, but an indesputable
fact - he has friends. Ling is his friend. He and Lan-Fan and Mei came here all the way over from
another country because they're friends. Truthfully, this should have eased the weight on his chest,
and it does, some of it, but there's still another matter left unsettled.

"I'm actually glad you came here by yourself," Ling admits. "Your brother and your... Winry care
for you greatly, but they are not emotionally equipped to have conversations of the sort that are
required in your situation."

And here it finally is - a step in the right direction.

"Spare me the nicesties, would ya?"

Ling's eyes peel open the slightest bit. His stare is unexpected in its intensity.

"Ed, I've been studying your chi for the last two days, and I've compared it to how you've been
before, and I have reason to believe that a piece of your soul is missing."

That's... Huh.

"Huh."

"Ever so eloquent."

Edward turns to look back at Ling.

"Wait, soul? What? Huh?"

"Dude, I know as much as you do."

"Evidently, not!"

"Calm down, this is nothing to yell over."

"You bet your fucking ass it is!" Edward stands up. "My soul is fucking missing and you think I'm
going to discuss it over some fucking black tea?"

"We will achieve nothing if we just stand around and yell at each other. You have good reason to
be angry, but I can't help you if you refuse to get over your eternal crutch of blind rage."

"Excuse me?!"

Ling gives him a once over. Edward's blood boils just a little bit more.

"Nothing I say to you right now will sink in. You'll curse and yell and cuss up a storm, but in the
end, all you'll be left with is the pointless satisfaction of having the last word."

"Wh-what?"

"Eventually, you'll be the only one who's right, but also the only one in the room. Is it not isolating,
Edward?"
 In his confusion, the heat deflates from him like a poked balloon.

He drops to a seated position on the floor.

"And from here, we can discuss, no?" Ling looks at him from his position on the bed, comfortable
as ever looking down at everyone else from his throne of springs, fabric and feathers, and they
talk.

In the end, they discuss the matter of his visits to the Gate in great detail. More than they could
have with anyone else in the room. A few hours later, when the evening creeps into the night,
Edward takes his leave.

He's a man of his word, so he takes some time to walk around, stretch his leg a little bit. It feels as
though he's just spent that time discussing a chronic illness, or maybe even a fatal one, but he
knows that that's not the case. Conversing with Ling about serious matters was a strange
experience; one he doesn't want to repeat, if only for the topic of discussion being unsettling.

He doesn't know how to bring this up with either of the other teens living in the house with him,
and he doesn't know how to explain the gape in his chest that's dissolving him from the inside out
like acid, but at the very least, he knows something's going to give, sooner rather than later.

What it all comes down to is a problem, and all problems have solutions. He's seen worse issues
before. He'll solve it in no time.

That's all there is to it.

Chapter End Notes

Ling really said "I am about to violently vibe check you" in the last scene
 Worst. Pseudo-Dad. Ever (It Takes A Village, part 2)
Chapter Summary

The team arrives.

Chapter Notes

Here I am, throwing more Dad!Roy at you, and even throwing in some team-as-a-
family dynamic! it's a 2 for 1 combo meal

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hearing about Lieutenant Colonel Schumacher's behaviour had been unsettling at best, but it wasn't
reason for him to go out all the way to Resembool. He could have sent over Havoc and Falman to
detain the man and call it a day.

This is the second time in a matter of months that Roy has been summoned to Resembool without
actually knowing why.

Granted, he assumes that this time, it's for better reason, if only for the fact that Alphonse was the
one to call. Unfortunately, the call went to Havoc, then travelled through Feury, and landed on
Falman, who, by the time he reported it to Roy, all the way out in the desert, had completely lost
the plot. He knows there are three contributing factors - Ed, his soul, and the Gate. This is more
than enough to be concerning to him, so it was decided that he would drop by to see if there was
anything he could do to help.

He should have known the team would never allow him to go alone. They were salty enough to
have missed a visit last time.

Frankly, he did not want to leave Ishval. The work is hard; it's gruelling and punishing, and it is
very blatant that none of the locals are thrilled to have him around. He's seen a few people that bare
his marks and always will, years down the line. Even so, even after everything, they are still kind.
They've given him and his team housing, food and clothes. Given them all the information they
need, laid their needs bare on the hot desert sand, and Roy knows they deserve none of the
kindness that is in their nature as much as white hair and red eyes.

It is everything he needed to know that he is finally on the right track.

The Ishvallan war is not his decision or his fault, but his actions definitely are. This is what years
of losing sleep in his comfortable house has been pushing him to do, and months of digging
through the ashes of Ishvallan texts and information have been culminating in. This is the most
important work in his life.

However, this is not about him, or Riza, who dragged herself to hell and back in his name. This is
about the Elric boys, and they're concerned enough about something enough to contact Roy.
If he wasn't sure whether he should leave, it was actually Hawkeye and Mrs. Avram that convinced
him to go.

Mrs. Avram was a glassmaker, who lost her husband to Roy's monstrosity in the war, so when the
project was first announced, she was the first to try to tear him down. She was never able to
stomach the thought of touching glass ever again after it all. When they first arrived, she cursed,
and screamed, and cried, and begged him to get off their holy land, which Roy understood, and still
does. He doesn't know who or what changed her mind, but when he was granted permission to
come once more, he saw her standing beside the rest of the Ishvallan team, her glare speaking less
of anger and grief and more of determination - you will prove yourself to us; to me. In his time
here, she had been nothing short of a blessing - never once failing to hold them accountable, correct
them, and put them in their places, but also guiding him and Hawkeye, explaining everything with
a patience Roy doesn't know most people to have. She was one of the first people to see the true
intent behind the Ishvallan Restoration Project, and she's had their backs since then.

So, when she told him that he should go visit the boys if it was important, begrudgingly, he
listened.

Besides the part where she called them his boys. He doesn't talk about them that much.

Leaving Hawkeye behind was absolutely the hardest part. Roy trusts her with absolutely
everything, so handing the project to her for a week or so to handle by herself is nothing of
concern. No; selfishly, he wants Riza by his side. Lacking her presence, her quick wit, her sense of
safety is like a hole in his chest, a cold breeze at his right where warmth always is. She never said
anything about it, but the look in her eyes told him she feels much the same.

In another life...

But, they don't have that. They have this life, and a lot of wrongs to right.

Roy also has two boys to pay a visit to.

The train ride this time has been a lot less pleasant. Feury is running himself ragged like a worried
uncle, the residues of Havoc's cigarette breaks have clung to his clothes and stank up their spot,
and Breda is not at all doing his part of mellowing the situation.

Roy did not think it was possible to miss Hawkeye so badly so fast, but it seems he was mistaken.

Once Havoc caught onto this fact, the teasing only made everything worse.

He is barely holding back from court-marshalling the life out of his lieutenant.

At long last, the train finally makes its stop at Resembool, and at this point Roy is familiar enough
with the path to the inn, then the Elric's house, to leap out of the train and leave his three
subordinates to struggle behind him.

Havoc, on his part, blends right in, looking comfortable as ever as he takes up a stroll behind Roy.
Feury is looking around curiously, and Breda stares fearfully at every sheep they pass. There's a
story there, Roy's sure of it, but his patience has long since run thin, even at the prospect of teasing
the man.

Thankfully, the countryside air is clean and nice enough to have calmed him down some, so when
they arrive at the inn with the young girl who's adoring gaze instantly falls on Havoc, all he has to
do is flash a quick smile at the inn keeper and ask for two rooms for two nights.
What's funny about this situation is how quickly he's grown accustomed to it. The train ride, the
inn, the room he's been given each time, the stroll, and the not-so-warm welcome he receives,
where only one out of four people looks like they're actually glad to have his company. This is yet
another feeling he's slowly fallen into, in a way that when looking back, feels like it's always been
there. While he's long since grown fond of the Elrics, He knows the feeling isn't mutual by the lack
of any enthusiasm, communication or efforts on their part, and it's fine. Knowing he gave them all
he could for the years Ed was in the military is more than enough.

Once all three of his men are distracted (Havoc by his flirting and the others by settling and
unpacking), Roy books it for the Rockbell house. He knows they'll find their way there, and to
detain Schumacher, with relative ease.

Alphonse greets him with a relieved smile and a short but warm hug. Instinctively, Roy hugs him
back, ruffles his hair and, strangely enough, barely stops himself from smacking a kiss on the top
of his head. What's even more strange is that he hadn't thought twice about it, nor did it seem all
that wrong to him, until he was halfway through ducking his head. This is not something he does.
That's what parents are for. Chris certainly never did that with him, and he was way too young to
remember those things when he still had his mom and dad.

But, he guesses, that's not a luxury the Elrics have, any more.

To add to his confusion, Winry seems quite pleased to see him, too, but in a more smug sort of
way. The polite smile of last time is replaces by a toothy grin aimed at the reason for his visit -
Edward Elric, formerly known as officer Fullmetal, who scowls at Roy from his vantage on the
couch.

"You weren't supposed to show up, asshole."

Roy freezes.

"I... wasn't?"

Did he come all the way here for nothing? Has this entire visit been a sham? Did he really leave
Hawkeye alone, in the desert, for nothing?

"Ignore Ed, he's just sulking that I was right and he was wrong," Winry explains, still gloating.
Edward's scowl deepens.

"I see. Did he not want me to arrive?"

"I'm right here," he grumbles.

"Where? I can't see you any-oh. There you are," Roy grins, "all the way-"

"Don't you dare say it, bastard-"

"Down there."

Edward lunges at him with a barrage of insults and complaints, but Roy's so familiar with this
routine already that he tunes it out. Once Edward gets close enough, Roy ruffles his hair, too, and
as he expected, it only serves to annoy Edward further. Something in Roy's chest feels settled by
the scene.

"Ed said you have more important things to care about than an ex-soldier's wellbeing, and I said
you would haul ass all the way from Ishval if you heard he needed you or was in trouble."
Roy grumbles at this, a little bit, but it's only because she's right. Edward, by his side, is much the
same.

"Anyway, I took care of officer what's his face already, so all you have to do is take him and 'haul
ass' back to Ishval. Sorry for wasting your time." Edward crosses his arms and plops down on the
couch.

Roy frowns. "That's not what I'm here for," he says. "Obviously, it's important, but that's what
Lieutenant Havoc and Falman are here for. I'm here because Alphonse called and told me you
were unwell. He told me your friends from Xing came over last week, but hadn't been able to
help."

Edward raises his brows at this. Roy thought he knew all of this already, but the eldest Elric seems
surprised and unsettled by his response.

"Hawkeye asked me to forward her apology that she couldn't come, but our duties in Ishval are
many and important and we could not leave them entirely unattended. Captain Ross and Sergeant
First Class Brosh have asked me to send their, uh, love and care, and have asked me to tell you to
come visit central at some point."

"Over my dead body," Ed growls.

"We'd love to!" Alphonse smiles.

Winry snorts. "Have you come alone?"

This time it's Roy's turn to laugh. "As if any of my subordinates would hear that I'm going to see
you again and wouldn't tag along on the ride. Against my will, might I add."

Edward groans and scrubs his hands over his face. Roy's just about getting used to the fact that
there are two of them, now, but it doesn't stop the surge of pride that courses through him.

"Breda, Havoc and Feury have come with me by train. Falman's coming by car to detain
Schumacher, and is scheduled to arrive in two hour's time."

Alphonse wrestles his head away from where Edward has him in a noogie, and flashes him another
grin. "It'll be so nice to see everyone again!"

"Why are you lying? No, it won't! Why are they even here?!"

"'Cause we're family, chief!" Havoc doesn't even bother knocking before opening the door. Feury
meekly apologises for the intrusion, but Breda just says "yo," and moves to stand by Havoc's side
and introduces himself to Winry.

"I don't know what fucked up family you've got, Havoc, but it ain't mine."

"'Course it is!" Havoc's hand seems to move on its own to ruffle Ed's hair. It's starting to become
frizzy from all the rubbing, and Roy, personally, cannot wait for the moment Fullmetal decides to
look in the mirror. "We're all family here. Blood don't matter once you're in Team Mustang."

"You're tryna tell me that the only godforsaken reason you're all here is because you, what, wanted
to see me or something?"

"Yeah," Havoc says.

"Basically," Feury adds.

"Hello," Breda supplies.

Ed looks mere seconds away from an aneurism. "We're all doomed. This entire country is doomed.
I worked my ass off to save it, and it's all for nothing."

"He's just like that because he's shy," Al chirps. He's just gotten done giving everyone their round
of hugs, and Winry has disappeared into the kitchen. Knowing her, she's probably making a tray of
cookies and tea. Luckily for him, Roy did not come empty handed, but that can be saved for a bit
later.

"Is it that difficult to believe that we came because you called?" Roy can't help but ask. Though the
room is crowded, no one's attention is on them. Havoc went into the kitchen to help Winry, and
Alphonse is entertaining Breda and Feury.

Edward looks away and grumbles. Though Roy has to strain himself to hear, he makes out the
words clearly enough. "Didn't think you would actually answer if we did."

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fullmetal," he sighs. And then, when the young man still
refuses to look at him, "Ed."

They make eye contact.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. Just because you aren't part of the military anymore, doesn't
mean you aren't important to us all. We all meant it when we told you two to keep in touch. We
care. We all do."

Ed, thankfully, mulls over his words rather than instantly dismissing them. There's a spasm of an
expression on his face before it's washed over by annoyance that's more of a placating charade than
anything else. "Then, why do you act like you hate me?"

"I never did that," Roy snorts, "that was all you."

"But you used to do my head in all the time about property damage and ranks and respect and all of
that nonsense."

"Yeah. So? You're a brat. Doesn't change anything I just said. Disliking your disregard for public
property doesn't mean I dislike you as a person."

He stays silent for a moment, and his eyes flit across Mustang's face, then the floor, where they
stay for a little while.

"Alright," he decides, but doesn't say much else.

For the rest of the morning, the two stay in their positions on the couch as everyone settles down,
grabs their biscuits and tea, and settles in for a talk. Catching up with what everyone is doing is
nice and calming, though not a single thing goes on in his subordinates' lives that Roy doesn't
know about. Nevertheless, it's nice. Al settles to Roy's left at some point, chatting with Havoc
about something or other, and after a while, Roy feels a slight pressure on his right side, too.

He bites back a smile, and turns his attention back to the question Pinako asked him.

He wouldn't hear the end of it if he pointed out Edward began leaning into his side, too.
 ///

Winry and Pinako had left the room when Ed and Al explained everything to Roy and his men.
Falman had arrived only a few hours prior, greeted everyone warmly, took Havoc with him, and
left. An hour later, Havoc returned, saying that he didn't drag himself all the way over from Central
for just a few hours.

It's wrong to say that Roy feels pity for Edward. He doesn't think he could ever really pity Ed, but
he does feel a bit sorry for him. Sorry that he's still dealing with the aftermath of that one human
transmutation, and sorry that his- his subordinate cannot have a single moment of peace. Ed
himself seems to have taken this in stride, or maybe he just got used to it. He and Al tell the four of
them that Ling Yao informed Ed that a piece of his soul is missing, and Roy watches his men's
faces pale alongside his own when he explains that a part of him was left at the Gate after the
Promised Day.

"You say that you've been visiting this, uh, Truth guy in your dreams, right?" Havoc scratches at
his chin.

"Yup."

"And has he said anything about it?"

"Truth is a motherfucker," Edward says. "Plain and simple."

Roy snorts in agreement. "Well said."

"But it's not malicious. It's toying with me, the fucker, but it's not holding me there for no reason. It
told me that what I do next is up to me. So from here on out, I figure out how to get myself out of
there, and then, I guess... Just do it?"

The room is in agreement. Roy verbalises the unsaid. "Well then, Fullmetal, what will you
sacrifice?"

Ed grimaces. "I haven't really figured that out yet."

"I gotta ask, though," Breda says, "what's the harm in things just... staying the way they are?"

Alphonse clears his throat. "During the weeks leading up to the Promised Day, when I was still in
armour, there were times that I would sort of... black out, and then I would be with my body, back
at the Gate. I couldn't reunite with it, for obvious reasons, but it kept drawing me towards itself.
Like my body and I were being drawn together in a way that hindered me from being in the outside
world. We're afraid the same thing might start happening with brother, if given enough time."

"And also," the brother in question adds, "I feel... kinda weird. Not bad, but as though there's this
little cavity in my chest. I can feel that there's something missing." Absently, his hand crawls over
to a spot right above his sternum, and Roy feels his heart pinch.

"Now, I just need to figure out what it is I need to give, and be done with it all. I can just leave the
past behind and go on with my life."

"Would be nice if it worked that way," Havoc says, and they all laugh, because they all
understand.

"It's the thought that counts," Alphonse cheekily grins, and his smile widens when Havoc laughs
louder.

Winry seems to take their laughter as an ok for her to enter the room, because she does so, seconds
later.

Roy wordlessly gets up from his position to the left of both Elrics, and carries the cups and plates
Winry couldn't take with her to the kitchen.

"Thanks," she says, then "you don't have to," when he starts washing the dishes.

"Thank you for having us," he replies, reaching for the dish soap.

For a few tense, awkward moments, Winry stares at his back while he does the dishes. Good God,
if only Hawkeye was here.

Roy knows Winry dislikes him. She has ample reason to dislike him. He just kind of wishes she
would get it over with and say so.

"I don't get you," she says. "I don't get you at all."

Roy pauses, but he can almost feel her bristle behind his back, so he continues to do the dishes.
There are quite a lot.

"You've done all the shit you did in Ishval, and people can't decide if you're some hero or a
monster, and you-you-" her voice catches. By the sound of it, she's started pacing. "You recruited a
12 year old boy to the military for your own selfish means, but here you are, doing the dishes
without even being asked. And you- you put your entire career on the line to help Ed and Al and I
just... I don't get it. I don't know how to make sense of you."

Roy sighs.

He turns his back to the sink and takes a kitchen towel in his hands. As he talks, he starts drying
the dishes he just finished washing.

"I'm not a good man, Miss Rockbell. I've done many a heinous things, and I will spend the rest of
my life repaying them, and it will still not be enough. The Elric brothers needed help, far greater
help than I would have ever been able to provide, but recruiting them was the best thing I could do
for them. I didn't do it for the favour of the country. I did it for the sake of their help, and my rank.
Everything else falls to the wayside."

Winry scrutinises him some more.

"And now?" she asks. "Why are you here now?"

"You said it yourself," he snorts, running his finger in the dip of a cup to assure its dryness before
moving on to the next plate. "You proclaimed I would, how did you say it? 'haul ass all the way
from Ishval if Ed needed me to'? Well, here I am."

"Good," she huffs. "He needs it, even if he won't ever acknowledge it."

"Or me."

"Or you," she's shaking her head, but she's smiling.

Suddenly, there's another thing he feels is important to stress.

"The same thing goes for Alphonse, too."

Winry quirks a brow at him.

"Or you, as well. If any of you feel that you need my help, I'm only a phone call away."

For a moment, Roy feels as though he might have crossed a line of some kind. He knows the girl
has no parents, and he knows the boys don't either. That Pinako is the only responsible adult the
kids have, and maybe they're so used to it being this way that they don't actually want it to change.

"Oh my god," she says, and bursts into laughter. "Jean was right - you're such a dad."

What?

Roy doesn't know whether to be more weirded out by the fact that she and his lieutenant gossiped
about him, or the fact that she refers to Havoc by his first name.

"This place never ceases to throw me off," he sighs, but even to his own ears, it's fond.

Winry glances at the doorway for just a moment, and teethes at her lower lip, before smiling ever
so slightly and tilting her head forwards.

Warmth spreads through Roy's chest as he ruffles her hair. She giggles, and though the two are the
same age, there's something more vibrantly youthful about it than Ed's laugh, or Al's.

They stay in the kitchen a little while longer, making sandwiches for everyone else.

As Roy makes his way back to the sofa and sees the Elric brothers have left him a place in between
them on the sofa, his heart cracks, just a little.

Goddamnit, he really is growing soft.

Pinako is nowhere to be found, so the only ones giving him knowing, smug looks are his three
subordinates, which he will make sure to give a stern talking to when they're alone.

Before that, however, Al's leaning into his side in a way that suggests he wants his hair tousled
again, and how is he supposed to say no to that?

///

Eventually, the hubbub dwindles down until they all leave.

All four of them have settled down in their rooms, but Roy can't fall asleep for reasons other than
Havoc's loud breathing.

He forgot his briefcase in the Rockbell house.

Beneath the tea and Ishvallan garments, given to him by Mrs. Avram to share with the boys and
their friend, there were files that concerned the opening of trading routes between Ishval and
Resembool specifically, and it is absolutely crucial that he finalise them before his return. It's not
that he doesn't trust the residents of the Elric-Rockbell home, but he knows himself well enough to
know that he will not be able to sleep until he has them on his person again.

Groaning, he rolls off the bed, ignores Havoc's murmuring and his sleep-addled reach for a gun
that's not there, and quietly pads out of the room after leaving Havoc a note in case he wakes.

He knows the route by heart at this point, but with no lighting besides the stars and the moon to
guide him, he turns back and grabs a plate and a candle. Roy knows that Winry or Al will more
than likely be awake to greet him, so he doesn't feel too awkward about knocking quietly before
opening the door and... oh fuck.

There's definitely something wrong. There's shattered glass sprawled from outside the kitchen onto
the floor of the living room. Of course, the one time he doesn't pack his gloves or his gun, naturally
something is bound to happen. Because why not.

He's never letting Riza out of his sight, ever, in his entire life.

Slowly, carefully, he rounds the corner into the kitchen and discovers that while something is
actually wrong, it's not what he originally suspected.

Edward is slumped on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cupboard and staring off into nothing.
His hand is bleeding from multiple, small cuts from the glass, and matching evidence is lightly
smeared across the floor. His pupils are dancing in his eyes, and the far-off, disconnected look in
his eyes is familiar.

"Colonel?" he asks while Roy tries to find a cloth to wipe up the glass with. The candle, placed a
foot away from him on the floor, flickers steadily.

"Close enough."

They don't speak for a few more seconds.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If anything, I'm sorry for intruding."

"You are?"

"It's the middle of the night."

"Oh."

More silence. Roy moves to pick up the glass and throw it away, but Ed needs him right now more
than he needs to clean up the glass.

The danger of situations like these is that he's not entirely sure how lucid Edward is. At the very
least, he knows who Roy is, and he's placid enough as is, but he could turn aggressive or violent in
a matter of seconds. He doesn't know if Edward is even here right now, but the most important
thing he can do is bring him back down.

"Edward, can you name five things you can see, please?"

"I can see just fine, bastard. I see the ceiling, the stove, a towel, blood, and you."

"And four things you can hear?"

"It's the dead of night. What am I supposed to hear? I hear Winry and Al chatting and a saw going
on there, too; I hear you crunching the glass; and I can hear your voice."

Though the words themselves are laced with venom, his voice sounds tired. Heavy.

"I think you're lucid enough that I don't have to keep doing this test."

"Tha's what I've been trying to tell you."

Roy grunts when he sits down on the floor, shoulder to shoulder with his child soldier.

"Thanks."

"What?"

"I'm not gonna say it again."

There's another silence, in which Roy strains to find what to say, and then Ed speaks again, through
gritted teeth. Through disdain, and self loathing that's not too far off tone from Roy's own. It's a
tough thing to hear from someone so much younger than him.

"I should have been better by now."

Ah. The root of the problem.

Frankly, Roy himself is no stranger to that line of thought. Quite a few years down the line, and the
flames still cross the line of mental and reality to tickle his limbs all the way from his dreams. He
knows Riza still shivers around bell towers, and why Hughes shifted to throwing knives as opposed
to a gun. He, himself, has still never learned to deal with the smell of cooked pork, or really any
other meat.

With such striking role models, it's no wonder that Fullmetal is still grappling with the effects of
his upbringing, as well as the last few years. Grappling with the idea of not being perfect, all the
time, when everyone around him penalises themselves for every simple mistake they make.

"I don't think so; not really."

Fullmetal doesn't turn to look at him, but his eyes sharpen a little; from Roy's vantage point, at
least.

"Have you ever really discussed the last five years of your life with anyone?"

"I don't want to."

They sit in silence.

"It doesn't have to be everything all at once. You could let go slowly, over time."

"Hm."

"It doesn't even have to be verbal. Hughes has. Had a journal. You could write a book."

"And what would I call it? 'Even My Colonel Was Better Than My Dad'? Thanks, but no thanks."

While the words are meant to bite, they fall short.

"I don't think I have much right or room to pick apart your father's parenting techniques, but-"

"It wouldn't take you long. There weren't any."

"-But had I had two brilliant, incredible children like you... Nothing should have made him leave.
You didn't deserve that happening to you."

More silence. Though Edward isn't looking at him directly, Roy is pretty sure the kid's catching
glances out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you think you're ever going to have kids?"

Roy snorts before he can help it.

"God, no. Lord knows I'd make a terrible father. Besides..."

Besides, what good would a child have for a mother and father whose goals will land them on
death row? Who can't sleep through the night without scaring each other awake? Who have shaped
their entire lives on an endless mission to right the wrongs of an entire nation?

"Besides, you two provide enough of a headache to stave off even the most enthusiastic of would-
be parents."

Edward chuckles, so Roy counts this as a victory.

"I thought you couldn't get enough of us."

"You two are my own now, whether I want you to be or not. That's just the way it is. However
much you want to see me is also up to you."

At this, the young man by his side draws into himself a bit, and his brows furrow ever so slightly
as he thinks. The noise from the automail room dies down to almost nothing.

"Do you really still want us around after everything we've done?"

Roy has to tread carefully here. If he were to go down a route that was too sentimental, it would be
foreign and awkward to them both, and would bring forth the end of their conversation fruitlessly.
However, some level of tactility is needed - Ed needs to hear this, needs to know he has a place
with everyone, needs to know he hasn't just been used and discarded like nothing. Above all, Roy
just doesn't want to lie to the kid; he doesn't deserve it.

"I think saving the nation more than makes up for a few billings in property damage."

Ed laughs again, but there's a sigh in there, too.

"Yes, you still have your place within our team, even if it isn't with the military anymore. That
being said, that door is always open for you if you ever think of re-enlisting, I could shoe you in
straight as a majo-"

"Not happening, bastard. Keep talking."

"Alright, alright. I was just offering," he holds up his hands. "All I'm saying is that any of us would
gladly open our doors for you, but it's more than that. We want to hear from you even if it isn't just
a time of crisis. Even if it's just to say hi. Is that alright with you?"

Ed stares at his hands. His fingers curl and flex. "I'm starting to figure that out for myself," he
admits.

Roy hums. "Well, I don't really know how it was like for you or your brother, but it's easy to fall to
the wayside when you don't have parents that can look out for you."

Edward turns to glare at him, but he soldiers on nevertheless.

"If it weren't for Madam Christmas taking me in, who knows where I would be today. I don't even
remember my own parents; I could have ended up anywhere."

Finally, Roy glances sideways, just a bit, to look at him. Ed's eyes are maybe the widest he's seen
them since the first time the teen, then just a kid, saw Central's library for the first ever time.

"You don't have parents?"

Roy shrugs.

"I had a mom and dad at some point. Not really sure where they ended up, but it's alright."

Ed's lead lolls sideways. Golden eyes lazily study his profile, his face. The candle's faint, orange
light bathes his colour palette in warmth, and selfishly, Roy wishes that the boy was just tucked up
in bed and actually warm, as opposed to the painted illusion of the small flame.

"Is it really alright for me to still be like this?"

"Yes. It might even feel like it'll never fade away, but it always does, if you work on it."

"But I felt better even a few days back..."

"And so did I, then two weeks ago, I woke up at 4A.M and I would have burned out entire building
into nothing but ashes if I had my gloves on."

Fullmetal rubs his hands together, then crosses them over his upper arms.

"It really doesn't get better, then?"

"I never said that. It does, but not in a way that's noticeable. Real improvement comes when you
look back and think to yourself 'shit, that used to be a whole lot worse', and then it sinks in."

His child soldier blinks, as though the thought never even crossed his mind.

"I think that's the first time I've ever heard you curse."

"I try not to make a habit of it."

"Maybe I'm just influencing you."

"God help me if you do."

And then they both laugh, sad, tired, quiet laughs in the middle of the night. Roy is pretty sure
Alphonse and Winry are listening in on them, but maybe that's not a bad thing.

"C'mon, kiddo, let's go to bed, ah?"

Roy moves to get up, but Edward stays in place.

"Do you mind if we stay here just a little bit more?"

And so they do.

Now that they've been silent for a few minutes, they can hear Alphonse and Winry's footsteps
quietly pad out of the repair room and into the hallway. Muffled by the wall, Alphonse tells Winry
he wants a glass of water, just about loud enough for the two kitchen-dwellers to hear, but neither
Roy nor Edward even think to move. By the time they realise they should've, he's already stood at
the door of the kitchen with wide eyes and raised brows.

"Brother? Is everything okay?"

Edward's entire demeanour softens a little bit, and Roy smiles at the change. It's precious how
much those two care for each other, and it's a sacred thing in a world like their own, and lives like
theirs.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Al. Just had a small fuck up and a heart to heart with Brigadier Bastard."

Alphonse's eyes shift to Edward's hand, which has stopped bleeding, but still sports some cuts.

"Should I bring a first aid kit?"

"Nah, s'all good."

"Yes, please do."

Edward tiredly glares at him, but it lacks any substantial heat.

Alphonse breathes a sigh through his nose, shaking his head fondly as he turns tail. Just before he
heads up the staircase, Roy swears he can hear him say, "yeah, brother's definitely alright."

"He needs to go to sleep."

"So do I and so do you, but yet, here we are."

Edward fingers at one of the cuts.

"I don't know why you feel the need to do this. It's not like you're my dad or anything."

"You could hardly pass as Xingese, so I don't see why that would even be a point. Actually,
though, considering you refer to both me and him by the same nickname, it's easy to get confused,"
Roy jokes.

"Basta-" Ed's voice dies down mid-speech, and he stares at Roy with wide eyes and an open
mouth. Roy snorts out a cackle, then chokes on the exhale a little.

Roy hasn't quite yet finished chuckling by the time Alphonse returns.

Mindlessly, Roy takes the first aid kit from him without even thinking about it, running his hand
over Al's head once in thanks. Wordless, Ed watches in mild interest as Roy takes his hand and
starts removing the leftover shards, then bandaging it.

"Well, I'll be damned, Al," he says. "I don't think our old man would have ever actually done that."

"Cuts can easily be infected," Roy mutters. "When you're on the battlefield, these things hold little
importance, but you're not out there, risking your lives anymore, so the small things do count. Cuts
can easily go infected if left untreated, and the best care for infection is prevention." His brows
furrow as he concentrates on the task. It's been a while since he's actually bandaged anyone or
anything, but they hammered it into his head during basic, so he could do it blindfolded and bound
if he needed to.

Both Elrics talk about things of little importance while Roy works. Occasionally, he mutters a few
things about the order of events, but the whole thing wraps up in under 5 minutes. Al lays down on
the floor, close to the candle and Roy's leg. The light flickers harshly on the contours of his face,
but it serves as a visual guide to see his cheeks filled out, his arms slightly thicker, too.

In the end, he breathes deep, closes the kit and rises to wash his hands from the small amounts of
blood and sticky tape residue on his hands. Beneath him, the brothers talk. Roy tries his best not to
listen in, lest he hears something they don't want him to in between whispers, but most of what his
ears catch onto is Edward placating Alphonse, and telling him that yes, everything really is alright.

Eventually, all three of them get up.

If Roy plays his cards right, he should get in about three more hours of sleep without any more
disturbances, but who knows how easy that'll be.

The Elric boys rise as well, but Alphonse stops him with a hand clasped around his wrist before he
can go anywhere.

"Brother was right. Dad probably wouldn't have ever done that. Not that we have the chance to find
out. Thank you."

Roy is a strong man. He fought in two wars, and he climbed the ranks all the way to Brigadier
General for damn good reason. He has an unbreakable will and a seamless mask, and nothing can
get behind it... besides his team. His family. Riza. And now, those two annoying, meddlesome,
stubborn boys.

He groans, then laughs, then sighs at his own lunacy, before pulling Alphonse into a rough, one-
armed hug, smacking an obnoxious kiss on the top of his head. Alphonse rewards him with a small,
delighted giggle as he's let go, and Roy moves to ruffle Edward's hair as a parting shot before
grabbing his goddamned files and heading to the door.

"Get some sleep, boys," he says.

Al calls after him to wish him a good night, but his mind's already quite the ways away.

///

Jean Havoc is a country boy, through and through. This is a well known fact to anyone who's met
him more than once. He's a very simple man with very simple habits - he flirts, and he farms.

Roy hadn't quite thought about what that might entail in this escapade beyond the basics -
Countryside + Lieutenant Havoc = good. He's quite fond of the Elrics, as well, so it's every bit the
'family visit' he wants it to be.

What Roy hadn't taken into account is that he would start interacting with Pinako Rockbell.

True enough, Havoc had disappeared a few hours into the midday, alongside Winry and Pinako.
Now, he hadn't really taken it into consideration, as the women of the house did tend to vanish
when discussing the Elrics' military past, Ed's issue, or most things alchemy related (though Winry
did seem to pay a bit more attention when they discussed alchemy - perhaps she is also interested
in studying the art?), but the sheer length of Havoc's disappearance has started to become a bit
suspicious.

It seems he's not the only one to notice the absence - Alphonse and Edward, who steadfastly
refuses to acknowledge the events of the night before, are exchanging curious glances; Feury is
looking at Jean's empty chair in decreasingly short increments of time, and Breda's been glancing
around, too.

After a while, while Edward is busy explaining why he's not going to sacrifice his arm again to
Breda, who is barely holding back from bursting into laughter, Winry stomps out of the automail
repair room with a wrench clenched tightly in her white-knuckled fist. Edward immediately pales.

"Get. Him. Out. Of my workshop."

Roy blinks.

"Pardon?"

Winry grabs onto his shirt lapel, and with a strength he did not ever imagine that small, southern
girl to possess, she pulls.

"Listen, SuperDad, I'm trying to work. I have 7 fingers due by tomorrow, and if you do not get your
subordinate out of my workshop, Ed is not going to be the only one that has cracks in his skull like
a lightning bolt. Get him out."

The scene unfolding in front of him is not one he would have ever expected.

Though when Feury sighs behind him and gives a few bills to a grinning Breda, he kind of wishes
he did.

Havoc is leant back on his chair with the front legs floating, loudly talking into the phone while
Pinako Rockbell cackling like a maniac behind him.

"Look," he says with a toothpick clutched in his teeth, "all'm sayin' s'that if ya want any bang for ya
buck, ya gonna have to go with Rockbell automail. I'mean sure, y'could do just about anyone else,
but do they got the quality? The personalised metal choices n'blends? Do they got the-uh-"

Pinako mouths something at him.

"Joint flexibility and... strength matching like good ol' Rockbell? Yeah, tha's right. Didn' think so.
Yeah? Ya gonna call back? Good."

Havoc hangs up the phone with much enthusiasm, at which point he and Pinako... perform a secret
handshake.

Roy feels as though he's lost five years all at once, just at this one moment.

Ed, on his left, looks moments away from an aneurism again. Roy can relate.

"That man is a lunatic. I can't believe you managed to win him over," Pinako laughs.

"What can I say? I know sales," Havoc grins.

"That you do. I might have to keep you around, you know."
 "I'd love to do that, Mrs. Rockbell, but the Brigadier General got my legs workin' again and I owe
it to him to run those bitches ragged 'til they don't work no more."

"Kill me," Roy whimpers. "Kill me now. Sedate me. Put a bullet in the back of my head."

"Well, until then, mind handlin' my sales, boy?"

"I'll be the best customer service rep you've ever seen."

Roy is never letting Riza out of his sight again.

Chapter End Notes

Xingese Roy agenda that is all

 Nina Tucker\It Takes A Village, final part.
Chapter Summary

This chapter is a lot less heavy than the title leads one to believe

Chapter Notes

There are a lot of places in which I bullshit my way through "explaining" alchemy and
this is definitely one of them. Also, I deleted my favourite paragraph because of an
absolutely useless Windows hotkey and I'm still pissed about that

See the end of the chapter for more notes

With only one full day left in Resembool, and a train ride booked for early the next morning, Mr.
Mustang doesn't really have many chances to stick around and help them for much more, so they
only really have one shot at this.

Though he's made it clear he hasn't forsakened either him or his brother, Alphonse still feels the
need to show the man how grateful he is that he came all the way from Ishval in order to help
them, as well as bring those lovely garments and teas with him! After Ling, Lan-Fan and Mei came
to visit, too, they have so many different, incredible tea blends!

However, sadly, now is not the time for tea.

Mr. Havoc, Mr. Feury and Mr. Breda have taken it upon themselves to ensure that Alphonse and
his brother could have some private consultation time with Mr. Mustang, and Alphonse really is
grateful, if not slightly worried for the state of the Rockbell house and its namesakes when they
come back. The most important factor, however, is that now, they have this time, and they must
use it to their advantage.

Only it's not really working.

Five times now, they've tried to transmute something in Eva's lot, but none of their joint efforts
have actually come to fruition.

By this point, Ed is showing signs that he's about to get very frustrated, and Mr. Mustang's
pinching the bridge of his nose. Alphonse cannot have it be that Roy came all the way here for
nothing!

"Look, brother, you're not doing it right," Alphonse tries to explain.

"Not. Doing it. Right?" Brother looks positively rabid.

"Yes! Do you even remember what happened back at Mrs. Jones' house?"

"Yes, I do," he grunts. "You put your hand here," he grabs at Alphonse's hand, slamming it
aggressively (with little actual force behind the action) onto the flooring. "And I put my hand there
at the exact same fucking time." He does as demonstrated, "and we both thought the same fucking
thing - about a way to fix the fucking radio."

Mr. Mustang clears his throat. Ed's neck makes an audible noise as he turns to glare at him.

"Have you possibly considered that you aren't doing the same thing?"

"Did the heat melt your brain out in Ishval? Of course we are. We're trying to turn the fucking
metal into a toy pony."

The unidentifiable hunk of metal glints at them. Alphonse kind of wants to kick it, then
immediately feels bad.

"That's not what I'm asking."

Mr. Mustang takes a few steps forward, then falls to a crouch behind them, placing a hand on each
of their backs. For all that brother grumbles, he doesn't actually shrug the hand away. Alphonse
bites back a sigh, but laughs a little when Ed's grumbles turn to him.

"I've noticed, over the years, that for all you think alike, your transmutation styles are very
different. I can also clearly tell Mei's Xingese influence on your style specifically, Al."

All three of them turn to look back at the hunk of metal.

"In more intricate, complex transmutations, these things tend to fall to the wayside, but your base
approaches to the process are different."

"Different how?" Alphonse asks.

"Edward, when you transmute, how do you visualise it?"

"I don't, really," he says, his brows furrowed. Just before the moment's over and the conversation
moves on, Alphonse barely catches onto the fact that they refer to his transmutations in present
tense, and it makes him smile. "I know the beginning, and the end, and if anything, I visualise the
alchemical equations I have to do to achieve the final result."

"As I thought," Mr. Mustang hums, patting Edward twice on the back, absently. "And you,
Alphonse, you tend to visualise it like liquid, don't you? In your head, it dissolves into a liquid state
and resolidifies as something solid, doesn't it?"

Alphonse's eyes widen the slightest bit. "Yes, I do. How did you know?"

"You spend enough time around state alchemists, eventually you start to pick up on other people's
transmutation styles." He rises from his crouch, dusting his knees off. "Especially with you two -
I've spent the last four years admiring your work."

"You better have," brother grins, "we're the best alchemists you've ever seen."

"And are you planning on proving that any time soon?" Mr. Mustang raises a brow.

"I think that we need to approach this in the same visualisation style for it to work," Alphonse's
voice drops in volume as he turns to his brother.

"I should probably try to do it your way," Edward suggests.

"Not necessarily."
"Is it not better to do it your way?"

"I don't think it makes a difference. It's just a matter of preference. Let's do it your way, I think."

"It'll make more sense," Mr. Mustang suggests, arms back to their default of being loosely crossed
over his chest.

Edward looks between the two of them for a few seconds, then raises his hands in surrender. "Fine,
we'll do it my way, I guess."

Resting his hand lightly between Alphonse's shoulder blades, Edward leans into his left a little bit.
"So, on the count of three, we'll both lean down. The way that I usually do it is that I think only
about the equation that's needed for the actual transaction of the materials, and the final form that
takes shape is kind of like a to-do list. Does that make sense?"

It's not the way that Alphonse usually does it, but he can recognise the logic behind it. It very much
so suites his brother. "Yeah, it does."

"Ok, then let's do it. One."

They turn to the hunk.

"Two," Alphonse says.

"Three."

In unison, they speak, and place their hands on the ground, on each side of the hunk of metal.

The smell of ozone fills the air, and a familiar lightning-like feeling passes between the two of
them as white light floods their vision.

The toy pony isn't necessarily their best work, but it gets the job done.

Mustang, behind them, lets out a breath.

"Yeah, there's definitely something up," he says, "that smelled, just now, like it did at the Gate."

"Checks out," Edward mumbles, "that feeling in my chest... It was gone, for a second. I felt like I
used to, before."

Alphonse stares at the toy pony. He's not sure if brother quite figured it out yet, but it's a lot like the
ones they used to make when they were kids. The one that they made, that made Winry cry when
she first saw them perform a transmutation.

Mr. Mustang crouches to his right to pick up the toy. He fingers at it delicately, curiously.

"So, that settles it, doesn't it? A piece of Edward's soul stayed at the Gate, and when you two
perform a joined transmutation, it opens up a connection to the Gate, and Edward's soul becomes
whole again."

"Can't really argue with that." Ed's gaze locks on the toy. "Now, all I've got to do is figure out what
it is I want to sacrifice."

Roy exhales sharply, once, through his nostrils.

"And to think I was naïve enough to think that you kids would stop giving me grey hairs once you
left the military."

"Don't worry, Brigadier," Edward smiles a smile that's supposed to pass as sweet. "At this pace,
you'll die way before you reach that point."

"You may not be Fullmetal anymore," he sighs, "but it seems you'll always be a brat."

They are derailed from that point on, childish taunts and barbs while Alphonse desperately tries to
shepherd them back home, but his attempts are as futile as the toy pony they left behind, rocking
alone, back and forth in the wind.

Maybe Eva would appreciate the small present when she arrives to practice later today.

///

"Look, all I'm saying is, if chief was in the military nearly as long as Brigadier Mustang, he would
have had even crazier stories."

Mr. Havoc has his somewhat abnormally long legs draped over the coffee table that Winry
scrubbed clean a few hours before their arrival. His arms are crossed behind his head, and he's
sending Mr. Breda and Alphonse a look that's telling him I'm really trying hard not to laugh right
now.

There are no remnants of the soft and delicate atmosphere of last night - it's all roughhousing and
shit-talking and yowling, howling laughter since dinner ended, and in no way can Alphonse lie and
say he didn't miss this, just a little bit.

It was foolish of him to think that it would be gone from their lives, just because they're no longer
in the military.

Mr. Havoc was right; they really have formed a strange, little family.

"Eat shit!" his brother howls. "Brigadier bastard is a fucking nerd! I've been in the military a
fraction of the time he has and my stories are equally as crazy!"

By the way his eyes flicker to Alphonse's between reactions, he knows that Edward is thinking the
same thing he is: Winry is still within hearing range.

Up until a few weeks back, if they were to make a Venn diagram of the things Winry knows and
their time spent in the military, it would look more like a pair of glasses than anything else. While
Alphonse feels bad about that, and knows it's unfair to everyone in the equation, he also never did
anything to change that, for very similar reasons to his brother, perhaps; he just really doesn't want
to upset her, and even less so does he want to talk about any of it.

It's always been easier to bury things under the rug, especially when he's spent so much of his time
surrounded by the people who have lifted the carpet with him to help him bury it.

The drawback to this, of course, is that now she's equally upset, but for different reasons, which
results in an even more awkward situation: should they openly talk about things with her, she
would accuse them of coddling her, which is wrong, but also fair. Should they never tell her
anything, that would also be bad.
Winry is doubtlessly Alphonse's best friend. Before he managed to get his sleep schedule mostly
regulated, she was a life-saver in all those lonely, human nights, and even now, he still hasn't found
a way to thank her that she would accept. He's also incredibly grateful for all she and Granny have
done to help him and his brother, taking them in after the horrors they've committed, and never
once judging them for the severity of their crime. So now, years down the line, he knows a simple
fact: Winry wants to be repaid by knowing the truth, but he's not sure if the truth is something she'll
be able to handle.

There was a point in which Alphonse was ashamed of himself for his line of thinking, but it's the
truth. Not for lack of strength, obviously, but for the guilt.

He, himself, is no stranger to staring up at the ceiling, cursing himself for his inaction when a
timely reaction was needed. Nina doesn't haunt his psyche as much as she does his brother's, but he
can still remember... way too much to be able to live peacefully with the memories. He can't
imagine the guilt, the strain, the sadness that comes with knowing the people closest to himself
were living with their lives on the line for four years, and being blissfully unaware of it. Whenever
he or his brother try to fill her in, the small gap feels more and more like a chasm.

Perhaps brother is aware of it.

Perhaps he knows Winry is there, and she's listening, and this is his way of telling her the things
he's not ready to otherwise say.

Whatever it is, Alphonse is willing to play along.

"I don't know, brother," Alphonse raises his eyebrows. "Mr. Mustang did some crazy things. Are
you sure you can top that?"

Even Feury lets out a chuckle at the retort.

"Yeah, kid, you're in a room with the Flame, and the crazy idiot who turned his family business
into a black market for weapon smuggling," Mr. Breda burps at Havoc's direction, who shrugs, as
if to say well, what else was I supposed to do?

"Which does not mean he is, by any means, innocent; this is the kid who, at 12 years old, pointed a
spear at the Fuhrer." Roy plops his hand atop Ed's head, and the room breaks out in snickers.

"In retrospect, I was correct."

"I still remember being glad I was in armour at the time," Alphonse grins, "had I been in my body,
I might have just about soiled myself."

"This coming from the same boy who suggested to feed me to Gluttony?" Mr. Mustang raises his
brow.

"Stop holding that against me!"

"Forget that, Bastard." Edward shakes off his hand, pointing at Alphonse with a shaking finger.
"This is the person who single-handedly fought Pride and Kimblee and won."

All eyes, all at once, focus on him.

"Kimblee?" Feury squeaks.

"And Pride?" Mustang slow blinks at him.

Nervously, Alphonse giggles. "I, uh... Might have had a little helping hand?"

"Helping hand my ass," Edward scoffs, "he just found a philosopher's stone and decided it was his
queue to kick butt."

Roy blinks at the two of them, before groaning loudly and burying his head in his hands. Havoc,
Breda and Feury have found themselves playing ping-pong with their eyes, all between the three of
them. A few wisps of Winry's hair are visible from the hallway.

"For the longest time, I found myself wondering how you two could be related," Roy drawls, his
face still buried in his hands, "but looking back, it's so obvious. The boy who used a Philosopher's
stone against Pride and Kimblee is the younger brother of the 16 year old who punched a God in
the face. These are the boys I drafted."

Havoc lets out a noise half-way between a cough, a laugh and a choke.

"I absolutely need to hear the story behind that."

"It was the Promised Day," Edward shrugs. "Tons of crazy shit happened that day."

Though the words are directed at Mr. Havoc, he knows that they're meant for Winry to hear, too.
Alphonse's pretty sure the rest of the room caught up, and the exaggerated reactions are for
Winry's sake, and for theirs, too.

Alphonse is happy for his weird little family.

"But still," Feury says, and the somewhat stilted nature of his words shows that he's not as good as
the rest of them at playing along. "In the end, I don't think anyone knows what really happened that
day besides you three."

"Even we don't really know what happened, for real." Brother cracks his neck, trying and failing to
look nonchalant. "We only know what happened in the centre. So much happened outside our field
of vision that we have no idea about. Lives that were saved and lives that were lost, and all we
really did was-"

"Save the country." Mustang cuts him off. "All you did was save the country."

Ed rolls his eyes.

"It's okay to not really know what happened." Havoc, for all his smooth talk and large grins, is a
mixture of sombre and delicate in a way that doesn't look strange on the man as he leans forward,
placing a hand on Ed's shoulder. "That's the thing with wars. You do what you can, you save as
many lives as possible, and if you're lucky, you go home afterwards and pray that everyone else did
the same. It's not your job to save every single life. You saved the most of them, actually, which is
more than enough."

Ed's mouth pinches shut in a way that's absolutely meant to hold back some form of emotional
reaction.

Because his brother is an emotionally constipated turnip, Alphonse decides to do the thanking for
him.

"That means a lot, Mr. Havoc, sir, Thank you."

"No need for the formalities, kid, just call me Jean."

Alphonse scratches the back of his neck, in an over-dramatised display. For the most part, he's just
happy he has a neck to scratch.

"I think it's a bit too late for that."

"Eh, it is what it is. I still want to hear that story though," he looks back at Edward.

Winry shuffles a bit in her position. Alphonse can tell, because her hair swishes around a little bit.
She sits down.

"So, uh... God, where do I even begin?"

It takes a while to power through the whole thing. The combined efforts of Alphonse, his brother
and Mr. Mustang are needed to achieve a linear, detailed timeline that skips over enough pain to
make it manageable, but keeps enough of it in to make it realistic to what actually happened. In
multiple of said pain points, one has to take over another's story just to be able to finish it. Ed's eyes
are suspiciously red by the end, and he's leaning into Roy's side a little bit by the end. Alphonse
can't really judge him for that, because he's doing the same. It took them over five minutes to
power through talking about Nina alone, and by the time they had reached the events of the
Promised Day, no one is laughing.

Havoc has his head buried in his hands, Breda's brows are pinched so hard it looks painful, and the
tear tracks are still fresh on Feury's cheeks. Winry hasn't moved from where she's sitting on the
floor for a while now.

"Shit," Havoc groans, "that's a lot of things to go through in two years."

None of them have anything to say to negate that, so they don't. He's right. They also don't point
out that it kind of only scratches the surface of all the crazy shit that's happened to them.

"There's a lot that goes over people's heads when they aren't directly involved in it," Alphonse tries,
because he doesn't like how hopeless the air in the room is. This is not supposed to be a tale of
hopelessness. They won, against all odds. If anything, it should leave them with a sense of
comfort, of peace. It was a victory crawl rather than a powerful march, but a victory nonetheless.
Losses aside, Alphonse refuses to take anything else. "I don't think anyone would blame you for
being unaware. We did everything we could to keep everything a secret."

"Even from us," Breda adds.

"From everyone," Ed admits. "It's not that we didn't want to say anything. We couldn't. Not when
speaking would have put so many other people in direct danger."

"But you were kids," Havoc insists.

"You think Father gave a shit about that?"

There's a moment after brother says that, that he gets this look in his eyes. A spasm of expression,
hidden to nearly everyone in the room. Alphonse can read the pain in it, but he doesn't really know
what to do to help. They are separated by one person's distance, and to get up would only draw
attention to the display that was over before it even started.

Mr. Mustang, it seems, was also able to read the expression. He sets a hand on Edward's back, and
surprise and relief flood his brother's face for just a moment, before it's replaced by an annoyance
that's as predictable as it is fake.
"Come to think of it," Alphonse muses, "I think our youth might have come to our advantage."

He waits until the attention of the room is all on him, before smiling mischievously. Alphonse
almost catches Winry's eye, before thinking better of it. "I certainly remember when brother broke
in to the fifth laboratory that was definitely aided by his rather specific composition."

Edward's jaw drops. Roy's jaw drops. Breda's brows shoot up, practically skyward. Feury chokes
on a laugh.

"Did... did you?" brother stutters.

"Holy shit," Havoc drawls, "you just called your own brother sho-"

"Betrayed!" Ed shoots to his feet. "By my own fucking brother! My baby brother! My time in the
military has fucking poisoned his brain! I can't fucking believe it!"

That is about all the warning he gets before he's tackled.

In between what might be the most merciless noogie he's ever received, the guffaws of everyone
around and the sound of Havoc choking on his own spit, Alphonse grins at them from his position,
face half-smushed into the carpet.

"You really don't have to worry about us," he assures. "It was very hard, and we've barely even
started processing everything that happened, but we're alright. It's thanks to everyone's unwavering
support of us that we're here, today, talking over tea, so really, we do have to thank you all. Even if
brother would rather die than admit it."

It is at this point that Alphonse is tackled again, and tickles half out of his mind.

He still refuses to apologise for saying that, thank you very much.

Once the air of the room finally calms down and everyone returns to proper seating, Havoc breaks
the silence, now light and welcoming.

"I meant what I said when we came here, you know." Havoc claps his hands, locking eyes with
everyone in the room in turns. "Now that you're a part of us, you always will be, even if you aren't
in the military anymore. I mean it."

"We know that, Mr. Havoc. Thank you," Alphonse smiles. Brother looks away, pouting, but
grumbles in a tone not quite as aggressive as it was before.

"Fine, I get it, I get it," brother groans. "Stop doing my head in about it."

"No." Roy leans forward, ever awkward and serious. "You seem incapable of realising this
incredibly simple and easily digestible truth, so I will have Havoc do your head in until you've
come to the realisation."

"Don't! There's no need! I get it! We're all family now! Just leave me alone!"

There's a moment in which Havoc, Breda and Feury all lock eyes, and they smile. Alphonse looks
between them in confusion, and then it clicks. He smirks. Brother gulps.

Try as hard as he might, Edward cannot wrestle his way out of the five person hug he's found
himself in, even if Feury's grip is somewhat slack and weak. Mr. Mustang doesn't quite participate,
but he does ruffle Alphonse's hair when he laughs.
"Why isn't the bastard part of this contraption anyways, huh?! Why does he get to escape?!"

"He's our commanding officer," Feury replies, and it's an apology if Alphonse's ever heard one in
his life.

"That's it." Finally, brother manages to wrestle away from the hug, but he doesn't actually stray too
far from any of them; once more, Alphonse doesn't know why he even bothers.

Warm chatter overtakes the room once more as everyone settles in their seats, and the conversation
politely strays away from the topics of war, disabling acts of alchemical taboo and other such
matters as Edward conveniently and loudly announces that he wants to get 'something' from the
kitchen. Two sets of footsteps quietly pad through the hallway.

Once more, those two are as subtle as a brick to the face.

Alphonse hopes that when they finally get together, they'll learn a bit more about the art before
Alphonse sees something that would scar him for life.

It is at this point that Alphonse comes to the realisation that this is the first time he's been alone, in
a low stakes scenario, with team Mustang, sans the common denominator that is his brother. Now,
a lot of things can be said about Alphonse, but he knows for a fact that while he might be arguably
more naïve than his brother, he's definitely less oblivious. He knows that the group of men before
him, as well as a myriad of people spread all throughout the country, would, and have, laid their
lives on the line for him and his brother in a heartbeat. Somehow, by means of the military,
Alphonse and his brother have found themselves a family both stranger, larger, and slightly more
neurotic than they could have ever imagined for themselves. Despite his lack of one-on-one time
with any of them, Alphonse feels very comfortable around these men; this is not the root of his
issue.

How does one move on from being a child soldier? How does one grapple with a past like that and
turn it into a presentable future?

In a process none of them were aware of enough to ever protest should they desire to, they all
forged a connection that surpassed any differences they all might have; a history, an understanding,
a pain they all take part in until it blends into a brand new shade of red, and an oath forged in blood
to stick by each other's sides; but how does one take that, and all that it entails, and transform it into
a palpable, corporeal future? How does Alphonse takes this blurry vision of green and gold and sky
blue, yellow and dirt brown, and pressure it until it becomes shapes, objects, and a life that he can
live? There is no alchemical formula to transmute grief. Nothing to do about how to deal with what
once was, and no parenting books about how to do it all yourself, when there isn't anyone around to
do it for you besides a teacher that's half way to the grave herself and a group of people kept awake
at night by the same breed of monsters that lurk outside Alphonse and Edward's doors. What do
they do now, when the semi-responsible gaggle of adults that have claimed him and his brother as
their own are spread throughout the country and beyond, largely inaccessible and so, so busy?

Frankly, Alphonse doesn't understand where he and his brother fit in absolutely any of this. And he
knows, he knows that he needs to start being more responsible, to lean on himself a little more and
his brother a little less, but he can't help it. In some ways, he still feels eight years old, clinging
onto Edward's sleeve. In some ways, he feels older than everyone in the room, and he just wants a
hug. Emotions have a physical, hormonal component that grips Alphonse in the chest, stinging
behind his eyes in ways he hasn't had the chance to get used to again, yet. Where the hell does he
go from here?

As the ambiance of the room warbles between jovial and contemplation once again, it is,
surprisingly, Feury that breaks the silence.

"I don't know what you're thinking right now," he admits, "but I do know that it's probably not
gonna be as big and terrible as you think it is, right now, alone in your head." His voice is shy and
meek, but the suggestion itself leaves no room for doubt on either counterpart's behalf.

"None of us are shrinks," Havoc adds, "but the Brigadier General over here does actually know a
thing or two about a lot of the things that are keeping you up at night. Captain Hawkeye, too. None
of us know what the fuck is going to happen from this point on-"

"Besides Brigadier Mustang," Breda drawls. Roy and Havoc snort.

"Besides the Brigadier, who probably has every single conversation he's going to have in the next
decade slotted into a schedule maintained entirely by Captain Hawkeye. Point is - don't think
you've gotta figure out all this shit alone, because you don't. You'll be shocked to find out that
phones do, actually, exist. Maybe, if you're smart enough, you'll figure out how to use one correctly
at some point." Havoc's tone is light and teasing, but Alphonse knows there's nothing but pure
fondness and empathy behind every word. The man reaches over to pat his head, and Alphonse
sighs, trying to let some of the stress melt off of him.

"I'll try my best," he says, "but I can't make any promises about brother."

"I think you should leave that up for SuperDad," Winry states, entering the room with more of her
usual swagger than the front she puts up for guests; it seems she's deduced that team Mustang
really are here to stay. "After all, he's the one who's the reason why all of this is happening. In the
meantime, you owe me a little talk."

Edward, who walked into the living room in the same time that she did, looks no worse for wear.
Tired, maybe, but there's nothing that suggests a fight of any kind, or a conversation that might
have ended on a bad note. Winry's much the same, subdued in a way that indicates seriousness
over sadness.

It is with this assurance that Alphonse swaps places with his brother, and lets the sound of fond
yelling and familiar curses wash over his back like waterfall vapour as he and Winry go into
another room, to discuss pieces of a past that will hopefully lend itself to a future that has no shades
of red in it.

///

"Crouch down and shut up," are the words that Havoc greets him with, a mere 20 minutes after he
woke up.

Alphonse, tired, confused, and still dazed from the grip of a dream that included enough housecats
to sink a ship, silently complies. Boy oh boy, is he glad he listened.

"Allow me to understand - you're planning a wedding with Miss Rockbell despite not even being in
a relationship yet?"

"Who ever said anything about Winry?!"

Mr. Mustang and Edward are apparently deep in the throws of a conversation that is intimate,
private, and by all means, should not be listened in on.

However, they should have thought about that before having it in the living room.

"Look, bastard, nobody's even talking about her. I'm just saying, hypothetically, this is a
hypothetical conversation, in case you weren't fucking aware-" Ah, yes, condescension. Brother's
favourite way to skip over the fact that he's been got. "-I was literally just asking about the
different benefits of wedding styles."

"But why?"

"Because we just listened to that stupid radio show about it and it makes no sense?"

"Why ask me, though?"

"You're an adult!"

"You ever seen a ring on my finger, Fullmetal?"

For all that Ed has taken it upon himself to kill off hours of Alphonse's time by complaining
endlessly about Mr. Mustang and all of his apparent faults, the two of them have quite a few things
in common, in reality. Anyone who's ever met either of them knows the animosity is entirely
fabricated on both behalves, played up in the same way that the Brigadier's non-existent laziness
and sleaziness are played up - it's a cover up, an act, a survival mechanism that's built to hide how
deeply the care actually runs. Back when Ed's cooperation, as well as their lives, had been on the
line, it was a necessary evil. These days, it's just habit.

All this to say: the Brigadier is every bit as dense as Alphonse's brother when he wants to be.

"For the love of God, bastard, answer the fucking question."

"I suppose there's something sweet about traditional Amestrian style weddings," he eventually
says, "the whole aspect of a father of the bride walking her down the isle and the father of the
groom helping him out and keeping him happy, stress-free and calm during the day, but I've always
felt the most connected to Xingese styles ceremonies, which only makes sense, all things
considered."

"Well, I would have to ask somebody else to do the whole parent part if I wanted to get married,
considering..."

Alphonse's eyes widen at the realisation of what Edward's asking, and he can feel his facial
expression soften. Oh, brother.

He turns to Havoc, whose smile is halfway between amused and fond.

"How long has this conversation been happening?" Alphonse whispers to Havoc, who nearly
wheezes out a laugh.

"It's been close to 20 minutes like this. Chief's tried to ask the question three separate times, but the
Brigadier's just not getting it. Chief barely managed to swerve them around the topic of Hughes
twice."

"I'm sure you could ask Alphonse. He doesn't really strike me as the type to ever get married, but
he would probably help you with delight if you asked." Roy's brows are furrowed, like he's putting
genuine thought into this. Alphonse feels a bit warm at how easily Roy suggested that he might
never get married, and how it wasn't a problem. Edward's brow visibly twitches, and both
Alphonse and Havoc stifle a snort.

"He might, but it would feel wrong."

"What about Armstrong?"

"He would crush me to death. Can't get married if I'm a corpse."

"What's the name of your teacher's husband? Sig, right? he would probably love to help."

"Well, yeah, obviously, but I already thought he would help with-uh... other stuff. Right."

"Yes," Mustang curls a brow, "I'm sure your future bride to be would happen to have no parents,
too."

"Shut up, no one's talking about Winry anyways."

Roy grins. "I didn't mention her by name, and yet-"

"Goddamnit, Bastard, forget I ever asked! You're worse than the other one!"

Behind the two of them, Mr. Breda waltzes by with a coffee mug, gripped loosely in his hand. He
takes one slow, measured sip, then surveys the scene in front of him, locking eyes once with
Alphonse and once with Mr. Havoc. Evidently, he decides all to be right and well in his mind,
because he takes another slow sip, nods decidedly at himself, and walks away, into the automail
room, from where Feury's high-pitched voice is clear as a bell as he asks Pinako another automail
related question. He goes unnoticed by both Edward and Roy.

"Fullmetal, what is it that you actually wanted to ask?"

"If you would help me get ready if I ever got fucking married!"

It's as though Edward cast a spell to quiet the whole house down. The automail room is silent. The
hallway is silent. Den, outside, is also completely quiet.

"Goddamnit."

"Fullmet- ugh. Ed, come here."

From the angle Mr. Mustang moved to, Alphonse can't quite see his face, but he knows the man
must be wearing some type of expression, because Edward is already backtracking.

"Forget it. I don't even know why I said that; s'not like I'm planning to even get married at any
point. This is stupid. I-"

"Ed. Please sit down."

"No. Fuck you."

"Ed."

"No!"

"I would love to honour your request."

"Huh?!"

Havoc's face is positively red right now. Alphonse can hear the laugh barely bursting through in
squeaks he's desperately silencing. In all honesty, Alphonse should be rebuking him, but he just...
can't. This is really funny.

"Now that you've come to realise that our relationship was never quite as... animus as you might
have convinced yourself it was, I was hoping you and I would be capable of having more civil
conversations with each other."

"Mustang, I take it back." Ed's stance is rigid, and he's speaking through gritted teeth.

"Actually, I don't think you do. Do you see me as a father figure, Fullmetal?"

"Do I- WHAT?"

From Alphonse's vantage point, he's pretty sure this is the most flustered that Edward has been in
years. He genuinely can't remember the last time his brother was this caught off guard by anything.

Then, because Truth loves not many things more than causing misery, his brother's rabid gaze falls
on him and Havoc. Busted.

"You," he growls.

It's as though hellfire crawled up from the pits just to frame his brother, giving him the most
menacing aura possible.

Havoc pales, then, in a manner most instinctive, grabs Alphonse by the waist, hoists him over his
shoulder, and breaks into a sprint outside the house. By the uneven sound of thumping, Edward's
not far behind.

As he sprints down the hill, Havoc briefly raises his hand from Alphonse's back, then puts it back
down. Winry comes into view seconds later, and Alphonse, too, raises his hand to wave at her.
Ever the picture of countryside domesticity, she has a straw basket balanced on her side, packed
with fruit, vegetables and cheeses from the market. Her hair is tied up in a bun with lots of
flyaways, and her shoes are brown from dirt. As Havoc continues to run, Alphonse raises his hand
in a thumbs up, which seems to satisfy Winry.

She might have hummed, but Alphonse can barely hear anything over Havoc's mad cackling.

Edward, unsurprisingly, is hot on their heels, but he still has a metal leg, and Mr. Havoc is a very
athletic man, so he's gonna have a pretty hard time catching up.

Honestly, this entire thing... It's nice. Being light and small and human enough to be picked up is
nice. Laughing like that, and feeling the way Havoc's breaths rattle under his stomach is nice. It's a
perk he never really thought about, back then, and he's sure that once he reaches a normal weight
this will be way more difficult, but right now? He's just gonna let this happen. He's gonna start
laughing, too, even if it gives brother more incentive to pick up his pace.

"If you take a left turn here," Alphonse yells between giggles, "you'll be able to go into the woods
and lose him entirely."

"Thanks, kiddo." Havoc pats his back.

"You're a smoker! How the fuck are you running that fast?!"
 "I quit smoking after the war, chief!"

"I don't believe you!"

It takes them an hour into a game of impromptu hide and seek to get caught.

The blue mark on Mr. Havoc's cheek is very convincing proof that brother has managed to even
out the strength in both his arms.

Chapter End Notes

It seems I have projected onto Alphonse a little more.

The way this fic is shaping up I think there are going to be like 20 chapters total??
Maybe???
 I Survived. Huh.
Chapter Summary

The boys talk. And then, shockingly, they talk some more. And, even more
shockingly!!!!!!!!!!!! Ed talks a lil bit more. Something might even happen in between,
too!

Chapter Notes

Slightest CW for PTSD related discussions. It's not very angsty though.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Four months since the departure of Mustang and his men has not brought on much development in
any major departments in Edward's life.

Admittedly, things are now a bit easier around the Rockbell home, especially now, that Winry
knows a bit more. On the day they had that specific talk, Edward had tried to specify that he
doesn't want to be treated with kid gloves just because some difficult things happened, and she,
miraculously, accepted that. There are topics around the house that are left unacknowledged and
undiscussed, but if once, it was because of the tension, now, it's because there are some things that
are universally acknowledged to just be better off buried. Winry's not yet at the point where she
knows more than she doesn't, but she has enough knowledge to fill out the greater picture, and it
will likely stay that way for a long time.

The three of them are finally rebounding back to their familiar and familial teasing dynamic, which
is something Edward and Winry, in particular, needed more than they even knew before it
returned. It fucking kills Edward to admit it, but talking about feelings really did, kind of, help.
Winry and Al know which pressure points still hurt. He can be teased for his temper, but not his
vigilance; his prosthetic and the mark on his forehead, but not any of his other scars, and especially
not the one that trails through his abdomen.

He still visits the Gate in his sleep at night, but that doesn't get better or worse, either. Edward has
become a master of card games, and the light, grey, undefined flickering behind him has solidified
into a light, grey, undefined something or other that doesn't flicker, but nothing else changed. He
still can't do alchemy on his own. He still has two hands. He still detaches from his body when he
sleeps, and feels the presence of something missing inside him, the way Gracia Hughes leaned into
nothing last month when she and Elicia came to visit, but nothing is different in a way that is
annoying, obtuse or vivid.

Mustang and him actually talk on a semi regular basis now, and it drives him out of his mind that
he doesn't actually resent the very essence of the conversations. Granted, a lot of them centre
Ishval, but also their personal lives, and the lives of those connected to them both. Al joins in,
sometimes, too, and Hawkeye joins the call for about a minute each time, though her phone
presence is stilted and foreign. She does much better in face-to-face conversations. Ever since the
man returned to the desert, he said that a local companion of theirs has been pushing him to 'spend
more time with those boys of his', which Edward decides to ignore as a testament of his maturity.

To be honest, if he ignores the entire sector of the future, his life with Winry and the thing they've
both been dancing around since he's returned (he wants to, he does, but not now. Not like this),
alchemy, and a few other select topics, life is pretty great right now.

So it makes the current position he's in even more annoying.

Sitting on the floor of the Rockbell kitchen, at 3 in the fucking morning, eating an apple pie, and
crying.

Truth and him have been at each other's throats for a few nights now, and Truth thought it would
be funny to just eject him back into his body for the night, with the vague promise that he can try
again next time, which, fuck that, he can go to sleep whenever he fucking wants to. So, he decided
to allow himself a treat, if you will, a small little snack, a reward for pissing Truth off so
thoroughly that he won against it.

Some reward that is.

Truthfully, he can't really figure out why he's crying. Everything's fine. Nobody's injured, or hurt.
Things are better than they have been in a long, long time.

This is stupid and pointless.

"Brother?"

Oh fuck.

"What's going on? Are you okay?!"

He groans and straightens himself.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Al sighs, sitting down in front of him. He offers a smile that speaks of exhaustion, sadness and
fond amusement.

"Usually people that are fine don't sit on the floor in the middle of the night, eating apple pie and
crying."

"Don't smartass at me like that; it's not endearing."

Usually, when they bicker like this, in a way that's meant to gloss over things they probably
shouldn't, Al gets this look in his eye of begrudgingly going along with it, though he often
instigates, and betrays his own pretend annoyance with a barely concealed quirk of the lips. There's
none of that tonight, and it makes Edward feel a little trapped.

"Brother, please tell me what's going on."

"I don't know, Al. This pie is just really, really good."

"That it is, but you've never been the type to cry over something like that."

"Maybe I'm a changed man."

"Coming from the most bull-headed person I know?" Ever since they were children, Al had always
been a very emotive person; he loved to smile and laugh and pout and scowl, which even shined
through when he was in armour. Now that Al is back in his physical body, it's turning out to be a
habit that he never let go of. "Don't lie to me."

Edward lets his head thump against the counter. Man, is he glad Mustang isn't here to witness this
one.

"I wasn't. I genuinely have no idea." That's the embarrassing part, he completes in his head.

"You're crying and you don't know why?"

"Yes."

Al stares at him for a few seconds, wordlessly.

"Don't you dare fucking laugh at me, Alphonse."

But it's too late.

It's not as though he's outright sobbing or anything - he's just kind of... shedding tears silently.
Which is humiliating enough by itself, crying without even knowing why, but to top it off with the
fact that he's been caught is extra annoying. For now, until he can finds the words to say, he will sit
in silence, because he kind of doesn't know what else to do.

"I'm sorry, brother, but your face is kind of funny right now."

"Shut up."

"No. I don't think I will."

Edward shoves him in the shoulder, but the little devil just laughs at him and shuffles over to sit by
his side, pressing their shoulders together. There's a simple comfort in touch that Edward long
since convinced himself he doesn't deserve, but maybe, just maybe...

"You really can't think of a single reason why you'd be crying?"

"Swear on my life, Al, I just can't."

"Nothing upsetting?"

"Nah. I mean, the whole soul-gate-Truth thing is fucking annoying, but it's been a long time since
I've actually gotten upset by it."

Al frowns. "Winry?"

Edward snorts. "Why the fuck would I cry because of Winry?!"

Alphonse rolls his eyes. "I don't know, why else would you cry?"

"That's the entire point, Al. I don't know why. Everything has been normal and I don't know what
could possibly trigger it."

The ceiling is the exact same it's always been. Cream coloured; uninspiring, if not slightly dusty.
Ed's neck hurts the slightest bit from staring at it. Without even looking, he knows his brother is
doing the same.
"s'kinda weird, now that I think about it. How... unchanging everything has been. Am I being
weird?"

"Nah, you're fine, Al. It is kind of weird. Like, everything that happened in those four years was
fucking crazy, and then we come home, and that's it?"

There's a bumblebee crawling on the ceiling, then it walks down a support beam. Alphonse's knees
pop when he gets up, dusting the legs of his pants clean of non-existent dirt before plucking the
daisies Edward picked for Winry the other day from their home in a green glass bottle, and
offering them to the bee. It flies to him, entirely undeterred by human intention, and settles on one
of the daisies for a few moments before flying out the window.

"Wonder what it was doing up at this time. Bees are usually asleep when it's dark." Alphonse
settles by his side.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you know that, anyway?"

Edward's voice catches dryly on the last few words, so Al gets up, again, to pour them two glasses
of water.

"One too many sleepless nights, I suppose." Al shrugs. The statement leaves Edward
uncomfortable, but doesn't sting as much as six months prior would have. It feels a bit like change.

"You know a lot of animal facts?"

Alphonse flushes ever so slightly from embarrassment. No matter how much things change, his
little brother will always be easy to tease. Edward knocks him on the side with his foot.

"I know a lot of general facts."

"About animals?"

"... As well as other things."

Edward's laugh might be a bit too loud for the hour, but Pinako is all the way on the other side of
the house, and Winry is dead to the world when she sleeps.

"Central's library was rich and versatile. I'm honestly considering taking a trip into the area at
some point just to read more books."

"Sounds about right."

Seeing as neither of them is going to sleep any time soon, Edward makes them both hot drinks once
they finish their glasses of water. Some of the Ishvallan tea has a strong, though just right, amount
of cinnamon and cloves, so he chops up an apple finely and adds it to their drinks. It's light, but
filling and warm.

"I think it's normal." Al doesn't look at him. Rather, despite being the one to reopen the
conversation, his gaze is trailed on the hardwood floor. "Expected, even."

"Yeah?"
"I mean..." Alphonse sighs, again, but it's a lot less angst-filled than before. "Things were so crazy,
and then they just... stopped. Like, everything went back to normal. But that's not our normal
anymore. So, maybe you're just subconsciously waiting for things to get bad and stressful again,
but they aren't, and they won't, so your body just doesn't know what to do, and now, you've kind of
let go."

What Alphonse is saying makes sense. In many ways, Edward is always watching for something
out of the corners of his eyes. For someone to leap at him, crush the windpipes of the people he
loves between bloody teeth. The shadows in the corner of his room haven't stooped transforming
into knives and Stones and people and things that aren't entirely human anymore. Peace isn't
something he's acquainted with anymore, and he wants it more than anything else in the world, but
he doesn't think he knows how to handle it when it does come. It doesn't feel like it already did.
Maybe it came on the outside, but many of Edward's thoughts and extremities still haven't left war.
Alphonse, to his side, is much the same.

In a way, his body seems to want there to be an enemy. He doesn't know what to do with all the
anxiety and fear if there isn't one.

Nevertheless, he still says, "you think so?"

"Think about it," he insists. "It sounds stupid to say, but when former Lieutenant Schumacher was
after you... When you came home, you were the calmest you've been in a while. Like you finally
had the bad guy to win over, and a justification for being so on edge, so you were actually able to
relax."

"Goddamnit, Al," Edward breathes, "how many psychology books did you pick up in your
insomnia?"

"Not that many." His cheeks colour. "Most of it I just got from watching you, and Winry, and
myself, too, I guess."

They laugh it out, and finish their drinks.

"Well, I don't think either of us are going back to sleep any time soon." Al straightens his legs, and
when he gets up, he shakes them a little, too. "Wanna help me train a little bit so maybe, in a few
months time, we can spar like we used to?"

Edward smiles.

"Winry's gonna fucking kill us."

"Absolutely."

"Sure. Get your ass outside."

///

Ed could draw the realm of the Gate from memory, by this point. By itself, it could be considered
quite the flex, but now, it's not much of anything. At first, he had been piss scared out of his mind,
then confused, then very annoyed, but now, it's kind of... nothing. Spending his nights with God?
Nothing unusual, really.
"Have you put any thought to what I've said?" Truth asks.

"What? You spew so much shit that I can't keep track of it all."

The vague greyness behind Edward has long since solidified from flickering nothingness to a
blurry, light-grey whatever that lacks any distinctive form. After Edward and Al did their second
joined transmutation, the blur faded a little bit, but instead, there's now a blurry, grey circle on
the... floor? between them. Him and Truth. The God in question he spends every night with. The
God, the realm, and the blurry grey patches that reveal themselves slowly, slowly, like a poorly
written mystery novel Alphonse might have read when he didn't need to sleep.

"About the work, of course."

The work refers to what Edward would do to even things out, snatch back the missing piece of his
soul. As opposed to everyone else, who called it a sacrifice, or a price to pay, Truth engages with
the discussion in a different way, instead referring to it as 'work'. That, in itself, leads Edward to
know what the entire premise of Truth, what was it, not knowing why they were both stuck here?
It's an entire lie.

He's sacrificed enough nights of sleep to get the piece back. That's equivalent exchange, if you ask
him.

"What work?"

So, he's gonna play dumb. Truth has been playing dumb with him for over half a year now, and
he's not going to try to crack this on his own anymore. The point in his life in which Edward was
arrogant enough to claim he can step into God's domain and do it on his own has long since passed,
and hubris no longer appeals to him in that way. He's human, and he's tired, and he's 17. He should
be in bed right now, dead to the world, and thinking about math homework or some nonsense like
that.

"As opposed to what your demeanour might suggest, you seem keen to spend the rest of your life
here."

"No, I'm not, I'm just beat."

"Huh?"

For a small, internal moment, pride bubbles in his chest by the thought of being able to make Truth
say huh.

"What more can I do? What more can I say? I've analysed every bit of information; sorted through
every single hint. M'not a fucking mystery novelist or anything. S'not like there's much to work
with anyway. I'm telling ya', I ain't got a clue. I'm beat."

There are several long moments in which Truth stares at him, wordlessly, unmoving. Edward's
pretty sure he's about to be thrown through the ateway of Truth again just for pissing it off this
severly.

"Y-you..." it mumbles, then grins, and laughs.

Easily the most unsettling thing he's seen in a while. The grin is unnatural, the mouth overly-wide,
and with an almost predatory gleam to it; Truth, in all honesty, looks like a fucking beast for a
minute, having trapped the tiny little mouse in a corner.
A heavy weight settles in his stomach.

"There's nothing you could do that wouldn't surprise me, eh?" Truth sprawls on its back, spreading
its (and Edward's) limbs across the floor.

"I sure hope so," Edward manages through the dread.

Truth stretches, then rises back to its feet.

"You're a smart cookie, Ed. Think back on the last six months, the things that have changed, and
the things that stayed the same. What's different, Ed? What's caused a change? What have you
done that has made a difference?"

Edward cricks his neck, then grins.

"You're going to be so bored without me."

Then, he wakes up. The sky is a light, unassuming blue, and he has an idea.

The silhoette on the floor did have a vaguely familiar shape.

\\\

It doesn't take a genius to know that Alphonse is not grateful to be dragged out here right now, and
honestly, Edward can kind of understand him. The little prat is dressed in a way that suggests he's
got a "date" set up with one of his friends, and he's not happy to be on the other side of town with
Edward, crouched over a metal rod, with plastic and glass and other bits of whatever sprawled
around.

"It'll just take five minutes," Edward promises.

"And then another 35 minute walk to where I'm supposed to be in less than 45 minutes." Al raises a
brow.

"All the more reason to get this over with quickly. I wanna try something."

Alphonse sighs, and Edward only feels a little bit bad when he shakes his head and gives in, just
like Edward knew he would.

"What is it that you actually want to do?"

"I need us to do a joined transmutation again, but I'm the one who decides what it is we're going to
transmute."

"Are you sure it's going to work?"

"No, but I need us to try."

"Why?"

"Reasons."
For obvious reasons, Alphonse is less than convinced.

"Do those reasons have anything to do with Truth?"

"Maybe. I've got a theory I want to test out, but I don't want to say anything before I have definitive
answers."

Birds chirp in the mid-afternoon, a light sound in the distance that helps sew the ambiance in place.
Alphonse's shoulders are rigid, and his mouth scrunched in a pout. There's a brief but intense
internal discussion in his eyes, and he's clearly not entirely happy with the conclusion.

"Alright."

Edward smiles.

"Great. Thanks for helping me out."

"Of course," Al replies, and it's automatic enough to lighten Edward's chest a little bit.

At this point, they more or less know how to do this thing. Settling on their knees side by side,
their hands either hover over the ground, entirely parallel to each other, or resting lightly on each
other's backs. While still scrawny, Alphonse's back feels like a normal one - his spine knobbly but
not skeletal, and the barest hints of palpable muscle and fat cover the ribcage from behind.

Both brothers take in deep, full breaths, and let the excitement thrum through. Barely disguised is
the giddiness in Alphonse's smile, or the way his hand is shaking, ever so slightly, and Edward's
much the same. It feels good, performing alchemy again, and going through the process with
Alphonse just feels right. It feels like learning, all over again, and having the luxury of doing it
properly, this time.

Yeah, right.

It was a nice thought, anyway.

When they clap their hands on the dirt again, Edward takes over, does things his way. His mind,
for one blissful moment, is entirely blank, and his focus is entirely on his target - the random hunks
of metal and plastic at his feet.

Seeing the fruits of his labour, years of hard work, study and trial, come to fruition like this -
there's something triumphant about this moment.

"It's, uh..." Alphonse scratches the back of his neck. "It's..."

"Yup!"

Edward snatches the tool from where it lays on the ground, then stretches back to his feet, turning
it around a few times to check for any design flaws, and putting it back on the ground.

"Thanks a lot, Al. Couldn't have done it without you. Enjoy your date!"

Alphonse blinks at him a few times, and a dark veil settles over his expression, subtly enough for
Edward to notice, but also know that Alphonse thinks he's doing a good job at hiding it. It's clear
enough that Edward is in for a long conversation later, but right now, he doesn't really care.

"Yeah..." Alphonse says. His eyes flicker over Edward's face like he's trying to make sense of him.
"I will. See you later?"
"I'll be home," Edward says, and then they part ways.

\\\

It's a few hours later that Alphonse returns, and the gloomy, worrisome ambiance permeats the
house once more.

For a change, he and Winry were in the middle of a calm, civil conversation, with minimal
swearing, and it felt too good to be true. Today's creation rests comfortably in his mind, and in the
place where he left it by the toy pony, has thus far gone unmentioned by the residents of the house
that know of its existence.

Well, it was good while it lasted.

Winry takes one look at Al, then her gaze snaps back towards Edward, raising a brow like she
knows it's his fault. Edward shrugs, but she just snorts, rolls her eyes, and squeezes his hand before
clearing their cups and heading to the kitchen. He hadn't even realised she was holding it until now,
but he shrugs it off.

Alphonse takes her place before he can think much more about it.

"Talk," he says, having apparently forsaken his usual, gentle approach for something that suits
Edward more so than anything else.

"About?" he asks, because this is just the thing that he does.

"You're hiding things from me again. I thought we went over this."

Truth is, Alphonse isn't entirely wrong. While it used to be that Edward was hiding things from
him because he thought that Alphonse has enough on his plate and had no reason to be concerned
with Edward's situation, right now it's simply because Edward doesn't consider it worthy of a
conversation. There are certain things that can be managed on their own, without having to involve
the entire village, and this is just one of them.

Turns out, though, that Al doesn't agree.

"I'm not intentionally hiding things, you know, it's just not that serious."

Alphonse deadpans.

"Not that serious?"

"Nope."

"Great!" He claps his hands, smiling sardonically. "In that case, you'll have no issue telling me!"

"Ugh." Edward lets his head loll back. "Do we really have to?"

"Yep."

"Asshole," he says, but it's fond.

Alphonse gets up, gestures with his hand for Edward to follow, and they both sink into the couch.
They've been having a lot of conversations like this, staring at whatever's in front of them instead
of each other, and while it might not be the most permanent solution, it works for now. Talking
about emotions is grating enough as is, but when adding in Alphonse's dependency and Edward's
refusal to talk about any of his aches and pains, the process is stretched out, folded over itself and
pulled into something that borders on not worth it.

Unfortunately, these are necessary talks.

"I think I've found another step in the whole getting-out-of-the-Gate thing."

Al shoots up from where he was reclined, staring wide-eyed at his brother. "You have? What is it?
How?! Is it related to the chisel?"

"I'm not really sure, though, if it'll work, so I wanted to wait until tomorrow before I share any of
my thoughts."

The noise escaping Alphonse's body is a groan and a sigh and a scream all at once.

"Why are you doing this? Are you being intentionally difficult?"

"Why would I intentionally make things more difficult for you?"

Though he's present in the argument, all at once, his brain shoots to the Gate, and to the future.
Truth is toying with him, purposely holding back information in order to push all his buttons, and
Edward has been present enough in his own mind to feel the shift of anger and frustration to
hopelessness masked with apathy. The truth is that he's fucking scared; scared of his current
situation, scared his hunch was wrong, scared he'll never find a way out, and now, too, scared to
see that same hopelessnesss-turned-indifference shining through in his brother's eyes. Please, God,
anything but that.

"Seriously, Al, do you not trust me anymore?"

"I just don't think it's fair that I have to tell you everything and yet I need to wring information out
of you!"

"Because you're the little brother, and I'm worthless if I don't take care of you."

And it's that word, that word, that brings the whole world of the Rockbell house to a halt.
Annoyingly enough, Alphonse looks as though he's figured out half of Edward's entire psyche by
the use of that one word, and it's even more of a bitch because he's kind of correct. There is a series
of statements and values that are at the core of Edward's soul, and they are the foundation that
everything that Edward is orbits around. At the very depths of that core, is Al, his safety, and
Edward's bare-bone need to keep that safety intact. Edward would put his life on the line for that.
He would stop short at nearly nothing. He could let the world fucking burn if it means that Al is
safe, comfortable and happy.

Regrettably, this comes into regular friction with the fact that he's not a very good brother. Short
sighted, selfish and mean, Edward always manages to inflict pain and misery upon Alphonse, who
has done nothing to deserve it, because he is kind, and sweet, and selfless, and everything that his
older brother is not. Alphonse's occasional snark comes from cheekiness, while Edward's comes
from cruelty. His laugh and smile are sweet and lively, and Edward knows how often his are
described as sinister.

There's not much more to it - Al was naturally born to be the good brother, and seamlessly fills in
that role with elegance and grace, and Edward is absolutely none of the things Alphonse is, so his
place in the dynamic is incredibly clear. So, therefore, if nothing else, he will protect Alphonse
from his own damn troubles, because if he can't even do that, then there really is nothing on this
bitch of an Earth that he is good for. Logically, he knows there are people that care for him -
Mustang and his men, Winry and Pinako, Ling, for some reason? and Alphonse himself, but there
are days in which he can convince himself that he deserves it, but in there are days, ever-rare, but
still, like today, that he knows that he does not.

With yesterday's pathetic breakdown obviously still fresh in his mind, Alphonse's eyes water with
sadness and pity, and it's all the warning he gets before he's tackled.

"You did trade your braincells for sleep that one time," he sobs into Edward's shirt, "because that's
the dumbest thing I've heard in my entire life."

"I did not trade my braincells for sleep."

"Stupid, stupid brother."

"You need to stop calling me that, you know."

Even though he's squished quite uncomfortably against the arm of the sofa, and Al's scraggly body
and limbs are pushing and pulling and crushing him in ways that are all kinds of uncomfrtable,
Edward rubs circles into Alphonse's back. At whichever point it is that they finally learn how to
healthily discuss their emotions, Edward needs to find a way to thank Winry for all of the times
she's preemptively left the room to let them deal with their own chaos.

Well, Edward muses, still rubbing circles into Alphonse's back while he hiccups into his neck, she
and I will probably be together by that point, but there's no use dwelling on that.

There comes a point in which Alphonse stops crying, and it's not to soon after he begun. At a
certain point, Edwaerd began murmuring little nothings into his brothe's hair, shushing him in a
way that reminds Edward of their mother, and he really, really hopes it helps instead of bringing
forth even more pain.

Alphonse pulls back, but his eyes are red, his cheeks are wet, and his finger grip loosely around
Edward's wrist.

"What do I have to do?" he asks, wiping his nose and cheek on his shoulder. "What do I have to do
to get you to realise you don't have to keep doing this?"

There's a pinch in Edward's chest.

"Doing what?"

"I'm not better than you."

"That's not what-"

"For the love of fucking God, brother, please shut up."

A laugh snorts through Edward's nose, but he's surprised enough at the swear word to do so.
Alphonse smiles at him, but then blows his nose, and the smile fades into nothing as he continues.
"You're not, I don't know, invalid, for the sole reason that you were born first." His voice in nasaly
and thick, and he has to talk in starts and stops as he stutters and blubbers through what he wants to
say. "I don't know what more you think you need to do. I don't know how to help you. You're the
best brother in the world."

Alphonse's fingers tangle in his sleeve.

"You're the best brother in the world to me. Is that not enough to count?"

It's a mean thing to say. Edward knows that he said it intentionally, though not dishonestly, and
yet, the simple question, coupled with the heartbreaking look of desperation, of loss in his baby
brother's face forces Edward to face the fact that to him, to Alphonse, this is the absolute truth.
There is no better brother out there than Edward, in his opinion.

"You're such a dick."

Alphonse snorts, and it forces a bit of snot out of one of his nostrils; it's honestly pretty disgusting,
but it makes them both laugh, and that, at the end of the day, is really the most important thing.

After Alphonse blows his nose, Edward bumps the sides of their heads together, and Alphonse
leans his head on Edward's shoulder with a sigh, and by now, they know exactly how to interperate
that: it's do you forgive me? Are we okay? and Yeah, it's fine, wrapped up neatly in ways that words
don't have the ability to describe. They have this, the three of them, and it strikes Edward at
moments like these to be grateful for having people in his life that know him so, so well.

"You're allowed to share your problems with me. I want you to do so, in fact. I want to be able to
help you, so we can solve your problems together."

"Alright. Thank you, Al; I will."

And he means it to. For tonight. Maybe a few days or even weeks down the line, too, but when he
gets like this again, he knows he'll have his brother and Winry to pull him out, too. In good time,
they'll probably find their own ways to tackle it, too, that don't involve build ups, tears and drama.
Perhaps it'll be a pat on the elbow, or two squeezes following a hug, or a verbal affirmation that
skips over the embarrassment of red-rimmed eyes and quivering mouths.

It hits Edward, again, that they'll have the time to figure all these things out.

"I mean it. From now on, your troubles are my troubles, get it?"

He laughs.

"Yes, I do, Al. Now c'mon, clean your face and make us some tea. It's time for battle strategies."

Five minutes later, Alphonse comes back with a fresh pot, clearly something from Xing (they're
going through their stashes of tea alarmingly quickly; God forbid it gives Ling, Lan-Fan and Mei
the impression that he wants them to visit again), and it feels like home. He and Edward are
discussing strategies, hunched over a rapidly filling piece of paper, and it feels like home. Winry's
in the room, too, leaning against the door frame, a silent contributor as she says nothing and listens
to everything, and y'know what? It feels like home, too.

"You know, brother," Al says as they clean up their mess, "these conversations have become a lot
easier as of late."

"They have?" he asks.

"Yeah. There's something in you that's more... I don't know. Settled, maybe?"
"Maybe you've lowered your standards," he jokes.

"Or maybe, you're just getting better."

Hmm. He never quite thought about it that way, but looking back, it's kind of true. Five months
ago, they would not be having this conversation. When their arrival had been fresh in their bodies
and minds, this kind of conversation would not have been happening at all. Is this what Alphonse
was yammering on about those few days ago? Getting better and retrospect and all that?

It feels nice, he's gotta say. A grim sort of satisfaction in looking back and seeing just how much of
the road has already been tread, having been on the road so long now he cannot see his own tracks
in the dirt. Some of them have blown over by the wind, left remembered only by Edward, those
closest to him, and time.

Betterment is knowing no matter how much farther he goes, or how far sideways he strays, with
the two most important people in the world by his side to ensure he's alright, he'll never go
backwards in his life.

"Good night, brother." Alphonse smiles warmly. "Keep me posted, alright?"

"Good night, Al," he says, and then, just to make sure he goes to bed with laughter on his lips, "in
your dreams."

///

"Well," Edward gestures between the two of them, "what do you think?"

"What do I think?" Truth asks.

"Yup," he stretches the word, popping the P and dragging the Y.

"It's a..."

"That it is," Edward agrees. "Made it myself."

"And what does it mean?"

"What do you think?" Edward smirks. "It means I'm onto you."

Truth raises its eyebrows.

"Is this your way of saying that-"

"It absolutely is."

As Truth tends to do sometimes, it stays still. Completely unmoving in the way only the nonhuman
can be, it says nothing, does nothing, for what feels like several, long minutes. Time means nothing
in this place, and if his hunch is right, it's going to be a good, long while before Edward gets to
leave, so he better get used to it right away.
 Then it breaks. Cackles, laughs, leans forwards to mimic being short of breath. Edward's smirk
widens.

"Onto me, are you?" it downright wheezes, "you really do like to encroach on my domain, don't
you?"

For the first time in his life, the pressure of an entire universe sinks on a muscular shoulder when
Truth grips him, nearly sinks its damn fingers in the flesh, and forcefully turns him around,
cackling wildly in his ear.

Edward takes a moment to look at what's in front of him. Then another, then yet another, and then
it all comes together. What he is; what he's done; what's in front of him; the gravity of what it all
means, and really, he can't help but laugh, too.

His laughter joins the harmony of Truth's multi-toned, commanding voice, dripping in mania and
malice and fury, something blindingly hateful and sulfuric, because of course, of course that's what
it comes down to.

In a way, it's a compliment. This is certainly the kind of honour no one has ever been bestowed
with, at any point in conscious, human life, and still, Edward can't help but laugh.

Bitterness bubbles through in moments like these, for the sole reason that there's nothing else
strong enough to overcome it, and he laughs.

He laughs hard enough to lose his breath. Hard enough to turn red, then purple, then blue. Hard
enough to have been considered to be in serious trouble had his soul been in his body right now, but
seriously, he's not worried at all. No, he's... Nothing.

For now, until he chokes on his sleep, he laughs until the madness overtakes him, and when Al and
Winry rush through his bedroom door, he realises he's laughed long and hard enough for it to seep
through his dreams and tie his soul back to his body so he wakes up with the chuckles and the
vileness slipping through open lips.

Chapter End Notes

Hey remember how I said that this thing has plot? Well...
Say goodbye to that. But also, not really.
Things are happening.

Also - I am very mentally unwell right now, and I might have to go a little longer
between chapters, but they are coming. I promise I'm gonna finish this thing.
 the Winry... Something.
Chapter Summary

Ed and Al are being secretive again, those secretive shits.

Chapter Notes

The kiddos learn that they're now allowed the most precious luxury of all: time.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ed and Al are being secretive again, those secretive shits.

One would think they've had enough intimate conversations to stop giving her premature grey
hairs, but it seems that she was mistaken about that. They came home a few days ago, had yet
another tearful argument, and they've been right as rain since then. Which, for the most part, is
good, if not for the fact that she's been left out of the loop, once more.

Facing the darker facets of their old daily lives and the thoughts that regularly go through their
heads has been a whirlpool of relief, terror and sadness, but Winry can't say she regrets any of it.
After all, the results have been, for the most part, wanted. The dance the three of them used to do
around anything of major importance has slowed down to a scuff of the shoes and a graze of the
hands, replaced, instead, by nonverbal understanding, like the sandwiches Ed still makes for her,
and the apologetic note in Al's voice when he wishes her good night at 10PM instead of 3AM, as
though she wasn't the one encouraging him to go to sleep, for God's sake.

An unexpected turn of events in recent months has lead to Winry developing more interest in her
social life than she's ever ventured to, and, most surprisingly of all, it has to do with automail, and
Al. Sure enough, eventually he'd started bringing a few of his new friends over for lunch or tea
time, and once they'd gotten past Ed's menacing demeanour and Winry's aversion of leaving the
automail room for anything less than the house being on fire, the girls became equally as likely to
strike up conversation with the other residents of the house, even though it was clearly under the
guise of being Al's friends.

Winry would, however, prefer if the Drachman girl could go a single visit without flirting with
Edward.

Regardless, she's found herself befriending Eva and Lee, if only because the two started asking
questions about the arm she had been working on (in their defence, she worked her bloody ass off
for the design - a soldier Ed personally recommended her to, and the need to make a good first
impression is vital if she wants to turn the Amestrian military into part of her client base).

All this to say - things have been settling down.

The day started with its usual flair - after breakfast, which the brothers prepared as she hung the
laundry, Al left to go practice something or other, and Winry trotted off into the village after
pressing an uncharacteristically bold kiss to Ed's cheek. After meeting up with Lee for coffee and
discussing a possible internship with Rockbell Automail, Winry is somewhat delighted to see as
the business meeting unravelled into something light-hearted, unserious, and, dare she say, fun.
Everything is always so serious all the time, with just about everything in her and her boys' lived
unfurling in a way that's downright cruel, considering the three of them were just... just... children,
when God bared his cruelty upon them all.

Ed and Al are her best friends in the world, and that'll never change, but it's nice to be able to talk
to someone who doesn't understand. Who's had a normal life, with boy drama, and she can listen to
her girl friend gush about boys and hair and jobs and homework and Winry, in turn, can firmly
deny what she's thinking about a certain blond-haired pain in the ass, only for them to just... laugh
it off. She's allowed to do that now. She has the time to do that now.

Because, in the end, when she sits down to talk to anyone else, they have nothing of importance to
hide.

Unlike the annoying little brats that are having a conversation about her in her own goddamn living
room.

"But why haven't you told her?" Al asks, and though his posture is lax and his hands are lazily
curled around a cup of tea, his facial expression screams of annoyance. Just by that one look, Winry
knows they've had this conversation quite a few times before.

"Because."

"Because?"

"Yep. Because."

Now, Winry is not at all a stranger to listening in on their conversations half-intentionally.

She knows that when Mustang's men came over a few months back, they had that intentionally
obvious conversation with Winry in earshot so they can weasel out of having a real conversation,
but this really is something else. They went about it that way because they didn't know how to
cross that particular bridge, and leaping over the gap would have been akin to a suicide mission for
those stubborn, self deprecating idiots, but this? Talking, in Winry's goddamn living room, about
her and Ed's relationship?!

Maybe she should turn to girls and call it a day.

"Though you acknowledge you have feelings for her-"

"Yep."

"And you know she has feelings for you-"

"That she does."

Winry's heart launches into her throat, and her chest tightens in sync. He knows? This entire time,
he's known?!

"And you still won't do anything about it."

"That is correct."

Alphonse puts his mug down just so he can facepalm, but Winry can't spare a thought for theatrics
right now. More murderous than she's felt in a very long time, she's about to get up and beat the
ever-loving crap out of the jerk when Al beats her to it.

With a resounding smack she knows is about to stain his face purple for days, Ed falls backwards
enough for Winry to catch a glimpse of his expression. Scrunched eyebrows and nose, closed eyes,
tense mouth. He's in pain, but not surprised. Serves him right.

"You're an idiot. Why?"

Edward gets up, rubbing his cheek.

"The fuck d'you mean, why? You really think I'm sane enough to handle that right now?"

Alphonse glares, outright glares at him.

"That's not a nice way to talk about Winry."

At this, Edward groans. "I'm not talking about Win, Al, I'm talking about a relationship." He leans
forward, and the back of his shirt stretches across his back. In his efforts to regain some semblance
of normalcy, Ed's been spending increasingly large amounts of time in the physio room. He's
gotten even stronger, these days, but the shirt snags more so on a few scars and leftover bolts than
muscles, and as Winry knows Ed, he has no interest in getting big enough for that to change.

"Think about it practically: I go to hell every night, Al. I can't look at pocket watches, big white
dogs, red gems of any kind, Xingese masks or hear fucking thunder or fireworks without jumping
out of my own skin. I can barely talk to anyone that isn't you, and I just can't..." he clears his throat.
"I wouldn't be able to do it right, right now. I just can't."

God fucking damnit, this is worse. It's not a case of him being a selfish, unfeeling jerkwad, it's a
much more complex, reasonable truth.

"Are you... scared?"

Al's entire frame is hunched over, all traces of irritation washed away.

"Of course I am, Al."

There's no anger in Ed's voice, nor resignation. It doesn't waver or stutter - devoid of any
inflections or aggress. It's a statement of fact.

"I am absolutely terrified."

Al's eyes get all big and sad in the way they do when he gets emotional. "But why? It's just Winry.
There's no surprises; you've known her your entire life."

"That's exactly it." Gravity pulls at Ed's head, his torso, his limbs until he's draped over the arm of
the sofa, his stupid hair antenna sticking out to point right at Winry's general direction. So
effortlessly attractive. And annoying. "If it were anyone else and I messed things up, it would be
whatever and I would move on. But this is Winry we're talking about. She's... I can't fuck this up. If
I'm doing this, I've gotta do it right. If I do the wrong thing, or hurt her in any way... I wouldn't be
able to stand myself."

Al sighs. "Oh, brother... This was so much easier when I thought you were just being a cowardly
dick."
Ed snorts, then laughs a little more, then sits up straight again. The shirt snags on one of the bolts
again, but also wraps around his shoulders, emphasising their maturity, their boldness. "Fair
enough," he says, then crosses his arms. "Besides, it's not like I'm in a race or anything. I've got
time. I know that whatever I'll have with her, this is it, so I need to be prepared."

What he had said, the tone he used, it melts through Winry like warm winter porridge. He's always
so short in the way he speaks, unromantic when he needs to be, but romantic when he doesn't. This,
this is too much. How he's sounded just now, so sure of himself, of them, of her? It's so much. It's
everything. Now, Winry feels bad for any time she might have ever had doubts. Even the
humorous kind. Edward's completely right. This is... this is it.

Now, all she has to do is give him time, and that is no bother at all. All she ever does is wait for the
two of them. She has time in spades.

Winry moves aside a little bit, but only because Ed is getting up and, this time, she knows they
really didn't want her listening in on them. She should probably feel a little worse about it, but, then
again, they shouldn't be having conversations about her, as previously discussed, in her own
goddamn living room.

"That's... surprisingly sweet, coming from you."

"Eh, I try."

The conversation about, um, that, seems to have drawn to a close, and they move on to talking
about something pertaining Mr. Mustang, Jean, and his new girlfriend being a Drachman spy.
Nothing unprecedented. Turns out he had an old one, named Lust? that was somehow worse.
Winry doesn't know, nor care. Much as she knows what she overheard is going to dance through
her head for the next day, month, year and millennium, probably, there are more present, important
things to worry about.

Food, automail, house care, living life, rinse, wash, repeat. There will be change in due time.

Edward is going to be someone she spends the rest of her life with. Al, too, but not in that way. If
anything, she should be mad she's not included in a discussion about her future, but, well, there's
nothing to be concerned about, is there? Without even trying, Ed is managing to include both his
and her needs in the equation, and for the most part, he's right. Now that she's assured Ed's not
going anywhere, some of that uncomfortable burn of need has gone away. They've got all the time
in the world if they want to do this right.

It is with this reassurance that Winry steps back inside the house.

///

There's a chip in the panelling of this hand that doesn't line up with any of the activities the wearer
mentioned.

This girl, Lisa, told Winry that she damaged the hand in a car crash, but there's a dent on the inside
and a chip on the nearby panelling that doesn't match the description of the collision. What it does
match, however, is damage that Edward used to have back when he was about 13, which, to her,
points in only one direction.
Stifling a sigh, Winry screws the panelling back in place, gathers the hand and arm, then exits the
automail room. The sun was in a far different position in the sky when she entered it, but that's to
be expected. This time, Ed's sandwich was ham and cheese, which is his way of telling her he
wants meat for dinner. Winry spoils him too much. Goddamnit, where is he? Not in his room, or
Al's, living room, kitchen, nothing.

At the very least, a few minutes into her search, Al comes home.

Looking unruffled and content as ever, he smiles his bright little smile that always precedes his
"I'm home!" and Winry's "welcome back!" and is then followed by a casual conversation about the
day's activities, however, Winry has a somewhat more pressing matter to discuss.

"Where's your brother?"

Al pauses, halfway through hanging his jacket.

"I thought he stayed home today?"

Winry frowns.

"He didn't tell me, either, that he was leaving."

Alphonse straightens his back. "Huh. Strange. What could he possibly be doing?"

"Should I be worried?" Winry jokes. There's not the tension in her stomach when she has a hunch
one of, if not both, Elric brothers is up to something stupid, so there's no reason to suspect.

"I mean, it's brother we're talking about." Alphonse strolls to the kitchen, picking up a bread roll.
"There's no telling what he's up to."

"Ed does have an uncanny ability to get himself into unprecedented trouble."

Al snorts, then tears into the bread roll with his teeth. "I dunno," he says, but his voice comes out
muffled. "Maybe he's managed to befriend a group of wildcats."

"Or get in a fight with a Brigadier General that isn't Mustang."

Al swallows his bite. "Maybe he's finally uncovered the secrets of time travel?"

"Nah, he probably carved a gargoyle into Mrs. Craner's house and pissed her off so bad he's now
dead."

"Maybe he's gone to heaven to fight dad."

Winry stifles the thought that wherever Hohenheim ended up, it probably isn't there.

"I'm willing to bet good money on him having learned to drive a car just to get to Central and fight
Havoc."

"A lot of our proposals seem to include fighting. I'm deducing a pattern here, I'm just not sure what
it is."

Winry stifled a laugh.

"Maybe he's off to fight God again?"

This must have tapped in to an inner joke or something, because Al snorts, then chokes on the
snort, then starts coughing. Just as Winry manages to calm him down, snorting laughing herself,
the door to the house opens.

"Yo."

Ed is smattered in paint. A comedically large amount of smudges in all shades imaginable, from
his hair to the tops of his pants. His face tells a tale of a man who has forgotten, on numerous
occasions, that he was holding a paintbrush in his hand until it has already rubbed all over his nose,
forehead, mouth, and cheek. There's a smudge of red on his lower lip, and Winry's heart, which
must have become blind, deaf, and all things stupid, flutters in her chest.

Red paint smudges have no business being that attractive.

"Brother?"

"Yes?" Ed blinks innocently at them both.

Alphonse blinks back at him.

"Why are you covered in paint?"

Ed frowns at him, as though the concept is foreign and strange to him. "Oh," he says, after a
somewhat drawn out silence. "Remember Jake from my old class? Turns out his mom is an
established painter, and she offered to teach me the basics in return for saving the country or
whatever. She said he serves in the military under Ross and Brosh, and you know how that guy
can't shut up to save his life."

While it excuses the paint all over him, it also makes very little sense in context of the person
Winry knows. For the entirety of his 17 years of living, never once has Ed ever given a shit about
painting, or art, or anything beyond fighting and alchemy.

"Why the sudden interest in art?"

Edward shrugs.

"I got this hand used to doing bigger, vaguer gestures, and it's up to speed in terms of physical
strength and the like, but my motor skills on my right aren't nearly as good as my left."

Ah.

"That checks out." Winry leans on the back of a chair. "Why painting, specifically, though?"

"What's with all the questions?"

"What's with the sudden disappearance?"

"What's with the hand?"

"What hand?"

"The hand in your hand."

"The hand in my what? Oh-"

Silly. The entire reason for this conversation lays forgotten in her grip.
"I have a client who says she damaged her hand in a car accident. I think she's lying to me."

Ed hums, the sound light and unworried, then raises his eyebrow at Alphonse, who raises both of
his back, nodding his head at Winry's direction before they both exhale little nasal laughs. Rest sits,
at home, on their shoulders, unhurried and unstressed. It feels so inevitably right.

"'Ight, I think I know what you're digging at. Let me see."

Crossing the chasm one sofa's distance away, Ed's fingers lightly trail over the back of Winry's
hand as he raises the one in her grip to examine. His mouth pinches as he pouts, face scrunched up
and focused as he looks with narrowed eyes at the hand, completely ignoring the fact that he's
holding Winry's. By contrast, it's kind of what the centre of her focus is on right now. That, and
how nice his hand actually feels.

Another ridiculous situation, really - he's leaning all close, hand on her hand, looking at the hand in
her hand with his hand on her hand guiding around the hand in her hand, and now she's blushing.
Ridiculous. So ridiculous. He's probably getting paint all over the back of her hand, too. To make
matters even worse, Al, who is visibly amused by Winry's plight, is red-faced with how hard he's
holding back his laughter.

Blessedly, horribly, Ed eventually leans back. Though it couldn't have been more than 30 seconds,
it felt like 5 lifetimes to Winry.

"Yeah," he surmises, "that's a blowback if I've ever seen one. Tell her she needs to work on her
ratios."

At this, he ruffles Winry's hair lightly, extends the same treatment to Alphonse, and heads up to his
room, loudly declaring his need for a shower.

Eight seconds is as long as Alphonse can wait before bursting into giggles.

"I'm sorry, Winry-" he wheezes, "your face, it's just- it was so red."

"Shut up."

"And he has no idea!"

"Shut up!"

Though he does make a great show of it, Alphonse does, eventually, stop laughing.

"I'm just really glad I'm never going to have to deal with that in my life."

She hits him on the arm.

He laughs even louder, the bastard.

///

It does not stop at painting.

He spends a moon cycle or two going to Jake's mother thrice weekly, coming back with gradually
less paint all over him, then switches to pottery. Spends a few months on that, then switches to
carpentry. Juggles everything else in his life in the meantime, then adds stone carving. Honestly,
neither Al nor Winry knew there were so many hobbyists in their area.

Before they all know it, a year since the Elric brother's return flies by, and they catch it by the
coattails with a three month delay, an overdue celebratory dinner that Granny makes for the four of
them, and a new armrest for Winry, carved, in a curve most expertise, out of oak.

"I noticed when you work on more delicate things, you hold your wrists in weird angles, then they
get sore."

They do.

"This way," he demonstrates, laying his creation on her work counter, "you can move your hand all
sorts of ways, because your arm will always be at a good height. This curve-" he rolls his forearm
across one end of the weirdly-shaped block, "is good for arm positioning. This one here-" his hand
trails down, "is good for when you need to reach somewhere low, and don't want to put tension on
your wrist bones. Does that make sense?"

For a moment, Winry all but forgets they aren't together. Screw words and grand declarations, this
is absolutely Ed's way of romance. He's stubborn, and not good with his words, and he sucks at
expressing emotions, so he does it like this, and she loves him for it. Edward actually spent God
knows how long studying how her hand moves when she works because of an off-hand remark
about how her wrists are sore at the end of the day, and he made this for her. With her in mind, and
no ulterior motive.

Actually, hold that last thought.

There's a look in his eyes she doesn't like.

"Thank you, Ed." Oak tends to have a smooth, nice texture to begin with, but this armrest has a nice
polish to it that leaves a feeling that's smooth, but not slick. It's a perfect choice of materials, too. "I
really appreciate it."

When he smiles, one of his eyes squints, just a little. Unfairly cute.

"Now, what's the favour you want to ask?"

The smile drops from his face.

"Are you accusing me of making something nice for you as a favour?"

"You always do when you make that face."

He scowls. "I can't believe you're accusing me like this."

Winry smirks. "I'm not accusing jackshit. I've known you practically my whole life. Besides Al, no
one out there knows you better than me. Out with it."

Ed groans, all theatrics and no actual show. He's just mad he got caught.

"This is so stupid."

"You are, too, but you don't see me commenting on it."

"Shut up."
"Alchemy freak," she goads.

He stays silent.

They must be drawing closer to his source of distress.

"Yes?" she asks, drawing out the word.

"Ugh," he groans. "Fine. Can you, uh... Teach me to help you with, um, with automail?"

Alchemy is not a topic Winry is anything close to an expert in, but she does know the basics, now.
Has a vague grasp of the principles, because, unfortunately, the two most important people in her
life are unhealthily obsessed with it. Passive knowledge builds up in the crevices reserved for all
things love and affection, and now, Winry is overall able to sit through a conversation about the
topic. Lan-Fan would be proud. Automail, on the other hand, is not something either Elric knows
much about beyond their personal involvement in the creation, design, choices, mechanisms, logic,
and any other components.

This does make sense. Automail, for Ed, just translates to pain, stunted growth and his mistake. For
Al, automail is his brother's suffering. Winry, in her opinion, does a good job of not caring about
any of that.

"Is this because you want to, what was it, improve your fine motor skills on the new hand?"

Ed blushes, ever so slightly, fascinatingly cherry blossom hues trickle across his cheeks and
meeting over the nose bridge. While his eyes flicker away from her, and he turns his profile to her
face, his ears are a little pink, too.

"Yeah, it is."

Winry hums, taking in his tense stature and uncharacteristically unsure tone. For what may be the
first time in a while, he is entirely out of his element, which is amusing, considering the sheer
amount of time he spends in this very room, with her, working on automail. By all means, he
should practically be an expert right now.

"I will," she says, and his head whips her way. He grins; happy, a little boyish, a little charming,
and she's almost losing the breath she needs to finish the sentence. "I will, under one condition."

"I won't make fun of you for getting excited."

Winry huffs.

"That's not it."

"Okay," he pushes, "I won't muck about with the tools and do whatever."

"Still not it."

He frowns, and the grin slowly fades. "I won't... call you a gearhead?"

"No! When have I ever said I minded that?"

"Then what?"

Nervously, she licks her lips, then curls them inwards. This is the tricky part.
"I want you to tell me the real reason you're doing all of this."

There's a moment, just right now, when the mask cracks in between facades, and it lets Winry see
the insides of the boy trekking through the slow, painstaking process of becoming a man in front of
her. Deceptive confusion takes the place of bright-eyed determination, but there's a fraction of a
second's worth of hesitation, and there's a whole story in there that Winry is only beginning to learn
the language of. History that spans four years, but also one and three months, and about half a year
over seventeen.

She'll learn the language if it kills her. All she needs is time.

"What makes you think there's another reason?"

Winry sighs, slouching down in her chair. With a vague hand gesture, she motions that Ed sit
down, too, which he does. Amusingly enough, he does so on the work surface where he sits when
she works on his leg. Maybe some things will never change.

"The average person doesn't require the finesse of fine painting, or carving, or automail work. I
don't care if you do those things because you want to, or want to try them out, but you said you're
doing it because of the fine motor skills. That means you want to use them for something."

Ed looks at her for several long moments, and his eyes span so many different thoughts and
emotions that there's no telling what's going on in his head, right now. He's a genius, so there never
really is, but it's never been quite as personal as it is now.

Still, Winry has faith. Fresh off his and Al's arrival, Ed was a different person than he is now.
Granted, a lot of the change happened directly opposing his wishes, but it doesn't change the fact
that the guy sitting in front of her, on the cusp of adulthood, holds himself very differently than the
lonely, sad, terrified teen that showed up on her front door with a white hoodie and bags under his
eyes that could rival the briefcase he held.

Maturity paints itself in the set of his shoulders. Now, all he has to do is learn that not everything in
the world is out to get him anymore.

"I don't know if I want to tell you."

Winry sets her chin in her hand, leaning her elbow on the counter.

"Why?"

He licks at his lips, rubbing where the shoulder port used to be, absently, distractedly.

"It might hurt you."

Before she can stop herself, Winry lets out a laugh. Objectively, it sounds like a mean one, and
when Ed, predictably, starts yelling, she's quick to explain.

"Ed, there's nothing you could do that would hurt me. You can't."

His brows spasm.

"The fuck does that mean?"

She laughs, her head tilting sideways. She's overwhelmed, suddenly, and her body sags the
slightest bit sideways as she lets her eyes close slightly, lest the pleasant light of the workplace
lamp burn them a little bit.

"It means that in every decision you make, you consider me. How I would be impacted, how I
would feel, if something would hurt me. You've alchemised yourself away from death because of
it. You're not capable of hurting me, Ed. The only thing you do that hurts is trying to protect me
from what goes on inside your head under the misguided impression that I can't handle it."

Visibly, at that, the switch flicks and he knows. Knows she knows, knows she doesn't mind, knows
he can go at his pace. They've got time, now; they've got it forever.

Something settles in his gaze, a soft relief that's never been there, before, and he talks.

Winry listens, of course, interjecting when she doesn't understand, interjecting when she wants to
call him an idiot, and interjecting whenever she wants to give him a hug but can't because it'll melt
both of their brains into non-functional goop to be that close in a setting this, well, intimate.

Things fall into place now, and it's positive, refreshing, but also unsettling. Having spent so much
time with this puzzle in scrambled, nonsensical messes, seeing it now more organised and clear is
strange. Perhaps, though less drastic, like adjusting to having an old limb back. The last 15 months
of life take on a new form: one that's more complete, more understandable, less frustratingly
unclear, and more painful at points, but so much better than being left in the dark.

It's strange, finding out about what happened in your own house. Winry was there, but she wasn't;
Edward fills out the picture of what happened right under her nose, and Winry can't help but laugh
at the sheer amount of things that can happen inside one, small house.

The first time Winry ever had a patient with an abscessed amputation, she was at East City hospital
with the rest of the staff that was caring for the patient. She was there to treat Edward, of course,
but when he was busy, she tended to this future potential client. As they drained the pus, he
screamed a little, but then, once it was all gone, the nub looked much, much healthier, and the man
felt better, too.

This conversation feels a little like that.

As it wraps up, Winry goes to excuse herself and clear her mind when his hand loops lightly
around her wrist.

He still won't look at her.

"You sure it's alright with you?"

Winry chuckles, but she puts in the effort to make sure it doesn't sound as mean as it did, earlier.
So typical of Ed; apologising without actually saying the words.

"Why would I mind?"

He lifts his hand from her wrist to scratch the back of his neck; it's a display of trust.

"I dunno, I just thought that it might be betrayal, to you. After all the hard work you've done, it
kind of feels like going back on it, kind of."

She sighs through her nose, because the thought isn't right, but it's not wrong either and so, so
painfully Ed.

"You're not betraying me, or Al, or anyone. This is just something you've gotta do. Besides, it's
your life, Ed, I'm not the one living it. I'm just a part of it."

He smiles, and it's relief, but it's also disappointment.

"You're not just a part of it, though," he mutters, quiet and low but not unconfident. "You're a big
part. An important part. I..."

Vindicating Ed's guilt is as easy as breathing, sometimes, and walking this particular tightrope isn't
nearly as difficult, as, say, saving the country, but it's not without effects of its own. Now, at this
point in their lives, Winry might be ready for what ever comes, but he's not, and he's allowed to not
be ready, and she needs to communicate this to him without triggering any unseen mines, or propel
him down a spiral of his own.

If only Ed knew how good he already is at this, it wouldn't be quite so difficult. Once he realises
that compassion, respect and honouring the other are core parts of having a relationship that he's
mastered in their entirety he's going to be absolutely insufferable, even if his communication skills
are lacklustre at best.

"I know. It's alright. You don't have to tell me."

His eyes widen, and he stops in place for a moment. The continuation of the sentence lies on his
tongue, and he would finish it, should she want him to, but she doesn't, because he doesn't, and that
would make everything so unfair to them both.

"It was bad word choice on my part; I'm sorry."

Instead of holding his arm, or brushing her hand through his hair, or anything of the sort, she stays
put.

"You don't have to do anything before you want, y'know. I'm patient. I've spent four years waiting
for you guys; I can spare a little more time."

Blessedly, at this, Ed seems to thaw back into life, Spring unfurling through his loosening muscles.

"You talkin' about-"

"Yeah. It's all good."

He breathes out a sigh that speaks of repose, then laughs a little.

"We're good."

It's not phrased as such, but it's a question.

"We're good."

They stay in silence for a few more moments.

"So, can I intern with you-"

"Go to sleep, Ed."

They both snort out the world's most unattractive laughs at that, then laugh at each other's laughs,
then break into ugly, piggish, breathless giggles while Winry locks up the automail room for the
day.
 They trek up the stairs to the bedrooms, still laughing at each other, then stop at the foot of Winry's
door.

Winry sucks at her lips. There's nothing she can really say to encapsulate everything that's just
happened, but going into her room and ignoring him entirely also feels unjust. Frankly, with all this
surprising honesty thrown into the mix, the next few moments will also need a gentler, more
calculated approach. Winry, for lack of better terms, is stuck between not wanting to push his
limits, but also not wanting to make him feel as though she's pushing him away.

Luckily, she does not have to make that choice, this time.

Ed sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically, then takes her by the shoulders and pulls her into a hug.

Loose and breathable, light and comforting, all things familiar and nice. Winry presses her nose
into his shoulder before she knows any better, circling her arms around his shoulders when his go
around her waist. "You're overthinking things," he says, and she is and isn't listening, because she
can feel his heartbeat and its slow, steady pace. The rest of the world mutes out as her eyes flutter
closed, sinking her weight into him, just a little. He's tall enough and more than stable enough to
manage this, and his wide-palmed grip is a pleasant warmth on her shoulder blade and side.

"It's just me."

He's right, and she admits so as they part.

"Go fight God or something," she says, and he laughs.

"Goodnight to you, too."

Sleep that night is restful and deep.

Chapter End Notes

Ed's cookin. Let him cook.

 interlude - Walnut Tree
Chapter Summary

Ever since Ed came back, rousing from his sleep with venom-laced mania choking
through his laughter, he's been quiet. Things have been quiet.

Chapter Notes

Fun fact this chapter is titled after Walnut Tree by Keane because it's the unsettling
vibe I had going in my head while writing this chapter.

For the record - this chapter happens in the same timespan as chap. 14.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There's a stray black kitten that's been sitting outside the Rockbell door, on and off, for a little over
three days now.

Five days after Edward's 18th birthday, which was littered with phone calls, presents sent from all
across the country (and different countries, too), and a lovely birthday dinner and cake with
Alphonse himself, Granny and Winry, this sweet little speck of shadow showed up at their front
door.

It has big yellow-green eyes, and seems taken care of, for the most part. Its coat is shiny, thick for
the kitten's age, and unmatted, its belly full and overall, the cat itself isn't overly skinny. Yet,
whenever Alphonse steps out of the house, it rushes over, demanding to be picked up, played with,
pet, and be made much of. Never one to deny the opportunity to play with cats, Alphonse often
obliges, even when he really should be getting a move on with his day.

Brother doesn't have much to say about it, but he doesn't have much to say about anything, these
days. Ever since Ed came back, rousing from his sleep with venom-laced mania choking through
his laughter, he's been quiet. Things have been quiet. It's uneventful in a way that borders on
unsettling, like they're all sitting on an open secret; a beach house built atop an active volcano.

Alphonse knows why, knows what Edward is doing, understands the mindset, because, to a certain
extent, they share it. He can't help, however, being unsettled by his brother's silence. They have the
same conversations every once in a while, periodically, and while it gets a little bit easier every
time, the comedown coming a little bit quicker to them both, things still bare repeating. Perhaps
they should just be glad that they're sane enough, alive enough, to be having these conversations,
but they've all but stopped talking about anything, now.

The three of them move in a synchronisation that borders on ballet, tending to the house, their
respective occupations, and Granny's slowly declining health in an understanding that has gone
entirely nonverbal, and as consequence, words are rarely ever needed in and around the house.

It's not peaceful. It's not tense. It's quiet.

A dry winter has come onto Resembool, and the waters haven't been quite enough. The sheep and
local crops are just about happy, but much of the grass has yellowed out, even before summer's
approach.

Perhaps the kitten knows there's water in the house, and that Alphonse is willing to give it.

It's a somewhat hot day. Alphonse is pretty sure this type of weather is more common in Creta -
dry and hot, the air thick with dust. It paints everything in a sandy yellow hue, though the trees are
healthy and green as ever. The wildlife has grown weary of the weather, too, flocking to the
forested area by the Rockbell home.

There's a thick, ozone-like smell in the air. It's been there for quite a few months now, like the sky
touches the earth in a small house in Resembool.

The cat, who Alphonse has just concluded to be a male, likes to play in the water he gives it. He
splashes in it, rolls around, licks it off his fur and rolls onto Alphonse's pants, staining them with
water and, rarely, mud.

When Ed first sees this, he rolls his eyes in silent amusement, huffs a good natured complaint, and
ruffles Alphonse's hair before trotting off to further fine tune whatever miscellaneous craft he's
delving into at that time. Once, he leans down to pet the cat, but otherwise ignores his existence.

Both brothers know, without having to so much as say it, that they're getting impatient.

There's much to do, much to see, much to experience, and help. Ed wants to go down and aid the
Ishvallan Restoration Project. Wants to go to Creta and Donbachi, Aerugo and Liore; his pen is
always flicking through his fingers, flickering in and out of solidity as the motion blurs it into grey
smudges. One of Roy's pristine notebooks has fallen open in his lap more times than Alphonse can
count, but nothing is ever written. Ed won't acknowledge it, but the General's birthday gift is
incredibly valuable to him, and he won't waste it on something unworthy.

They know what the worth is.

Neither of them want to be the first to say it.

Alphonse, though, knows exactly what he wants.

Ever since he and Mei have resumed their regular penpalship (thankfully, she has mostly let go of
any romantic feelings she may have once had towards him), a fire has been lit under him to know
more about alkahestry. The topic is limitlessly exciting, and the stark difference between
alkahestry and alchemy feels like he's learning an entirely separate field, which he isn't, but he is.
Mei has been pushing, recently, that he come over and learn from her and her masters, but there are
quite a few things that are stopping him from crossing that line just yet.

First of all, things are still delicate where they are. Now, they're learning to coexist, to permit
themselves to act as though the world is no longer at stake. News of the General's sharp, drastic
promotion while still out in the desert was a cause for celebration, but now, they've all sat down,
and had a solid think.

Alphonse can't leave Edward by himself to battle at the Gate.

Not that there's much he can do to help, but he refuses to leave Ed be haunted on his own.
Alphonse hasn't spent that much time at the Gate, and every circumstance has been pressing and
daunting, so while brother does claim he's gotten used to it, he's over it, and he's no longer scared,
Alphonse really would rather stick it out for him. Even though he's not lying. Even though Ed
 claims it's just holding him back.

As is, he'd like to enjoy normalcy a little bit longer.

Black cats and porches and beds and apple pies had been a pipe dream for five years, and though
they've been back for nearing two years now, Alphonse doesn't think he's quite ready to leave yet,
and brother isn't, either. Winry doesn't have it in her yet to see them off, either, so they sit, and
wait.

It's not all bad. It's not bad at all, really, but brother is silent, so Winry is silent, and he is, too.

Granny's breaths rattle more than they did this time last year, so maybe, they stay for that, and stay
quiet for that, too.

The cat buries itself in Alphonse's coat. It's just gone into March, so maybe he's still a little cold.
Deciding to stay a little longer, Alphonse curls his back in so the kitten is a little warmer. It's no
matter, really; he only has three letters and two parcels in his bag, and all but one are addressed to
the same person, so he can spare a few minutes to pet the sweet, friendly cat.

The General's birthday is in a little over three week's time, so he hopes his and brother's letters and
parcels will arrive on time. He has a letter for Mei in there, too, and it'll probably arrive quicker.

In his open hand, the cat stiffens, and his fur stands on end as he hisses into the unknown.

There's an owl there, hiding amidst the trees. Strange. Owls aren't supposed to be awake this time
of day.

Nevertheless, the cat hisses and complains, then the owl flies away to a different tree, and he
settles back into Alphonse's embrace, slipping into slumber.

Alphonse will give him a few more minutes before he gets up to continue with his day.

He doesn't really want to go to the post office, because he hasn't actually spoken a single word
aloud in three days, and he doesn't want to turn tail and go to the Rockbell house just yet. Despite
having lived there now for years, it doesn't really feel like his home.

Perhaps he and brother need to talk about that, too, when they talk about everything else, but
currently, Alphonse has nothing of much importance to say.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry my updates have fallen off a little, you all know how life is. Rest assured I have
every plan of finishing this thing!
In between uploads, if anyone wants to check out what other FMA;B fan content I
have, I have an IG fanart page where I post FMA;B, Sk8, HxH and occasionally some
other stuff @doom_weasel :>
 Those Weird, Weird People
Chapter Summary

Two of Layla's classmates are getting really good at alchemy.

Chapter Notes

A newcomer to Resembool learns there are certain things that her nose is better off left
out of.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Every week, like clockwork, there's this one boy with golden, long, flowing hair that comes down
to her father's shop at the market to buy either chicken, pork, or veal. He's very pretty, but Layla
can't seem to shake the feeling that there's something... unsettling about the guy. His gaze is too
sharp, too calculating; he looks like he's waiting for something to happen so he can react.

Layla's dad is of the mind that the boy is overall harmless. Layla is of the opinion that her dad
knows something she doesn't.

He's not the only one, too. When Mr. Hair Model isn't the one showing up, there's another guy,
who is absolutely related to him, there's no way he isn't, and he's way more polite, but a lot more
reserved. He's also weird.

Honestly, had it been for any other reason, Layla wouldn't have given a single shit. She has more
important things to concern herself with, such as grades, her boyfriend, and the fact that her dad is
trying heavily to persuade her to join the shop full time when she leaves school and she really,
really doesn't want to. Really, she wouldn't care at all, if it weren't for one little thing.

Two of Layla's classmates are getting really good at alchemy.

It's weird - none of them besides Eva haven't really shown any interest in it, and now, they're all
pros. It's super weird. Layla didn't even know Eva was interested in anything alchemy related, let
alone Yana, and now they're spending every single afternoon talking about it, or practicing it very
obviously on school grounds with a girl from a neighbouring class. They also wouldn't stop talking
about those two really pretty boys that have been helping them, and, well, pretty boys, right? But
then, they're also weird! Why is everybody weird?!

Mom and Dad told her that moving to Resembool would be good for all of them, and frankly, they
were right, but they didn't mention this entire town was filled with strange people. They were
normal, at the beginning. Then, like, a year later, those two gold-haired weirdos started showing up
(who even has gold hair?!), and everyone goes haywire.

So what if she's been partaking with some harmless sightseeing? There's nothing here to do, no
places to go, no interesting people to talk to, no places to shop. There's not much else to do here
besides look at sheep, help Dad at the shop, and watch these weird, weird people.
They, at the very least, seem interesting.

\\\

The beginning of it couldn't be described an innocent, per se, but relatively normal, considering
what came after.

"So, come here often?"

The boy in front of her clamps up, his face turning red instantly. It's cute; he's entirely unsure of
what to do, though she's seen him herself get hit on more than once.

"I, uh-" he stutters. "Yeah. Winry says that this place sells the best quality meat in all of
Resembool."

Aw, is he taken? Shame.

"Is Winry your girlfriend?"

At this, he breaks out of whatever spell he was under and chuckles. "No, she's kind of my brother's
future girlfriend. Kind of. It's complicated."

Yeah, whatever the hell's going on there, Layla's not getting herself thrown into that mix.

Layla folds her arms over the counter and rests her head there. "So why would she tell you to go?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "Well, we live at her house and she cooks our food most meals;
we might as well do the grocery shopping when she asks."

Layla blinks. "You and your brother live at your brother's future girlfriend's house?"

"Yeah."

"What about your parents? Her parents? Anyone?"

Instantly, Layla wants to shove her foot in her mouth. The boy's expression pinches, and whatever
light-hearted fun she had has been thorougly soiled. Without even considering it being a sensitive
topic for the boy, which, judging by his reaction, it is, that was a massive overstepping of
boundaries with a complete stranger.

Layla's cheeks feel hotter than they have in a good, long while.

"I'm so sorry I just said that! That was inappropriate and weird!"

The boy smiles at her, but it's still a little pinched. "No worries, I know it's a bit unconventional."

"Even so, I'm really sorry."

The smile turns a bit more genuine. "In that case, I accept the apology."

At that, her dad comes in.

"Ah, Elric!" He sings, clapping his hand on the boy's shoulder. Elric, apparently, smiles back and
calls her dad's name with equal happiness. Despite being a relatively frail looking boy, he doesn't
so much as budge under her father's strong grip. Must be used to it.

"Same as ever?" He asks.

"Nah, Winry says she wants a kilo of whatever your cheapest beef cut is."

Her father claps his hands, rubbing them together. "Ah, is money tight?"

"Nah, but she wants to save up; she needs to go up to East City to see a few clients, and then she
wants to swing by Rush Valley."

"Busybody as ever, then?" He turns away from both of them, pulling out his knife. "No worries,
kiddo. I'll give you the usual. Tell her the difference is on the house."

"You don't have to!" Elric protests, but it's too late: once Dad decides he wants to do something, it's
already over.

As Layla suspects, the cut is wrapped up and good to go before Elric can even finish talking.

"You really don't have to, " he says, and the tips of his ears turn pink.

"It's more than alright. Ever since she fixed up my boy's foot, I've been indebted. It's the least I can
do."

At this, Layla frowns. This Winry chick is the automail mechanic that made Ben's leg?

"Wait, how old are you?"

Elric startles at being addressed again.

"I'm, um, 15? I'll be 16 in a few months?"

"And how old are she and your brother?"

His fingers fiddle with the string tying the paper over the meat. "Brother is 17, and Winry recently
turned 17 too."

"A 17 year old girl built my brother's leg?!"

At this, Elric laughs.

"She built my brother's leg, too, and she was only 12 when she did that."

Huh?!

Layla's jaw drops, and unfortunately, by the time she managed to get it back in place to ask more
questions, he's already left.

Well.

At least there's one interesting thing to do around here.

\\\
"Where's the old man that usually works here?"

Without a doubt, this is the older brother in question. The two of them have the exact same colour
palette, nose, and freakishly good looks.

He's drop dead gorgeous, and Layla is practically salivating. Honest to God, fuck the automail
mechanic slash future girlfriend. Why are all the pretty guys unavailable?

"Dad's in the back. He's butchering a lamb, right now. It'll be a while. Whaddya want?"

His eyes narrow at her, swooping up and down, as if to take in what's in front of him. There's
nothing inviting or impressed in the look, no heat; he's not checking her out. He's sizing her up.

At least the brother is a lot nicer.

"You're from Central, right? But your dad used to live here."

Layla's brows raise. "How the fuck do you know that?"

He smirks. It's attractive, Goddamnit, but it's also annoyingly rude. "Your accents. You also look
way more bored than anyone around here ever does."

She scoffs.

"Can you blame me? What is there to do around here besides herd sheep?!"

Elric the elder scoffs right back. "After a while, you learn to appreciate it. I've spent way too much
time in Central City to be able to like it. Don't even know what you liked there"

Layla crosses her arms.

"Why can't you be as nice as your brother?"

His eyes narrow. "The hell do you want with Al?"

Layla raises her hands. "Nothing! Geez! Just wondering how a guy as rude as you and a guy as nice
as him could be so closely related!"

His eyes stay narrowed with that same frosted glaze for a few more seconds, then he seems to thaw
a little, slow but sure. "That's none of your business."

While he's not wrong, per se, there's a weird feeling in Layla's gut that tells her this is going to be
the only form of entertainment she's going to have in a very long while.

Dad comes back to the front and greets this Elric with the same exact fondness as he did the last
one, and his attention leaves her entirely.

She's gonna have to come at this with a different strategy.

\\\
Both Elrics are notably absent today. It's Tuesday, and they've been showing up every Tuesday
since Layla's been here.

However, like, half an hour after they usually show up, she sees Eva, of all people, stroll over with
a small paper note.

"Um," she says, not looking up from the paper, "I need, uh, one pound of ground chicken and-oh.
Layla?"

"Yeah," she drawls, getting up without even looking and heading for the grinder. "Let me guess,
you're here to order for the Elrics?"

From the corner of her eye, Eva blushes. So typical.

"How did you know?"

Layla pauses.

"Wait, really?"

Eva's blush darkens. "Yeah. They were super apologetic but they're all really busy right now so I
said it's alright."

Slowly, almost mechanically, Layla sets up the grinder.

"How do you even know them?"

Eva chuckles like there's a story behind it and seriously, is nothing normal about those two?

"Al teaches me alchemy."

Huh.

"Didn't take you for the type."

Eva raises her eyebrows in a way that's clearly inspired by the older Elric, but lacks the sheer
acidity in his gaze. Layla arches one of hers back.

Eventually, she breaks. "Okay, yeah. I never really cared about alchemy to begin with, but then my
sister got interested and I wanted to help her, then Al offered to teach me, and I said yes because I
thought he was cute-" Layla snorts. Hopefully it didn't sound mean. "After a while, I realised it was
really cool."

"Checks out," Layla says in between grinds. "Is he any good at it?"

"Honestly, he's absolutely amazing," Eva breathes, and there's an admiration in her voice that's half
way between starstruck and competitive. "The only person I know that's smarter than him is his
brother, but that's a given."

Layla chews on nothing for a few seconds. If she appears too invested, Eva might catch onto it,
then sell her out to them, and there goes the mystery.

"Why is that a given?"

"Do you realise who he actually is?"

Layla shrugs overly casually, though that was probably a misstep, because Eva outright laughs at
this one.

"He was literally a State Alchemist. The youngest ever, actually."

The chicken mince nearly falls from her hands.

"What?"

"Yeah," Eva purrs, "crazy, isn't it?"

For once, Layla is incapable of finding something to say. Her mouth falls open, but the more she
tries to push, the blanker her brain is.

"Wasn't he a fucking child?"

Eva nods. "We used to be classmates. He just, kind of, disappeared for a while, and a few years
back we learned that he's in East City, in the military. He was 12 when he got drafted. Hi, Mr.
Monroe!" she slyly waves at Layla's dad. "Winry said to put it on the tab!"

She really does spend too much time with the Elrics, Layla decides, because she, too, just dropped a
fucking bomb on Layla and then just left.

12.

12.

Layla was still wearing her hair in pigtails back then. Her younger brother's 12 right now, and he's
dumb as shit.

12?!

This calls for more information.

///

"Your brother is insanely over-protective of you."

Al, apparently, snorts.

"Oh God, what did he say? Whatever it was, I apologise on his behalf."

"Nothing too offensive," Layla grunts. Beef is a lot harder to feed through the mincer than chicken,
that's for sure. "I mentioned how you were way more polite than him and he went all what do you
want with Al?" This imitation, naturally, is accompanied by the harshest glare Layla can muster
and a low, ragged voice that has Al chuckling lively. "I'm sitting there like 'Geez, the hell did I do?'
but then he just left."

"That does sound like brother, yes. Can I have half a pound of that Turkey mince as well?"
"Yeah, sure."

They're silent for a few more moments, and Layla is just about to start digging for entertainment
when Al breaks the silence. "If it's any comfort, he's like that with basically everyone. I spent a few
years in a somewhat... compromised state, and he was the only one who could consistently have
my back."

Layla hums. "That's actually kinda sweet, then."

Al nods. "He would kill you if you said that to his face, though."

They both laugh. "He looks the type, yeah, with those bolts sticking out of his shoulder like that.
Why even get that done? Is that, like, a thing soldiers do to appear tough?"

Layla's only half paying attention, though, ringing up Al's total as he plucks through a few
condiment jars, but he's contemplatively silent for a few measures.

"Well, he had automail there for five years."

Layla pauses in her wrapping of the jars, because that doesn't make sense. Why would someone
have automail where they have a limb?

She voices the thought, and Al shrugs.

"Brother didn't actually have that arm there for a while, but then, he did, and now it's all good."

And then he just leaves! Like he didn't just say the most batshit fucking Layla's heard in her life!
His brother regrew an arm? The fuck?!

That's it; they're useless as a source. Layla needs some outside perspective.

Later in the day, after she and Dad close up the shop, she meanders around while he talks to Mr.
Brown, the owner of the shop two stops down.

"Daddy?" she asks, and her father's eyes brighten when he realises she's there. It's nice.

"Yes, princess?" he asks, as though she's 6, not 16.

"Who are those weird golden haired guys that come around here all the time?"

Her father and Mr. Brown lock eyes, and they both laugh.

"The Elric boys are very near and dear to our town, Layla."

Layla quirks a brow.

"Almost everyone in town knew their mother," Mr. Brown muses; the look in his eyes tells the tale
of a man lost halfway into his memories. "None of us were shocked when their dad up n' left, but
after their mother passed, we've been keepin' an eye out for 'em when we could. Then they went to
the military n' really, we just kept on hopin' they were alive every time, n' kept on hopin' 'til every
time they came back that there was someone keepin an eye on 'em."

Oh. That's...

Much as Layla likes to complain about her mom being overly serious and her dad being
overbearing, they're the only ones she has. There isn't a life Layla can picture without mom's news
reports and dad's loud, booming voice; the smell of meat at the shop and fresh coffee at home; how
mom always avoids asking direct questions and dad doesn't know any other way. By the way Mr.
Brown phrased it, they were young when they lost all of that.

Shit. No wonder the older Elric has that look in his eyes, so untrusting and hostile. He probably has
good reason to be, especially considering the fact that he used to be a bloody State Alchemist. Shit.
He didn't fight in Ishval, did he? No, he's too young, but he's got that look in his eyes that Layla
sometimes sees in her uncle, like he knows something nobody else does, and he didn't like
knowing it.

"Oh," she says.

"Their mother was a very kind woman. We left back when Ed was just a wee thing; you probably
don't even really remember living here, do you, Layla?" Dad has a look in his eyes that's equal
parts fond and sad. In retrospect, that's probably how the rest of Resembool views the two of them,
as well.

"Not really. I had no idea that happened."

"A lot of things go unsaid in places like these." Mr. Brown claps a hand on her shoulder. "You city
folk don't really understand it, because everyone's so far removed from everyone, but down here
we all know, but there's just not always gonna be a way to talk things out. You get it?"

Layla nods.

She doesn't quite get it, yet, but she's starting to.

///

The next time the older Elric rolls around (Dad said his name was Ed?), Layla is more prepared.

At least, she thinks she is.

"What meat freezes the hardest?"

Layla blinks.

"Huh?"

He rolls his eyes.

"I've got a pest in my house, and he hates eating meat. I want to find the stuff that freezes the
hardest, and chuck it at him."

"Beef," she says, because all business is good business, "who's the pest?"

All he does is gesture impatiently at the beef. Layla rolls her eyes, but wraps it up for him. It's a cut
with a bone. Hopefully she's not aiding the Fullmetal Alchemist in giving a random civilian a TBI.

"S'name's Ling. A guy who thinks he's my friend. Came all the way over from fucking Xing just to
pester me about my sleeping habits."
Layla laughs through her nose, a quick little exhale, because of course.

"Sounds about right," she says, and he actually laughs a little at that.

"I mean, c'mon." He tears into a bread roll with his teeth, "what do they put in the Yao clan's water
for this nonsense?"

God fucking damnit.

"Are you talking about Ling Yao? Future emperor of Xing?"

"Not future," he grumbles, but the sound comes out muffled through the bread. "Got coronated a
few weeks back. He came over 'cause he was pissed at me for not showing up, then decided to stay
just to pester me. He's not even the only fucking one. Fucking Mei Chang came with him, too, and
they can barely even stand each other!"

Ed doesn't even bother saying goodbye before he leaves, just continues ranting as he walks away.

She was so not prepared.

///

At one point, Layla's just minding her own bloody business when she sees Edward walk into a
bloody trash dump, hears a bunch of muffled curses, one bone-chillingly evil-sounding laugh, and
then he emerges, carrying a sandwich.

Does she even really want to know?

///

Math class is as boring as ever, and break is even worse.

As the new-ish kid in town, Layla only really has two friends - one who's not in town, and the other
is sick. People kind of turned their nose up at her when she first came, calling her a city slicker and
all that shit, and really, it was kind of lonely when she first came, last year, but now she's kind of
used to it. Everyone purposely doesn't pay her any attention.

So, in reality, no one can blame her for eavesdropping.

"I don't understand why you like the blond girl," Yana says, and she's drooped over the lunch table
she's sitting at like somebody's trying to paint her flowy, long, blond hair. Stupid beautiful
Drachman girl with perfect flowy hair.

"Winry?" Eva asks. Yana hums. "I mean, I'm not gonna lie, she's a little terrifying at the beginning,
but once you really get to know her, she's super sweet."

"Besides," their Xingese friend says, "she's only cold towards you because you won't stop flirting
with Edward."
Yana grins. "But it's so fun to annoy them both!"

"And you wonder why nobody besides Lee and I puts up with you."

The girl grins, completely unapologetic.

Interesting. Those three know the Elrics well enough to be invited to Al's brother's future
girlfriend's home and mess with their heads? Maybe, if she pays attention, Layla might be able to
figure some of the mystery out.

"She's actually super chill and fun once you get past the automail craze." Lee pulls a lunch box out
of her bag. Even from a table away, Layla can smell the food, and it smells divine. "Ever since I
started the internship with her, she's really let her guard down, and honestly, she's great. Super
funny, but in a casual way. There's a surprisingly large amount of things she's just entirely
indifferent about."

"Like Alphonse," Eva says. "I think that once you go through enough shit, nothing really ruffles
your feathers anymore."

"Absolutely." Lee slurps up a bite of whatever she has in there. "Look, she and I don't talk about
trauma stuff, but every once in a while she just drops the most wild shit in conversation and walks
away as if nothing happened."

Layla definitely knows where that came from.

"Alphonse has that habit, too." Yana straightens her back. "One day he was correcting something I
was doing and said to me 'you remind me of an old commander my brother served under. At the
very least, you haven't put either of us in prison yet', and then just asked me to perform the
transmutation again. Like, what?"

Lee snorts. "All three of them are probably like that. One day Winry had me working on this arm
for a Lieutenant, which is crazy enough, and I notice the plating comes off really easily, and when I
ask her why she says 'oh, this guy knew Ed, and copied his obnoxious habit of transforming his
arm into a blade and decided he wants to do the same thing, too'. He doesn't even have an automail
arm, though."

Yana and Eva both laugh.

"Like, seriously, I really like her and Al, but those people are the weirdest people I've ever met. Is
that what happens to you when you don't complete your elementary education?"

"I think," Eva says between chuckles, "that the key to friendship with any of them is to just keep
our noses out of their businesses, and if they decide to tell us something, then we just need to act as
normally as possible about it."

"Deal."

"Deal."

No deal, Layla thinks. Not a chance in hell.

///
When Edward shows up this time, Layla wants to see if she can push his buttons a little.

It's mean, sure, but he's so funny, and it's all unintentional.

"Your girlfriend send you over to get groceries?"

Edward freezes up, then his face turns red. He's getting so visibly angry a vein is popping in his
forehead.

This oughta be good.

"Excuse me?"

"Winry," Layla hums, "I'm asking if she sends you or if you go on your own volition. You don't
seem to be the type to enjoy grocery runs."

By the time his brain has rebooted, Dad's already packed up his order.

"You- I- Winr- mechanic- no, what, huh- why?"

"So, you aren't actually together?"

He sputters some more unintelligible things, his face turning bright red.

"Hmm; that's interesting." She runs a toothpick underneath her fingernails - there's something stuck
there and it's annoying her greatly. "My brother's been her client for quite a while now and he's
really taken a liking to her."

"Whu-NO."

"No?"

His eyes widen.

"Give me my fucking meat and let me go."

"But are you together or are you not?"

"HOW THE FUCK IS THAT ANY OF YOUR BUSINESS?"

Layla rolls her head backwards.

"It's not, I guess."

Over the last year, Layla's heard a lot about the Elrics, and a lot of it was subtly unkind. Everyone
loves those two, it's evident, but the way the townspeople speak about them is laced with this...
overly saccharine pity, and it's disgusting, to Layla, like honey residue attracting dirt on a table.
They don't seem like the kind of people who would thrive under pity. Layla sure as hell wouldn't
want it, had she been in their position.

As is, they really fall into the characters people describe them as. More often than not, she hears
stories about Edward being this rude, brash, hot tempered jerk - as many stories as she hears about
Alphonse being sweet, kind, and polite, and while Layla has no problem believing any of those
stories, she's also not naïve enough to assume that's all there is to it. Poking fun at him like this lets
her see a side of this weird, weird guy that's so much more... realistic. It's a mean, downright cruel
way of thinking, but if the dude survived being a State Alchemist at 12, then surely he can survive
a little bit of teasing.

"Leave me and Winry alone."

She grins.

"So you are involved?"

He grunts. "What. Is. It. To. You?"

I'm bored, she thinks.

"I just think it's cute. The whole childhood friends thing."

At this, he finally breaks.

"WHO THE FUCK EVEN ARE YOU?!"

Ah. Victory, at long last.

///

"Brother told me you asked about Winry."

Layla squeaks, but only because she's been caught off guard.

Town Square isn't Layla's usual choice for a hangout spot, if only for the fact that there's not much
to do there, but her military uncle is coming into town in a few weeks and Dad told her to get more
bedsheets for the guest bed and this is the only spot. If she's lucky enough, maybe he'll have met
the Elrics before.

As a testament for Layla's quick thinking, she regroups pretty fast.

"Is that what he called it?"

Alphonse scratches the back of his neck.

"Well, no, but I wanted to be nice."

Transferring both shopping bags to one hand, Layla lays the other to rest of her hip.

"I'm not very nice; there's no need."

At this, Alphonse does seem to tense a little, shifting his weight between both feet.

"Can I ask, uh, why you're asking so many questions?"

Admittedly, the motive has shifted. This time, almost a year ago, the theme had centred around
sheer boredom, but Layla can't honestly say that's all there is to it, now. Now, Layla thinks, there's
a different need behind it all. Layla's had a pretty good life up until now, and she doesn't get it, nor
want to, but the way people around here talk makes her sick. The guy standing in front of her is just
that - a guy. A weird one, at that, but not, like, a serial killer, or an alien, or some kind of
mythological being.

"I thought the way people talk about you two is weird," she settles for saying. "It didn't really
make sense to me, because you guys are, like, my age, but people here talk about you like you're
superheroes. I mean, had your brother stayed in school, we'd probably be classmates right now."

Mortifyingly, Layla feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment, because shit, this really is
embarrassing.

"I just wanted to see, like, the actual people behind the stories. I wanted to see something more
human."

Not all the truth per se; just most of it.

Alphonse does seem to untense at this, so Layla considers it a win.

"I think I can understand that. I've experienced a lot of things over the last few years that I had only
dreamed about only a short while before. It can be very disorienting, how mundane some things
can be, once they're so built up."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking," she says.

Nothing about any of you people could ever be called mundane, she privately adds; but, it doesn't
feel quite as snarky as before. Maybe just a touch appreciative.

"How about," Layla says, extending her hand, "we put all my weird behaviours behind and start
over, with a clean slate?"

Alphonse takes her hand in his. The grip is surprisingly strong.

"Sure," he says, "sounds nice."

///

"Got any new surprises for me this week?"

Al freezes in place, and his face pinches in confusion.

"What? No Xingese princes or princesses? No Fuhrers barging down your door? Nothing else
unusual?"

While she talks, Layla prepares his order. It'll be half a pound of veal and chicken legs, as it tends
to be when it isn't Turkey meat and beef, which he took last time. Al catches on quick, because he
laughs.

"I never know what to expect. Has the ever-mysterious Winry managed to build an entire body out
of automail and bring it to life? Did your brother transform the hand he didn't regrow into a gun
and shoot his commander? Have aliens been communing with you since birth? Does your brother
do card tricks with God?"

Alphonse laughs even harder, and outright wheezes at the last one.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry," he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "We must have confused you
terribly, haven't we?"

"Understatement of the year."

Alphonse brings out a fat wad of cash, counting the bills for last month's purchases and leaves a
small stack of cenz bills on the table. Jeez, this Winry chick is loaded.

He pauses, halfway through retracting his hand, and a mischievous smirk paints over his mouth.

"You weren't that far off on the last few," he whispers. "Well, two of them. Did you know that on
the day of brother's assessment to be a State Alchemist, he transmuted a spear from the floor and
nearly speared Fuhrer King Bradley in the face?"

Layla blinks at him and feels her brows rise to the sky.

Wordlessly, she walks to the side of the counter and lifts it up.

"Get in here and tell me everything."

He grins.

///

Without a shadow of a doubt, this is Winry Automail. She still doesn't know the last name, so
Winry Automail it is.

First of all, she's drop dead gorgeous, to the extent where it would only be right for her to end up
with somebody like Edward, but she carries herself with a grace that he sorely lacks. Breezing
through the market and greeting nearly everyone, people call after her almost like she's a celebrity
or the village princess, and she isn't covered up to her elbows in automail grease.

What tips Layla off the most, though, are her eyes when she draws closer. She's got the same crazy
in them the Elric brothers do.

Layla breathes deep. She's prepared. She's so prepared.

"Hi," Winry says, then pauses.

"Ben's your brother, right?"

Layla smiles.

"How'd you know?"

Winry gives her a once over, entirely inquisitive. "You have the same nose, jaw and hair, and you
hold yourself in a way that's similar to him."

"That'll be the fibrositis*," Layla says because if Winry's been treating her brother then she
definitely knows about that, and she's already setting up Winry's order when she feels this almost
burning need to impress. Does she make the order wordlessly? Does she ask her what recipes she
makes with the various meats the brothers bring home? Does she ask her where she got her earrings
from?

"That does make sense." Winry hums. She shifts a few bags from one hand to another, and the
actions calls to attention the impressive bicep definition in her arm. "Can you tell him to stop
nibbling on the screwdrivers? It makes the house angry."

Layla's breath catches in her throat while she's mid inhale, and it takes her a moment to release it.

"Why can't anything be normal around here?" she mutters to herself, then turns to look at Winry
again. "He does that?"

Winry looks as though the thought doesn't so much as phase her, which, all things considered, is to
be expected of her.

"Yeah. I've seen teeth marks on two of 'em, and he's the only possible one."

"Of course," Layla says, "because why not?" She slams her hands on her head, rubbing her
forehead. "Sentient house? Pre-natal automail engineer? My brother deciding to just shove metal in
his mouth? Of course. Why not."

She looks at Winry.

"You took a really good cut of pork belly. Wanna skip the apples and go straight for cyanide, too?"

Winry looks at her beatifically, blinking for just a few seconds, then her mouth wobbles.

One beat, two beat, three.

Then, she laughs.

Cackles, really, something breathless and slightly unhinged, right in the middle of the market.

"Ah," she says, wiping a tear out from under her eye, "I'm sorry about that. My house isn't sentient,
and your brother doesn't eat screwdrivers. At least, not that I know of." Winry's face has turned red
from laughter. "Ed just really, really wanted me to talk to you, and he said to say that."

"So, that was a joke?" Layla asks.

"Yeah," Winry confirms, "I'm sorry. He's been begging me to fuck with your head."

The corner of Layla's mouth tilts. "I don't believe you."

Winry's hand slows down as she puts the pork belly in her bag.

"You don't?" she asks.

"No." Layla's voice wobbles the slightest bit, and they both laugh. "I refuse to believe your house
isn't sentient until I have irrefutable evidence myself."

"Then isn't it great," Winry says, leaning her hand on the counter, "that we are both within walking
distance of the perfectly insentient house that you can see for yourself is entirely silent?"

Layla mulls over the idea for a few moments.

There are worse ways to kill off an afternoon.

///

"Are you sure it's alright that I took you away from work like that?" Winry asks.

They've been conversing for the last 30 odd minutes, and honestly, Eva and Lee were overall right.
Winry is a very pleasant conversationalist; their talk is light in a way that's obviously intentional,
but they're both having fun, Layla thinks.

Besides,

"I would rather be here, right now, yeah. I like smelling things other than cold meat for eight hours
a day."

At long last, Layla finally sees the house, and it's every bit as nondescript as promised. If anything,
it's a little weird that such a quaint, unassuming little house is the home for three such extraordinary
people.

"My uncle is in town right now, and he and my dad are always insufferable," Layla explains. "He's
total fun, my uncle, but I've seen so much of him lately that it's giving me a headache."

"Fair enough," Winry shrugs, reaching into a pocket in her skirt to fish out a set of keys. "The
house gets pretty noisy sometimes, which reminds me."

The door opens in an entirely unassuming way, and Winry sticks her head inside.

"Have you killed each other yet?" She yells, and three voices yell out from inside, and the last one
is accompanied by a laughter and a familiar drawl that makes Layla's head freeze for a moment.

No way. No fucking way.

Winry walks into the house, and Layla follows her.

It's a very picturesque living room, with a sofa, two loveseats, a coffee table, a few bookshelves
and a bunch of random knickknacks. Alphonse is curled up on the couch, laughing into the palm of
his hand, while Edward is half on the floor, half held up in the single most ruthless chokehold-
noogie Layla knows.

Sadly, she's seen this particular one quite a few times.

The man drops Edward in his confusion.

"Layla?" he asks.

Layla grimaces.

"Uncle Jean. Fancy seeing you here."

Because, of course.

Why not?
 Layla can't find it within herself to be surprised anymore.

She's also leaving Resembool as fast as she fucking can.

Chapter End Notes

For timeline purposes, chapters 14-16 all happened kind of simultaneously

*fibrositis is the old name given for fibromyalgia. the term fibromyalgia was only
declared in 1976.
 "Spar With Me."
Chapter Summary

Ed is keeping secrets. Alphonse knows most of them.

Chapter Notes

I love Alphonse I never give him enough POV

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Alphonse doesn't stay awake in the night anymore. Neither does Brother.

Finally, Alphonse has regained something that might be able to be considered a decent sleep
schedule, and he's not foolish enough to ask Ed if he's the same; he can almost smell the ozone
scent coming from his brother's room every night. Some of it clings to his skin, his clothes, in the
morning.

Winry hammers on into the night, sometimes even into the next day, but rarely ever do he or his
brother accompany her, anymore, and Alphonse would feel guilty if not for the fact that she's been
begging him to go to bed and get some sleep. Eventually, he caved in, and now sleeps a solid 9
hours a night. When he isn't woken up by night terrors or bad dreams, that is.

Alphonse comes to peace with the night terrors and nightmares by coming to the realisation that it's
just part of the human condition - it's not just apple pies and warm, fluffy pyjamas and kisses on the
head; it's bleeding, too, and hurt. All kinds of hurt.

Night terrors aren't the worst part.

Morning comes with the realisation that most of them are simply just rehashed memories.

Nina's face blends in with Rose's baby, the gravity of the deaths he and his brother caused as well
as just about everything else that has happened in the four years that followed his brother's
enlisting, and those mornings find Alphonse nestled into the couch with a cup of warm, honied
ginger and lemon tea. Mom used to make it whenever any of them fell ill; perhaps it's Alphonse's
way of broadcasting he needs to find solid ground once more, lest his mind float away from his
body in a way far less tangible, but somehow equally damaging.

This morning does not start with ginger lemon honey tea.

It starts with muttering from the next room over.

Edward has always had a more feral streak of insanity to him, as opposed to Winry's domestic
insanity and Mustang's war-torn nature (Al does not debate what genre of insanity he might fall
under - he only knows he belongs somewhere on that spectrum, as no one lives a life like his and
nearly 17 years with his brother and escapes sound of mind), but he is usually not the kind to
mutter nothings to himself. However, this morning, he is - he's pacing, as Alphonse can tell by the
uneven sound of his steps, metal clashing with a soft foot on a carpeted floor that most likely hides
an abomination beneath it that Alphonse will gladly ignore for as long as he can.

Brother mutters something, scrapes his fingernails on the wall, and then mutters some more. For
the life of him, Alphonse cannot figure out what Ed is saying, and for the most part, he's inclined to
ignore it.

Edward claps his hands once, twice, three times, before a loud, victorious ha! rings through, loud
and clear, and this is, unfortunately, his time to investigate.

Brother's sleep braid lays over his back, longer and thicker than ever, all frizzy and fly-away filled
after a night of undoubtedly deep sleep. He's facing his bed, Edward, and his hands are clapped in
the air. There's a slightly crazed look in his eyes when he turns to look at Alphonse, which,
honestly, checks out.

"There was a mosquito," he says, instead of good morning, sorry for waking you, how was your
night, or anything along those lines.

"There was a mosquito," Alphonse repeats, "In October?"

"Yes," Edward separates his hands, showing, shockingly, a small splatter of blood betwixt his
palms, as well as a nearly unidentifiable smudge of black.

"Huh," Alphonse says, "there's actually a mosquito here in October."

Edward groans. "God, I really hope they don't start popping up all year round. I hate them enough
in the summer already."

"Yeah," Alphonse says, "me, too."

The thought stays with him for the rest of the day.

Mosquitos in Resembool, in October.

Almost uncannily weird.

///

"Huh?"

Alphonse crosses his arms.

"You heard me."

"Actually, I didn't. I think I might've gone a little deaf. You want me to spar with you?"

Alphonse has been working on strengthening his body for two years now. Two years and three
months marks the Promised Day, and he's always prided himself on being a strong fighter, before.
Nothing should change that - the atrophying had been a setback, yes, but the body Alphonse has
now is stronger than it's ever been, and he wants to prove it to Edward, too, if only for him to stop
worrying about him already.
Ed's favourite pass-time, second only to trying to get himself killed, is worrying about Alphonse,
and it's almost as heart warming as it is annoying. Hopefully, if they do get to spar, Alphonse
would be able to show his brother that there's nothing to worry about anymore. As is, he's always
been the stronger fighter.

"Yes," he says, "I do."

Ed's brows pinch.

"Don't you think it's too early?"

Alphonse sighs, crossing his arms.

"Brother, in the time that has passed since the Promised Day, Mr. Mustang went from being a
Colonel to being first in line for the Fuhrer. I definitely think that I am ready."

Ed gnaws on the inside of his lip, giving Alphonse a quick once over, then his gaze sweeps outside.
Always on the lookout. Always calculating.

"Are you sure you're feeling ready?"

Poking at Brother until he does what Alphonse wants him to do is a delicate process; too little, and
Ed will only be mildly annoyed - too much, and he'll go do the opposite out of spite. It's a tightrope
that Alphonse has known how to talk for quite a while, though.

"Maybe you're the one who's not ready, brother," Alphonse grins as smugly as he can. "Maybe you
just feel weaker than you used to, and you don't want to admit it."

While his brother doesn't verbally acknowledge the words, his brow spasms. Alphonse is getting
there.

"You're trying to goad me, and it's not going to work," he forces through gritted teeth.

"I'm not goading you, brother." He flutters his eyelashes, trying to look as innocent as possible.
"Did Winry say something? Are you trying to be less aggressive with your leg so she doesn't yell at
you for it?"

"Oh, fuck this," he yells, slamming his hands down on the sides of the loveseat and getting up.
Success. "Winry can't tell me shit about what I do with my own fucking leg. Get your ass outside.
I'm beating it bloody and blue."

In a heartbeat, they're outside.

Both he and Edward are dressed in loose-fitting athletic wear, notably black and grease-stained on
Ed's part. They're quite a ways away from the house, if only for the fact that they don't want Winry
to interfere. She doesn't quite get it, their need to do these things, and while she respects their
differences enough to turn a blind eye, neither of them want to cause needless stress, so out in the
field it is.

Brother's stance is loose enough to be able to fool nearly anyone, but not Alphonse. Now that
they're here, there's a very thinly veiled excitement in his eyes, energy pulsing through his barely-
jittery limbs. He lost the spark in his eye, after the Promised Day was well and truly over, but right
here, right now, is the closest he's seen it to coming back.

In the beginning, Alphonse thought it was because of all the unspoken heavy weight between the
two of them, how the self deprecation blended into the guilt and terrors and laid a weight on his
brother's back that smothered out any traces of his lust for life. It was very worrisome, their first
year back, and for a while Alphonse was worried his brother would become nothing more than
another statistic the moment Alphonse or Winry turned a blind eye. The person, the young man
standing before him is not in danger of becoming a statistic, but there's always something in him
that's being held back. Winry claims it's because he's still weighed down by the past.

Alphonse thinks he's scared of the future.

Frankly, had their roles been reversed, Alphonse would have been vehemently disoriented. A life
without alchemy sounds, honestly, pretty terrible. Edward gave it up and claimed that he doesn't
even miss it, but of course he does. In a way, he traded a limb for a limb.

Neither of them want to admit it, but over the years, they've developed a flare for certain parts of
their old lifestyles; Alphonse likes sparring. He loves fighting with people who interest him, and,
more than all of that, he loves alchemy. Loves fighting against other alchemists. It reminded him,
back then, how alive he truly was, and that is something he sorely misses, and since they've done it
all together, he knows Ed does, too.

Therefore, it comes as no surprise that Ed is the one who throws the first hit.

Alphonse easily dodges, swivels sideways and launches his own attack.

It's light-hearted and half-intentional; they're way out of use, and still warming up.

Slowly, though, their scuffle turns more intentional - a punch, a hit or a kick turn harder, sharper,
faster, more intentional. They breath in quick bursts as sweat starts collecting on their temples, their
armpits; Alphonse has forgotten that shirts tend to snag like that, ride up the midsection, when he
fights.

It's exhilarating.

The last time Alphonse has sparred in a human body was with teacher, back when he was a child.

There are so many differences, it's startling.

Sweat, for one, has been pooling absolutely everywhere, despite it still being late April. Freshly 17,
Alphonse definitely sweats like a teenage boy, and he's momentarily caught off guard by the drops
leaking into his eyes. Edward uses that blip of a distraction to swipe his legs out from under him,
but Alphonse manages to save the fall, roll out of brother's way, and turn it into a strange, lopsided
tackle.

Breathing is another thing. It's significantly more difficult than he remembered.

Perhaps he needs to start going on runs.

Edward throws a kick with the metal leg, which is always slower, but a far more vicious hit.
Alphonse just about manages to dodge, but he trips on the landing and falls on his backside.

Immediately, predictably, brother starts fretting.

In between his beratement of Alphonse for pushing himself too hard and beratement of himself for
going along with it, Alphonse, watching from his vantage point on the dirt, laughs so hard he has to
clutch his stomach.
Whatever Ed was saying putters off into nothing as he stares at Alphonse in increasing
bewilderment, and maybe even slight worry.

"I'm alright, brother," he says between laughs, wiping the tears and sweat off his face. He laughs so
much, these days, that he cries of it. Wipes tears of joy and laughter off his face. It's everything he's
ever wished for and more. "That felt really good; I'm just rusty. I drifted off, thinking about how
I'm not used to sweat."

"If you say so." Brother bites the inside of his mouth again, but gives Alphonse a hand to get up.
He does, and notes that both of their grips are stronger than they were, even half a year ago. "You
better get focused. It's not a real win if you're not fighting, too."

A few minutes later, they start again, and the world melts into nothing but actions and sensations.

Alphonse throws an uppercut, and feels the resistance of the air on his arm and fist.

Edward kicks, and Alphonse jumps to dodge. He feels the impact of the landing in his knees, and
he doesn't rattle anymore.

Surprisingly, he's not any slower or quicker than he was, but what he is is more agile.

This is not the most difficult spar they've done - with how well they know each other, they spend
nearly as much time predicting each other's moves as they do actual fighting. Despite having
pushed themselves close to their limits, neither of them want to stop - Edward grunts more now,
and Alphonse pants, but it doesn't take away from the activity itself. Edward's agility nor strength
don't waver in any well-calculated strike, so Alphonse makes sure to follow his lead and stay
present. Alphonse's left shoulder twinges after a while, but it's such a minor thing that he elects to
ignore it entirely. Before doing that, however, he savours the sensation. Savours the burn of his
muscles, the way his lungs scream.

This, right here, feels right, and no matter what brother might verbalise, he knows Ed agrees with
him.

He looks at home, right now, with a silly little confident smile and narrowed eyes, his gaze
fluttering around but never losing that sharpness. He's giddy, Brother, but then again, Alphonse is,
too. Edward barks out a laugh, sometimes, and it's as reflexive as breathing.

There's one thing, however, that holds them back from truly letting loose.

Because Edward can't, Alphonse refuses to use alchemy during their fight, and they're both acutely
aware of this.

There's a few large boulders in the area, and every once in a while one of them will use one to their
vantage, but besides the occasional launch pad, they've thus far gone ignored. A few more rounds
pass before Alphonse gets an idea. Slowly, carefully, he leads them towards a spot between two
boulders.

Neither of them have managed to secure a solid win yet (embarrassingly, they've stopped twice by
now purely because they needed to catch their breath), but Alphonse has an general idea that just
might guarantee him a win. Thankfully, Edward seems to follow him unquestioningly, but, maybe
he has a plan of his own, too. Alphonse wouldn't put it past him.

The coarseness of the rock is palpable even through the sole of Alphonse's shoe.

With every bit of strength left, he launches himself into the air.
Folding his legs blocks his field of vision entirely, so there's a gamble here that has to pay off.

When he comes down, he hooks his leg around Ed's shoulder, dragging him down and onto his
front.

At least, he tries to.

In the descent, the strangest thing happens. Brother, who looks as though he's been expecting this
move the entire time, claps his hands, once, almost instinctively, and grabs onto the boulder to his
right. What happens next is a bit unclear to Alphonse, because he can't bloody see any of it, and
then, Edward's latched onto the boulder, and Alphonse's on the floor behind him.

"Did you just..." he asks, and trails off.

Alphonse gets up, dusting himself sides and back off. When Edward lets go of the rock, he sort of
stumbles onto the ground himself, but he doesn't fall. There's a ledge on the rock, where Ed gripped
on just seconds prior, but Alphonse could swear it wasn't there before. It's small and subtle, a few
centimetres long and entirely natural in shape; there's no transmutation marks, which would
confirm the entirely impossible option of his brother having done something to it, but it's very
clearly there, and perfect shape for him to grab onto and shake Alphonse off his shoulder and back.

"Don't know what you're asking me, Al," brother whistles, "I get that you're salty you lost."

Alphonse frowns, but not at his brother's tone or words.

"I never saw the ledge."

It makes no sense for there to be one. Alphonse had been studying those rocks for nearly five
minutes while they fought. There's no way of it having been there that he didn't see.

How could there have been a ledge he hadn't planned for, hadn't seen?

"I guess you just miscalculated." Brother shrugs, taking a swig from his water bottle.

Alphonse does the same, but his mind is very far away.

"I guess so. Let's take a few minutes of rest and go for another round."

They spar for the rest of the afternoon, and no such similar abnormalities happen during that time.

It's almost enough for Alphonse to put the thought to rest, if only for the fact that it jars another
thought out from a long, deep rest.

///

Some odd collection of months ago, an old memory surfaced, and though he had encountered in it
an incredibly valid, pressing question with previously unencountered circumstances and
consequences, he has left it, unanswered, to gather dust in the back of his mind.

Why were there two Gates when he saw his body again?

Recently (and by recently, he means a year ago, then buried and resuscitated), he's been going over
the thought.

Why had Edward been able to achieve alchemy through him? And perhaps, though less pressing -
why did he stop?

The last few days have seen Alphonse pouring over alchemy textbooks far beyond his regular
scope, in hopes that maybe, maybe, there'll be something of value in them, but there never is.
Winry has been offering him cups of tea to keep his hands occupied, and before he knows it, he's
back to pulling late-nighters again, but, this time, not for lack of choice.

At least this time he's been consulting Edward. His brother genuinely seems to have no idea about
any potential cause, and two of those long nights were spent with his brother by his side,
brainstorming like old times, but as he lacks the night owl abilities to function on very little sleep
like Alphonse and Winry, the two of them have teamed up to drag him to bed at 10pm. For the
most part he goes unresistingly, though Alphonse catches glimpses of Ed's characteristic insistence
of beating himself down at every occasion he hasn't risen to superhuman extents to help his little
brother out. One day Alphonse will be able to get him to stop doing that, but it isn't any time soon.

Five days since their spar, Alphonse's thoughts tend to circle the same exact topics, over and over
again.

The scent of ozone, filling the house.

The rock's unexpected ledge.

Ed's subconscious clapping.

Xing.

The double Gates.

Somewhere, buried deep within the universe, is a thread, spider-web thin and equally beautiful,
shimmery and fragile, tying all these things together; but the thread has travelled far and wide,
tangling itself and sticking to as many things as possible - Alphonse gets so side tracked in his
efforts of detangling that he can never find his way back to the big picture, following the strand
like a lost child guided by rope, leading into the dark forest of the cosmos. He cannot see back and
he cannot see forward - there is only faith to keep him going, and Alphonse, as previously
mentioned, is a man of science. There's no way any one person can undo this entire mess on their
own, but if there exists one duo that would manage to unravel it, surely, it would be Alphonse and
his brother.

For two years, but also eight, now, and maybe even 17 and 18, they have been going at it, tying
their darndest to figure it out for themselves. Dad had started the process, some odd four hundred
years ago, and Alphonse has only now realised he wants no part in that.

He has no need for his father's old ideas. They've followed his footsteps enough by creating a grief-
induced monster. He and his brother can find out on their own, without having to create more
misery.

There are pros to doing the process by themselves - he and Ed have begun the detangling from
their own points, their own issues and perspectives, and in some places, the spots they have
detangled have met, and their hands made contact with each other through the dense mass of thin,
delicate string, before parting ways once more and delving into the depth of knots, tangles and
inexperience; many questions have been answered, but far, far more remain.
Most of those questions will not even be discovered during their lifetimes, and that is okay.
Someone else will pick up the thread for them.

For now, however, they continue to work.

Days and nights exchange places while Alphonse is hard at work, and though Edward sleeps
through the night, now, and doesn't at all discuss his more recent visits to the realm of the Gate, the
set of his shoulders over the last handful of months speaks volumes of what actually happens. It
speaks of smug accomplishment, and that is enough to let Alphonse know he also wants no
business in that, at the very least until he has to have some. Whatever his brother does that leaves
him smug in the face of God is surely nothing promising.

He doesn't realise his eyes are closed until a hand shakes him from his daze.

Winry's gaze is a fondly amused one, lit even more softly and warmly by the light of the ochre-
toned lamp Alphonse had been reading under.

"I think it's time we both go to bed." Her voice is gently quiet, though Granny's worsening health
prevents her from waking up easily, and Edward, as they know, is not present.

Nevertheless, Alphonse is grateful.

"Have I stayed here as long as you've been working?"

"It's just gone past two."

Yawning lightly, Alphonse closes the book he was reading after bookmarking it carelessly, and
accepts Winry's open hand in getting up. She doesn't need to support him anymore - his body is
strong enough to handle being pulled around, and even some roughhousing, too.

Still, as they walk up the stairs, they maintain a closeness that Alphonse needs, cherishes. Never
again will he ever feel cold, when he has so many wonderful people in his life that are close
enough to help keep him warm.

"You know that when you two get together, Brother will absolutely not have it with you staying up
so late every night?"

Winry snorts, but tries her best to keep it quiet.

"Absolutely. He'll probably tell me it'll give me pimples, or something like that."

They mutter to each other and themselves before reaching the bedrooms, giving each other one
light pat on the back before heading into adjacent rooms.

Alphonse, for the very first time in 8 years, dreams.

Thankfully, it does not seem to be the out of body experience that brother so often encounters in his
sleep, but rather a regular dream; something he doesn't even register to be not entirely real until he
is already amongst the waking.

He dreams of entering the Gate, again, but encountering nothing on the other side. His brother is
there, then, suddenly, bloody, bruised, grinning and 16 years old, then he runs through the Gate.
HIs own Gate, on the other side of Alphonse's own, which is also there, sturdy behind his back.
Brother's Gate looks different and identical at the same time.
 Even in dream form, Alphonse tries his best to be a good brother, so wherever Ed goes, he follows.

The descent through the Gate is not the harrowing experience he had the first time. Really, it feels
like a vortex of nothing has rearranged his atoms to and from nothing, broke down the components
down to the protons, and spat him back out right where he began, at the foot of his own Gate.

Seconds before waking up, Alphonse can feel Truth everywhere - inside him, outside, on every
stretch of plane he can see. Most importantly, though, he can feel where Truth is not, and it is this
sequence of realisation and thought that rouses Alphonse from his sleep.

The matter is urgent, stays urgent, important on Alphonse's tongue, though generally unhurried.

Meandering through breakfast and small talk, automail and alchemy and picking up Granny's
newer medication is something Alphonse does without so much as a second thought.

It feels inevitable, though, that Ed knows something is up.

He always does.

When Alphonse returns from fetching Granny's medicine, Ed is alone in the living room.

Well - turns out they're doing this now.

Alphonse doesn't mind - with the dream fresh on his tongue, he's pretty sure he's unravelled a
rather important piece of Ed's part of the tapestry. Or, at the very east, begun doing so.

Therefore, when he sees his big brother, his sigh is more so about habit than exasperation, and
once putting away the medicine has been done, he sits down in front of his brother, pulling his legs
in.

"I have an idea," Alphonse says, and they both smile. The bags under Edward's eyes have become
so minor, they're barely even there, and he's still so tired, but there's excitement in his body
language, too; his gaze flickers around, and his hands jitter. "Let's talk."

Chapter End Notes

One final push guys - we've reached the beginning of the end :)
 Super Concrete Planning Skills
Chapter Summary

Ed and Al reach some important conclusions, then one asks the other for a favour. It's
an important one.

Chapter Notes

CW for discussions of genocide and suicide ideation, contemplation and attempts of

long-term execution, I guess? It's all in the first scene but it's basically the entirety of
the first scene.

In my head, I had the fourth FMA;B intro playing in my head (Period by

CHEMISTRY) during the closing part of the chapter if it helps set the scene

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Five days prior to the equivalence

When Ed finally decides to approach a topic of conversation, he does in one of two ways: an
avoidance so intense it can barely be considered an approach, or direct, if albeit awkward,
confrontation. A skittish cat or a raging bull.

"So," he half says, half burps, and whatever this is, Alphonse already knows it's not going to be
good. "What are we gonna do about Mustang going to kill himself?"

Alphonse sighs. Raging bull, it is.

By the time Mr. Havoc brought the topic up, by accident and quite inebriated, Alphonse and his
brother had more or less guessed that the concept of indirect suicide was on Mr. Mustang's mind.
Ishval had left many scars on the soldiers that served, and even when he first met them at the ripe
old age of 11, Alphonse knew that something was up.

In a way that reminded Alphonse of himself and his brother, some people in the military had
slightly disproportionate reactions to some things. Captain Hawkeye would often go silent at the
sound of a bell tower, stiff and unyielding as stone. Mr. Hughes, when he was still among the
living, had an aversion for guns that bordered on detest, and of course, Mr. Mustang has a long,
long list of things that he can no longer tolerate, after Ishval. Alphonse's never known how to
describe it, but Roy, Hawkeye and Edward get these... detached looks in their eyes sometimes.
Their bodies are present but their minds are so far away; there's nothing to tether them down to the
earth.

Mr. Havoc had told them not to tell anyone, and that the General and Hawkeye had kept it a secret
from everyone, including Havoc himself, and he had told them because, and he quotes, "if there's
anyone that can get those fucking dumbasses to not kill themselves, it'll be you two," then refused
to elaborate. He had quickly gone unintelligible for the rest of the night, and the next morning, he
apologised for anything he might or might not have said the night before with a look in his eyes
that told Alphonse that he knows exactly what he said, and does not regret it.

It's alright. If there's anything the Captain and the General have taught him, it's how to
communicate through code.

So far, it seems that the General's plan, once he finishes climbing through the ranks, is to instate a
democracy, and have both him and the Captain tried as war criminals. It's a cruel, cold, grim fate
and it makes Alphonse's very soul shrivel to think of the two of them not being in his life anymore.
He's already lost far too many people to be able to add them to that list. It's too soon. Out of all the
time he's known them, so little of it was spent sans the urgency of determination and fear - he
needs to learn the comfort that Mr. Mustang so keenly offers whenever he's around. He hasn't yet
had enough head pats and cuddles and soft conversation with Hawkeye over tea. The mere fact that
brother is the one who is initiating the conversation shows he feels the same. There's nothing more
to it - they have to do something.

"I don't know, brother."

Ed sighs. "That's not really helpful, Al."

Alphonse groans. "I don't know what you're expecting me to say. I don't have some sort of magic
solution for everything!" His voice catches on the last few words, and it's embarrassing, but only
because it reflects how helpless he feels about it. He's not used to feeling quite so helpless.

Edward slumps at this, then slings an arm over Alphonse's shoulder to tug him closer. Alphonse
goes willingly, and finds himself slumped into his brother's side, tucking his shoulder underneath
his brother's armpit and resting his head on Ed's shoulder. He has a few bolts there, and a larger
amount of muscle than Alphonse quite expected, but it's comfortable nevertheless.

"Sorry for saying that."

"Sorry for snapping at you."

Alphonse smiles grimly. At least, the two of them are a little bit better at communicating, now.
Small victories.

"It just fucking sucks that they're going to do that," Brother groans, then leans his head on top of
Alphonse's. "We just need a plan. I mean, we have at least until they're done with the Ishvallan
Restoration Project, because I'm fucking sure the second they comes back, that Grumman bastard
will hand off the job to him, but I don't know if the project will be done in one month or five
years!"

Another sigh. "It'll take longer than a month."

Edward groans then hits Alphonse in the side. "Obviously, dumbass. What I mean is that we don't
know how much time we have, so we need to come up with a plan now as opposed to later."

If it were an easy a matter as simple self deprecation, it would be a much simpler issue to solve.
But, as brother once put it, had he done half the things the two of them have done in Ishval,
Alphonse's not sure he'd have been able to live with himself either. As is, there are things Alphonse
has done that haunt him every single waking moment. There's no need for reminders - all he had to
do, for quite a while, was simply exist in his current form, and it was a stark enough reminder of
the atrocities he had committed that he would simple freeze in place. At this moment, he's grateful
not to have been old enough, to not have been in their shoes - he, himself, could not handle it had
he done something as vile; couldn't have lived with himself after knowing the his hands are stained
with the bloods of thousands; tens of thousands; hundreds of thousands, even. Fact of the matter is,
Alphonse has to reconcile the man who has put his life and career on the line, countless times, to
protect him and his brother, with the man that has looked crying, pleading families in the eye, and
tore them to shreds, forever. He is the reason an entire nation of people know and fear the scent of
burning flesh. No, Alphonse would not have been able to handle it. He would scrub those
bloodstained hands skinless every night. The shame would fester in his flesh and make itself
home.

But still, he and his brother are selfish. They cannot let go of the two of them. Alphonse hadn't
even dared to entertain the thought until rather recently, but the way Mr. Mustang, or Roy, as he
allows them to call him, has been behaving in a way that could almost be considered... paternal.
His friend in Ishval refers to him and Ed as Roy's boys, and the thought feels nice in Alphonse's
stomach.

He wants to be somebody's boy. He wants him and Ed to be Roy's boys.

But they can't be, if he's dead.

That does, however, bring forth an idea.

"Maybe," Alphonse says, and the word barely slips through his mouth, "we can come up with ways
to make them... not cancel it, for sure, but delay it indefinitely."

By his side, Ed shifts a little. Intrigue dictates his body language and tone. "Huh," he says. "What
do you mean?"

Alphonse takes a few moments to carefully choose his words. "I mean that maybe, if we can find
something that's important enough for him to want to be there himself, he won't do it yet. Like, 'I
can't die before this thing happens'; am I making sense?"

"And then we just keep doing more things so he keeps on not being able to die?"

Alphonse nods.

Ed's arm slips away from Alphonse's shoulders as he takes a moment to look at him. Something
hard settles on his face, warring with something desperate. He thinks they're both rooted in grief
and love. They've had enough dead people to last a lifetime.

"Think that'll work on him, maybe, but not on Hawkeye."

"I don't think it matters," Alphonse admits, "because she wouldn't ever kill herself without him.
They're supposed to die together. She's going to catch on way before he does, but she won't say
anything about it."

"Because she knows it'll be pointless," Ed finishes the thought, "because he wouldn't be able to go
through with it anyway."

The smile on his brother's face is easily the worst one there is; it's bitter, resigned, and so, so sad. A
determined sort of grit pulls at the corners of his mouth, rather than the joy or laughter that should
be. Alphonse was naïve enough to hope they'd be able to leave those kinds of reversed displays of
emotion in the past, then head towards a tomorrow that doesn't have that pain, but the more
Alphonse progresses, the more he realises the only thing he will accomplish by unrooting the tree
will be to plant it on its head - the branches will grow to roots and the roots to branches, functional
enough to exist, but that's about it. There is no use to hope for a future that is based on some
childish whim, rather than working the present they have into a future worth bringing new life into.

He supposes, maybe, that this exact aspiration is what Roy has dedicated his entire life for.

It's an understandable cause, at least.

"Yes, that's exactly what I was thinking." Alphonse claps his hands, then rubs them together. "Off
the top of my head, I can come up with you and Winry's weeding-"

"Shut up."

Alphonse grins. "-and potential grandkids. Unless something drastically changes, I will not be
doing any of that, so I need to find something I can do that will help lengthen the mission."

Edward groans, and Alphonse giggles, but then they straighten up again.

"Help set something up in terms of trade with Xing. Maybe something to do with alchemy and
alkahestry. Could fit in with your end of our project nicely." Edward's not looking at him, but his
gaze is unfocused - a tell that the gears are well and truly running. "It'll be good for you, the
Bastard, and that Chang girl. While trading routes for comm goods are easy enough, the fields of
alchemy and alkahestry are everchanging and developing as science advances. You can't drag the
construction of the program out forever, but you can bullshit your way through making it way, way
longer. Before you'll be even half-way done with that-"

"-You and I will also have come up with new things to add to the list."

Without even looking, they high five.

"Ace." Edward gets up, stretching his legs. "I can't fucking believe that even after I've left the
military, I still need to work my ass off to make sure that dumbass General doesn't die."

Despite himself and the topic of conversation, Alphonse grins. "I guess some things never change."

Ed laughs. "Damn right."

While they do, eventually, move on with their respective days, Alphonse can't help but mull over
the thought more and more. As they both lay the groundwork for their respective endeavours and
travels, the feeling of familiarity washes over him in waves. Their house has a proper skeletal
structure, now, and most of its walls, too, and though it will spend a large amount of time generally
unused for the next few years, it's a gracious feeling to know there is a home, especially for the
two of them, to return to. Much like the house, an ever-moving goalpost of things to be complete,
he truly does hope Mr. Mustang will be around long enough to be able to stand by their side, just a
little longer.

Alphonse understands his thought process, he really does.

He just can't help it, knowing just how dearly he would miss the man should he die.

It would get just a little too lonely.

///
Three days prior to the equivalence

Winry seems to have realised something is amiss.

None of Alphonse's other friends have realised something is up - though Eva and Lee have begun
spending a bit more time at the house, they are blissfully unaware of most of what actually goes
down in their lives. No, it's down to Winry, Mr. Mustang and his team, and him and Ed to figure
things out for themselves. They have carved out a nook for themselves in the world, and made it
their own. For better or worse, there is so much love in Alphonse's life that he doesn't know how he
could have ever managed without it.

Their friends in Xing are aware of Ed's predicament, but not his idea, or solution, and it will most
likely stay that way until he is on the other side of it. Until he never has to see the Gate again. At
this point, Alphonse is pretty sure he is the only one, besides Ed himself, who is actually aware of
the happenings inside the Rockbell house, and it makes him... almost giddy. He and his brother
against the world, again, but not really. It's an even better version of that.

Always one or two room away, Winry listens in on their alchemy-related talks or rambles with the
slightest of smiles on her face; enough to let Alphonse know she's paying attention, but not to the
extent where she's prying. Respect and communication are a gentle sway in the wind, like blades of
barley in the summer breeze. There are certain things that needn't worry Alphonse any longer.

At the point where they all are, most things go unsaid, but not unacknowledged, anymore. It's a
new stage of growth, ever-regenereating, like adulthood itself. It's cherishable, really.

But, still, Winry does seem like she needs to talk; or, maybe, just to be reassured.

She chooses to approach it in the kitchen, while brother is out practicing and dinnertime is
approaching steadily.

"You guys sure seem up to something," she says, her tone overly casual and her shoulders
purposefully lax. "Am I going to wake up in a week's time and find out that Ed's limb count has
gone down to one?"

Alphonse mulls over the question while he chops up sweet potatoes and carrots.

"We're... patching up some things. With the war and everything going on-"

Winry sucks in a breath.

"-there were things left to the wayside. There was just so much going on that we just had to focus
on keeping everyone alive, and deal with anything else later. Later is now, I guess."

By her peaceful humming and resumed preparation of the meat, Winry finds the answer acceptable.

"In that case," she says, "I'm glad that you've lived long enough to be able to get to the 'later' part."

Alphonse stops in place.

He's stopped chopping stew vegetables, holding onto the counter with a white knuckled grip that
does nothing to subdue the sudden onslaught of tears.
Though he was the one to put it that way, he never actually thought about it in those terms until
Winry was the one to put them out there. He made it. Brother made it, too. They've reached the
'after' part, where they get to just... exist. They live a peaceful enough existence to have the
privilege to be able to right their wrongs, and the best part is that now, they have an entire lifetime
to do so. No longer is Alphonse running on borrowed time. No longer does he forcefully exhale
from a metal suit just to remind himself what breathing is. He's standing in the kitchen, chopping
vegetables that he'll get to taste, talking from his sternum instead of God knows where, feeling the
counter under his grip and Winry's hand on his back, and it's something he'll be able to do for the
rest of his life now.

Alphonse is privileged enough to feel the lighting-like crackle of alchemy sore through his chest,
down his arms, and into the earth. He gets to hug the people he loves, and feel the blood trickle
down his body when he fights someone really difficult. He gets to experience this, now. He gets to
have this for the rest of his life.

His little notebook, chock-full of experiences, foods, smells and sensations is half crossed out by
this point. He wants to go to Xing. He wants to see his brother transmute again. He wants to learn
alkahestry, and he wants to do it to help people. He wants to help so many people that his sins by
this point will be far outweighed by all the lives he will positively impact. He wants to extend his
gratitude for all the love he's been given by this point in his life, and now, he has the rest of
eternity to do so.

It doesn't matter that right here, right now, he's in Winry's house in Resembool, and not somewhere
grand, like fresh off the battle field in Central, or out in Xing, or, even, deep in battle with Pride
and Kimblee. Right now, right here, Alphonse feels alive for the first time in years. It only took,
God, two years and counting, since Alphonse's reunited with his body, but for the love of all things
sacred, he's feeling it now.

"Yeah," he sniffs, and when he smiles, he feels, for only a moment, years and years of grief wash
off his shoulders. "I guess we really have."

Hugging is fun and nice. Hugging Winry is also fun and nice. She's basically his closest friend in
the world, so he does feel comfortable enough around her to sink his face into her shoulder while
her hands rub circles on his back, and they're close enough to feel the comfort but not so much that
it suffocates.

Later, Alphonse will apologise for gripping so harshly onto her sundress that it bunches under his
hands and wrinkles, and she'll dismiss him with a warm, fond sigh, but as of right now, Alphonse
can only focus on the indulgence of simple contact on a Wednesday afternoon. It's just past
sundown, so closer to evening, really, and thankfully, it's cold enough that the body heat doesn't
prickle at his skin. Winry is very nice. Hugging is very nice. Thankfully, Alphonse does get more
hugs and casual contact these days, but right now, with the relief coursing through him in waves,
there's nothing better than this moment, right now.

The sound of the door opening does cause him to stir a little bit, but Winry's hand stays firm on the
back of his head, so he stays put.

Brother says something, and Winry says something; Alphonse isn't really listening, so he doesn't
catch on. Ed's tone sounded a bit distressed, but now it doesn't. Then, he laughs, and Winry lets go
of Alphonse with one of her hands, and now brother is part of the impromptu group hug, and
maybe, the moment that couldn't have gotten any better, did.

After all, there's nothing better for Alphonse than celebrating his achievements by his brother's
side.
While he cries into his brother and his best friend, time trickles on. Minute by minute, until it's a
little darker than it was when he first started crying. It's no matter, though - they can start dinner a
few minutes late.

They've got time.

///

Some time prior

Later into the evening than Alphonse would like, he is wide awake and restless.

There's no given reason why, so he decides to use this time to be productive.

One issue bubbles up to the forefront of his mind; one that, in the spirit of his little breakdown two
days prior, was deemed unimportant in the face of saving the world, and then, acclimating to his
new life.

Brother doesn't really smile like he used to, and Alphonse is pretty sure that it's because he misses
alchemy.

There's no use digging into the thought more than he already has, because it brings all of them
pain. Brother smiles and laughs and goads and snarks like he did a few years back, all without the
distinct gleam in his eyes that used to be there almost all the time. The transformation could be
attested to maturity - a happier individual on average, but lacking those peaks of joy that culminate
in a spark - but Alphonse knows better. He's content, but stuck having barely reached his glass
ceiling, now with his feet chained to the floor. Surely, the knowledge of just how far he was
capable of coming sans the one handicap he still has must sting.

Alphonse doesn't think that his brother resents him, or himself; maybe Truth. In the end, he thinks
brother finds giving up his alchemy to be a worthy sacrifice.

That doesn't mean Alphonse's made his peace with it.

Deep down inside, Alphonse is scared it's going to separate them. With Ed's heart calling to Creta,
to Donbachi, to Aerugo and Ishval, and his own heart calling out to the alkahestry in Xing, he's
deeply afraid this is where their paths will diverge for good. That perhaps, his future capability of
two forms of transmutation while Ed has none will drive a wedge between the two of them that
distance will only sink deeper. Perhaps the distance will pull them apart in its entirety, and the
chasm that threatened to form when they first performed their atrocity was held back only by their
linked transmutation circles; now, that they will sever those, too, there will be nothing to hold them
back from drifting apart.

Alphonse can feel it in his gut - his apprehension, his fear. He doesn't want to be left behind, and
doesn't want to leave his brother behind, but he doesn't know what the future past tomorrow will
hold for him, and, at this current moment, he doesn't want to find out.

His thoughts carry him down to the physiotherapy room, where Brother is already hard at work.
There's not much use mentioning it, but brother hasn't actually needed to do so much work in quite
a while, and these days, has carried on from practicality to strength training. He's probably sturdier
than most of Mustang's team now, and could probably give Mr. Mustang himself a run for his
money.

Strong enough to execute extensive travels on his own.

They train in silence, the both of them, cycling through the same exercises, but in entirely different
weight brackets. At the very least, Alphonse can lift normal human weights now. Has a normal
human fat content. He looks, for the most part, as though nothing particularly traumatic has
happened to his body. It feels that way, too, now that he's gotten over the atrophy.

There are a few things, though, that he hasn't quite gotten used to. He doesn't get a lot of
mannerisms, more fine motor skills can sometimes fail on him, at random; he still likes the rain and
cold and blood a little bit too much. Can't control his expressions too well, if brother's hurried
glances at him between reps are anything to go by.

It's getting pretty late in the evening, though.

There's not much else to look at.

After a while, Alphonse goes on a water break, and brother rises from his seat with a tired sigh, too.
He passes by Alphonse in his quest for water and ruffles his hair, and Alphonse thanks his lucky
stars he doesn't choke on the water he's drinking.

"Stop overthinking shit," Ed grunts, the slams down on the bench beside Alphonse, slinging one
arm over his shoulder while he snatches up his own water bottle with the other. "Whatever it is
that's troubling you, it's not gonna be as bad if you share it and we work on it together."

Alphonse smiles, capping the water bottle. He burps, and Ed snorts.

"A bit hypocritical coming from you, no?"

Brother shrugs, then grins.

"I try my best."

At that, Alphonse snorts, then lolls his head back so it rests on his brother's arm. He takes the next
few moments to choose his words carefully.

"Promise you'll keep me posted about all your travels and discoveries?"

Edward twitches, then groans.

"You're a fucking idiot," he says. "I'm going to call and write to you over every little thing. There's
not gonna be a cool rock you don't know about. Nothing's gonna get in the way of that, y'hear me?"

While Alphonse does, admittedly, feel kind of stupid, he mostly feels relieved. Ed's right - nothing
short of death itself would be able to tear them apart.

"Loud and clear," he says, then slumps forwards. "I'm getting pretty tired. I think I'm gonna go to
bed."

"Wait," his brother calls before Alphonse manages more than two steps.

Alphonse turns around.

His brother is stiff, but not out of awkwardness, or shame. Clearly, he's holding himself back, but
there's something in his eyes that's different, yet so familiar it makes Alphonse's heart skip a beat,
like missing a single stair but being caught before he plummets. He looks... giddy.

"I have a favour to ask of you, but only if you're willing."

He chokes on a breath.

"Today? Right now?"

Ed hums.

"Huh. Already?"

Many hours have burned by while Edward and Alphonse were deep in discussions - their past, their
present, and their individual futures; how they all blend together, held stable by the thin, delicate
string that goes over itself time and time again, stretched like a membrane of things that go far
above the human mind. Many times have they discussed their predicaments, and what they can and
cannot control. Their lives. Their circles, that pinch together in one, critical spot. The original
transmutation that changed it all. The Gate.

Never had Alphonse pictured it going down like this.

In the back of his mind, Alphonse hears himself ask, and Ed answer, while they both go to the front
of the physio room to wipe themselves clean of sweat, but his mind is rather far away at the
moment.

It's such a calm evening - the sky is clear, a few owl hoot from nearby, there's a firefly sitting on
the windowsill from outside. Winry's working on a set of legs, Granny Pinako's asleep. He and his
brother are talking about something so important so nonchalantly, as if it's something they do
every other day.

Then again, though, that might be the only right way to go about things. When an event has such
monumentous importance, maybe any and all occasions would seem underwhelming. No matter
what they did or when they did it, the act in itself would be underwhelming, what with all the build
up Alphonse has done in his head. There is no glamour, nor screeches of horror. No impending
sense of doom, nor victory.

Just he and his brother, discussing what their plans are for the night, for tomorrow, for the rest of
their lives.

Alphonse knows what the favour is without Ed even having to ask.

They've been discussing this for weeks.

"How about I sleep in your room tonight?" Alphonse asks when they're half way up the stairs.

"Sure, sounds like a plan," Edward replies. They're stifling their grins like eight-year-olds.

Alphonse hums. "Have you gotten rid of your, um, unfortunate choice of décor yet?"

"Nope."

Alphonse raises his brows. "That's convenient."

Finally, they both drop the act, sporting matching grins.

 In Edward's eyes there's a sparkle that hasn't been seen in two years.

"I'm gonna go do something now. Keep yourself busy, and meet me at the Gate in 30 minutes,
okay? We're finishing this shit."

Alphonse laughs, then grins.

"Together?"

"Absolutely."

Chapter End Notes

There's one person, thus far, who's managed to guess my ending. If anyone else has an
idea I'd love to hear it in the comments!

Also brief note the "indefinite delay" method is what I did to prevent myself from
killing myself when I was younger. Going strong for, I think 10 years now?? 20 more
to go before I run out of ideas :p
 A Disturbance in the Force
Chapter Summary

Winry has always maintained the belief that animals know more than people do.

Chapter Notes

CW for one-liner mention of Ed's PTSD at the beginning of the last scene.
Last Winry POV! I'll miss her.
I'm so excited for the ending - next chapter is the last one!! How are we feeling?? I'm
not sure I'm ready for this to be over tbh

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Winry has always maintained the belief that animals know more than people do.

Since travelling to and from Rush Valley has taken up a lot of time over the last few years, she's
nearly forgotten this fact, but it stares her in the face this morning - the animal population of
Resembool is weird. It hasn't always been weird, though.

When Winry was younger, she had liked to pet the sheep. Resembool sheep are known for their
friendliness and tolerance for people, therefor never minded the attention, so long as Winry
wouldn't pull on their coat or get anything tangled in the curls. Even as a child, she would have
never - she had seen, as a five year old, how uncomfortable the sheep become once they get
something in their coat that mats it: visibly agitated, huffy, and not fun to pet at all. At certain
times, her dad would hold her up so she could pet the sheep's head - most likely, days that didn't
follow a night of overtime.

Once Winry's parents died she hadn't gone to pet the sheep anymore. While others had offered to
take her throughout the years, it just didn't feel right to do it without them, so she stopped. One
casualty out of many, she supposes.

That doesn't mean she's not looking, though.

Yes, it had escaped her notice for quite a few years, but eventually it did click one day. The trek
home from Rush Valley was usually long and exhausting, and by the time she came home, Winry
wanted nothing more than to bathe and go to bed. Not strictly in that order. Sleep had been restful
and deep that night, the way returning home sans the Elric brothers seldom was; so, at long last,
she was alert and awake enough to notice the difference.

When they were all kids, and there were at least 3 parents to go around them all, the sheep stayed
in their places, the cats wandered around as they usually did, and the birds came and went within
their patterns of birth, life, migrations and death. Bugs were bugs, which means Winry never paid
them much attention so long as they didn't get in her automail and hair.

In Rush Valley, they were much the same. There weren't any sheep, of course, but there were cats
and dogs and birds and bugs, and they all behaved... well, the way animals usually did. Cats
lounged on porches, sidewalks and any available surface, taking short naps in sunbeams and
getting fat, whenever given the opportunity. Dogs leapt around their owners, yapping and lapping
and happy, eating anything from proper food to their own poop and never thinking much about
anything, unless they were a particularly intelligent breed. Birds, Winry learned, will do their best
to stay far away from most people, with the exception of crows, ravens and pigeons. Bugs were,
and always will be, bugs.

Except in Resembool, apparently.

Specifically in the area just sideways of Winry's house - the ruins of Alphonse and Edward's old
home.

That crisp morning back from Rush, the first inklings of a realisation trickled into Winry's brain,
that maybe, just maybe, something wasn't quite right. There was no God given reason for all of
them to circle around the rubble; for the cats to come closer but never step inside; for the dogs to
sniff, yet step back; for the birds to watch from nearby branches and stand stiff; for the sheep to
bleat in distress when a farmer leads them close by.

Except that they did.

They didn't come in masses, nor did they stay overly long. They just kind of... meandered, when
they did. Took a moment or so to look at the spectacle, the way Ed did, those days, when he
thought nobody's looking at him. His eyes would lose what remained of their sparkle for one sad,
dim moment, as he scoured the environment to make sure, once again, that there is no one to
disturb their split second of happiness and peace, then he would force himself into nonchalance in
the blink of an eye.

That's kind of what the animals did.

Winry took note of this a few times, tried to figure out what could be so interesting about Ed and
Al's old house that it required such recurring investigation, but drew a blank each time.

Granny never confirmed nor denied Winry's suspicions, back then; but then again, she never went
along with anything unless she saw use or amusement to it, so after a while Winry simply accepted
the fact that she might just never know.

///

On the evenings of each Oct. 3rd the Elric brothers were gone, Winry had liked to visit the Elric
home. Or, at least, what remained of it. Since the brothers came back, she stopped doing so, but in
the four years Ed was a child soldier, she cleared her increasingly busy schedule for a few hours of
sundown on that date, and visited the house.

It was mourning, maybe, but also recollection. She had liked to come there with different flowers
from different fields, because she didn't remember much of Trisha Elric, but she seemed like the
kind of woman who would like those things. Winry's not much of a florist, but she thinks she made
it work, then. Something she did had to have been enough for something.
While she wasn't often ached or distracted by her loneliness, she was always acutely aware of it,
and on October 3rd, she gave in to it, if only a little, and visited the grave of their happy
childhoods, as burned down and ruined as Ed's last nerves and Alphonse's old easy-going nature.
There, she would breathe in the sharp scent of ozone mixed with aging, burned wood, and think.
Remembering childhood was such a bittersweet pill when it ended so, so abruptly, but she has to do
it, because even if Ed and Al will make it out of the military alive, they never will allow
themselves to softly remember, so she had to do it for them, too. She sat down, cross legged at the
foot of the home, and a single black cat rubbed against her leg when she, at 15 years old, grieved.

Two more cats and five birds came and went by her side, all staring into the same old history that
she did, but none ever stepping closer than her.

It fit in well with the pattern of behaviour that Winry singled out the previous year, but she never
knew to put a finger to it before. For the first few months, she had almost convinced herself it had
something to do with the fact that the house had been burned down. Perhaps they were all too
scared to go near it, in fear of being hurt or burned.

That doesn't make any sense, Winry concluded, when she visited the house fresh on the evening of
Oct. 3rd, 1905. If they were afraid, the animals, they wouldn't come near it.

A cat waltzed close, and two medium sizes dogs followed suit. They sniffed at the parameters in
interest, but decided there's not much they should concern themselves with.

"Do you think there's danger in there, Mr. Cat?" she had asked, that day, feeling only a little bit
insane. The cat blinked at her before yawning, once, arching its back, and settling by her side. One
of the dogs pawed a bit closer, but didn't actually enter. It stared at the floor of the ruins, though,
for the entirety of the time she spent there.

"Thought so."

Maybe the brothers spilled something on the floor when they burned it, and it stayed there.

It's as reasonable an excuse as any.

///

The return of the Elric brothers took up the forefront of her mind for a very long time. Laughing
and crying and yelling, then feeling insanely guilty about the yelling.

In retrospect, she feels there are aspects of Ed and Al's absence and return that she had sorely
mishandled. The perspective of time allows her to acknowledge the deep and severe amounts of
danger they were in, and the casual ignorance that coated her approach made her, albeit indirectly
and unintentionally, someone who was near impossible to ask for support. In the following years,
and for the rest of her life, she will do her best to work over that damage, but the end result of it
was clear in everyone.

At 18 years old, she does not chastise herself for things she said and did when she was 16, 14, 12.
She just wishes life had been easier on them all; at least, the Elrics, who deserved none of the
things they had conditioned themselves to believe they did. Winry surmises that at the end, her
biggest failure might have been that - letting the brothers stoop so low into their self-hatred, and
being so painstakingly oblivious to it, then denying her guilt with a stubborn set of beliefs that let
her get away with saying that their salvation was their own mess to fix; that she needs no part of it.

However, not everything is damage. Not everything is scarred wounds and broken skin, half-torn
souls and ghosts barely held behind sallow eyes.

Even amidst the pain, there is kindness. Staying up late in the automail studio with Alphonse,
trading jabs with Ed while she checked up his automail. Granny teases her to this day about their
budding romance, and she knows Ed is going through it to, if only because he has no mother and
father to do it themselves. Mustang takes up that role after a while, and she's too happy about their
being someone to do it for him to care about how angrily he hangs up, or how grumpy he gets
when Winry asks him how the conversation went with General Dad.

So, yeah.

The Elrics are finally, finally home, so she doesn't really give a shit about, like, sheep, or whatever
the fuck, for quite a while after that.

About half a year ago, though, Winry had come to two realisations at the same time. She thinks it
was half a year, but it could have been a bit longer. Time is funny, that way - defined by major
events, squeaking slower and faster by that.

The first is that the brothers do not and did not view her house as a home. It was a bit sad, and felt
as though one moment of chest-splitting sorrow had smeared itself across a few months of barely-
there awareness, but after a while, it settled into nothing. It only makes sense, really - two war torn
veteran children come to the house of their best friend for the first time in years as though nothing
happened, and she expected them to just... settle in, like nothing? Like there's no history in every
single corner? As though Ed's screams of pain the first time the automail connected don't still
reverberate through the house seven years later? Yeah, that was a pipe dream.

Once the realisation settled in, it didn't really bother her anymore. Honestly, genuinely. Their
homes were with each other and with her, not in a house. It checks out for the two of them.

The second realisation was less sad or depressing and more so strange or annoying.

The problem with trauma is that it makes one block out anything and everything that isn't directly
relevant to it. Winry does not remember that happened during the time her parents died, or the day
the Elric brothers lost everything, that is not directly linked to the occurrence itself. There is no use
in revisiting those memories, even while trying to draw conclusion related to them.

Therefore, it took her a very long while to draw the correct conclusion, and it happened in the
strangest way.

Mr. Cat, that had actually turned out to be Mrs. Cat, gave birth to a single black kitten with five
white spots about seven months ago, and it hasn't left Alphonse alone from the day it meandered
over*. And by over, she means this:

Since the brother's return, the animals have lost any and all interest in the Elrics' old house. Instead,
they have shifted their attention to hers.

The exact same pattern of behaviour Winry used to witness by the Elric home had been replicated
in hers. This narrowed the field of possibilities down quite considerably, considering the Elrics had
yet to set anything on fire. The kicker, though, were the two sheep and three owls that Winry
caught once, staring right at the window to Ed's room.

Figures it had something to do with the lead dumbass of Winry's life.

Had she not known by then that something was off about him, that would have been the kicker;
maybe they knew something's fucked with his soul. Maybe they could see things humans don't.
Vaguely, she recalled reading an article about that; how animals can see certain colours that
humans could not. Perhaps they could see things related to the soul, too. Maybe, they knew exactly
what was wrong with Edward and Alphonse, but didn't have the brainpower, the conscience to
process it.

Whatever it is, Ed and Al clearly hadn't noticed it, so the entire ordeal went unmentioned. There
came a time, a few days later, that she noted that whatever it is that was off about Edward, was off
in Alphonse, too. He liked when cats gave him attention, which they did frequently, but it went
entirely over his head when he walked and a dog stopped by, two entire minutes later, sniffing at
his footsteps, or how no single human has ever attracted that much passive attention from birds as
him and his brother.

It's only the two of them, too - when Mr. Mustang or anyone they know from the military came to
visit, it didn't ever happen to them - Winry would know; she'd been watching them, too, trying as
hard as possible to figure this one out on her own.

Despite how much time she'd devoted into observing and cataloguing this strange behaviour, she
knew it lacked much depth in comparison to everything the brothers have, and have had, on their
plates, and makes little difference in the long run. It wasn't a problem of its' own - it was a
symptom. As a training surgeon, Winry knew well enough how to differentiate one from the other,
and this was absolutely it. There's nothing she could actually do to deduce the cause, given how
little factual information she had, so it was like a fun little game. A puzzle.

It wasn't always that. Before the brothers returned home, it was a distraction. When worry made her
joints ache and head pound, and when Granny was starting to give her worried glances, she would
distract herself with that. Coming up with increasingly ridiculous reasons for those strange,
predictable patterns of behaviour, so she didn't have to think about the fact that she doesn't know if
her only friends in the world are alive or dead.

Then, however, when they were home, the deadbolt loosened between her shoulders, and a slouch
overtook the tenseness she carried. At that point, Winry had many new luxuries she hadn't been
privy to in a while, and one of them happened to be fun. So, yeah - it was a fun little puzzle, a
question, a mystery. Like how Ed and Al might have tried to help their dad solve more complex
alchemical equations had he not been such a fucking dick. Maybe they might've used chubby little
kid fingers to hoist themselves onto his work table and scribbled on his spare pages with crayon,
trying to see what they could do to help crack the code, and potentially even bring a new
perspective that perhaps, Hohenheim hadn't have thought of before. That's kind of how Winry felt
then, and the topic was so inconsequential that it didn't bother her, how little she 'knew, how small
and young she felt in response. It felt good, to be able to feel as young as she was; it's not
something she very often got, so she made sure to cherish the feeling, whenever it came.

///

A few months before the end, she brings the topic up with Alphonse. She doesn't know they're on a
timeline yet, but she'll figure it out soon enough.

There's no use trying with Ed, and she doesn't really want to try, either. Edward is only barely
coming to awareness of his own terror of anything that moves, breathes, or exists in the dark, and
there are far too many shadows in the crevices of his mind for Winry to throw yet another
complication in there. It would be wrong, she thinks. Maybe in the future, a few years down the
line, she'll bring it up. Laugh about it, say something like babe, how have you not realised all the
birds and sheep whose path you cross like to stare at you?

Right now, though, to say something like that to him would be downright cruel, and they're not yet
at the point in their relationship where jokes are allowed to dig that deep.

She'll give it time.

In the meantime, though, there is another Elric brother she cherishes just as much.

"Are you aware of the fact that the animal population of Resembool is acting incredibly strange,
and it's because of you?"

Al blinks at seemingly nothing, very clearly sorting through the file cabinet that is his brain, then
shakes, as though he's just gotten zapped.

"I hadn't realised it was because of me," He says, and his tone shows his confusion.

"Well, both you and Ed, I suppose." Winry spreads herself on the sofa, because Al is nestled in one
of the loveseats with a book and, of all things, a canary. There aren't even canaries in Resembool -
how did he even manage to find one?

Winry voices the thought, and Alphonse shrugs. The canary flies away from his shoulder and out
the window, unruffled and uninterested.

"I hadn't put much thought into it."

"How unlike you."

Alphonse chuckles, so Winry does, too.

"Why do you think it's our fault, though?"

Winry hums. "When you were gone, a lot of cats, stray dogs, birds and sheep would hang around
your old house, always looking, but never going inside. Now that you guys are back, though,
they've started coming here."

"You say that like it annoys you," he snorts.

"It does!"

Winry rises from where she's sprawled on the couch, throwing her arms in the air as she turns to
stare at him. "Do you have any idea how fucking difficult it is to perform surgery on a 15 year old
when there's a sheep that won't stop bleating at Ed's room's direction?"

At this, Alphonse's laughter pitters out. His brows scrunch, mouth opening and closing as he chews
through a thought. "I must say, that does explain quite a lot. But how would-" he cuts himself off.
There's a moment, just there, that he visibly seems to have put the puzzle pieces together. He has
absolutely, definitely just figured something out. "Oh," he says. His lips curl at the corner, just a
little, with intrigue and mischief, and it's a pretty, welcome look on his strained face. He smiles
often, these days, but he needs to smile even more.

"Oh, what?" Winry asks, even though she knows he won't tell. She just can't resist the urge to
 tease.

Predictably, he flushes. "Oh is , um- I..." he stutters, fingers twitching as though there's something
he could physically grab onto, to use as a feasible excuse. "I just thought about a few encounters
brother and I have had that make a bit more sense now. There was a bee, about a year and a half
ago-"

"You're such a bad liar," Winry laughs.

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"When have I ever lied to you?" Despite his very best efforts to appear affronted, he's still smiling,
and his tone chokes back a laugh.

"Always." Winry gets up. "Look, Al, I really don't mind. I don't even care all that much what you
and Ed get up to, so long as you don't destroy my house."

It's only partially a lie, which is better than nothing.

"Don't tell brother about this, okay?"

At that, Winry's shoulders sag, just a little. She wishes the thought of Ed and his many, varied
troubles didn't exhaust her quite so much. One day, maybe they'll get to live worry free, but it
seems they're not out of those woods quite yet.

Winry smiles, but she does feel a bit more heavy about it.

"I won't; not yet," she says. "I wouldn't want to bother him with that. Is he doing okay?"

Beneath Alphonse's eyes, the skin is still tinged purple, but his cheeks are full and his smile is
genuine.

"Yeah, Brother's fine. He's doing, uh, something kind of complicated right now, but I'm sure it
won't be too long from now until he's done."

Winry rolls her eyes, but does smile, too. "Then I guess I shouldn't bother him with something that
unimportant. He'll figure it out in due time."

It's a few months later when Winry recalls that conversation and laughs to herself, reclining in
Granny's old chair as she watches the brothers construct their new home. There's a beer in her hand,
an ache in her cheeks, and a long day of work and retrospection behind her. Den watches them, too,
curled up by her feet. Ed and Al act as though they're none the wiser, griping about hammers and
supplies and God knows what, but their smiles are so annoyingly secretive, and the birds watch in
curiosity, but flutter off in a huff when Ed waves his fist at them.

It doesn't matter, anyways. None of it does. Last night, Ed did something; God knows what it is,
but all the birds and cats, cattle and sheep have been dead silent ever since, returning to a pattern of
behaviour that hasn't been observed in them in years as they finally, finally leave the Rockbell and
Elric houses alone.

Chapter End Notes

*meowndered over
I'm so bad at writing in past tense broooooo
 Modern Intelligence; Reninventing the Stone Age.
Chapter Summary

Alphonse gets a cat. Edward gets engaged. Those two things happen off screen,
though, and a few other things happen, too.

Chapter Notes

This is the last one!!!!!! Wow!!!!!!!!

I doubt I'm ever going to write FMA;B fanfiction ever again, but, if anyone wants to
read more from me, I have a comic I've been working on for quite a few years now
that's gonna start coming out soonish - it's titled the 8th Sin, and I highly recommend
looking out for me, because I've been working my ass off on that thing, and I'll be
damned if it's not gonna be absolutely everywhere.

Anything about that, FMA;B fanart, and any other creative thing I do is gonna be on
my art account on Instagram - @doom_weasel

And again thank you so much for supporting me this far! I appreciate every single
comment, kudo and bookmark. All of you kind people have given me the motivation
to keep writing this absolute monstrosity of a fic.

Now, without further adieu - the last chapter.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Edward has been to the Gate more times than he can count by this point, but only twice has he been
there at the same time as Alphonse, and only once has he actually seen him there.

It's kind of stupid, in retrospect - thinking they had separate Gates. That anyone has separate Gates.

They're connected; they're always connected, but in Edward and Alphonse's cases, maybe a little
more so than necessary.

"Elrics!" Truth grins. "What a pleasure to see you both here!"

Al stiffens, and there's something about the reaction that's incredibly precious. He's not used to
being in the Gate, bless his heart, and though they've both been preparing for this excessively, he's
still nervous.

Edward isn't, but, then again, he's had a bit more practice in the field.

"Two things, asshole," he barks, stepping up to Truth, only one step further. Admittedly, it lacks
the malice it used to have, but Al still pales and chastises him all the same while Truth laughs.
"First off," Edward says, listing off with his fingers, "I wanna get this done already. The whole
visitation thing. I've worked hard enough as is - I get to reap the benefits now. I'm done feeling like
the only child of divorced fucking parents."

Truth tilts its head, neither confirming nor denying anything. Conniving asshole.

"And the second thing you want?"

Edward looks back at his brother. Alphonse pales a little once more, but shakes his head at himself,
and steps forward by his brother's side.

"We want our own, separate circles again." Edward claps his hand on his brother's back. He feels
corporeal, at least. "This whole figure 8 thing was pretty cool, gotta say, but it's not right."

Of all things, Truth is caught off guard by that.

"I must say, I'm surprised. One would think that with how close you two are, you would enjoy the
ability to transmute together."

By his side, Al takes a deep breath. "Much as we like working together," he says, and his voice
neither shakes nor stutters, "Brother and I are our own people. We have separate ambitions,
separate thought patterns, and separate alchemy. We work best together, not as one."

Truth shrugs.

"Fair enough," it says.

The Gate behind Truth is different to Edward's old one, but it is pretty familiar. Alphonse's Gate is
quite similar to his old one - identical symbols, and the same overarching pattern, but the actual
order of symbols, of equations itself is quite different. Here, in their Gates, lies the starkest
difference between the two of them and their transmuting - no one Gate is better than the other, but
they are intrinsically different, and could never be confused for one another. With the lenses of
hindsight, Edward does actually feel pretty stupid for not having figured it out earlier, but he
doesn't hold it against his younger self. Really, Edward thinks he's gotten it figured out in just the
right time in his life.

Alphonse's Gate is heavy with use, but the marking are still so sharp and clear. He's taken
inspiration from it quite a few times, Edward, in hopes that this time around, he'll be able to do
things right. Briefly, for one flicker of a moment, he wonders what Mustang's Gate must look like.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Truth asks, spreading its hands - one pointing behind itself, to
Alphonse's Gate, and the other behind the Elric brothers themselves. "Go to your Gates and open
the door. You'll step out into tomorrow, no strings attached."

"Hey, wait," Edward calls, "at least let me show off first!"

Alphonse snorts.

"If you insist," Truth says. "I'm not the one who's rushing to get out of here."

"You're gonna be so bored when I'm gone," Edward gloats, but turns his brother around regardless,
and they both turn around to face the Gate.

Edward's new Gate is not quite as aesthetically pleasing as the old one, as it's built entirely for
practicality, and since Edward is not the literal God stood behind him, he feels that he's awarded a
little more leeway that way. By the foot of his Gate lay the original chisel he and Al created all
those months ago, and a small selection of similar tools that range in size and purpose - as Edward
worked, carving new symbols and equations into his Gate while he slept, he'd been allotted more
and more ability to create in the real world, too, this active process of reinventing the stone age
leading to more tools, and thus, more freedoms within creation - he's up to par with his seven year
old self, now, but with his modern intelligence, he'll be back to himself in no time, at this pace.

Despite him knowing all of this, Alphonse's jaw may as well be on the floor. Edward can give him
a break though - there's a stark difference between hearing about something, and seeing it in
reality. Or, erm, whatever the fuck this is. Edward still hasn't figured it out, and only now does he
know he won't have the time to, anymore.

Edward's handiwork is not the most artistic. In most parts, it's choppy - the symbols are barely
legible, and the depth of the chisels and carves are uneven. With all the help from Jake's mom, old
man Clears, Mrs. Malcolm and Andy McBride, the later parts of his work are nicer on the eye as
well as usable - for all he grumbled and they grumbled and his lessons felt like fucking pulling
hair, they were absolutely worth it for the final result - he would not have been able to achieve
anything present on his Gate right now had it not been for all the months he's spent, learning
absolute bullshit from those people. There's a lesson somewhere in there, about patience and
adaptability, applicability and education, but by God, Edward's too fucking old and too fucking
tired to hear it all again. War veterans, he thinks, deserve a break from the nonsense.

Besides, of course, Mustang, who deserves any bit of bullshit he receives, twice over.

"So," he gestures, "What do you think? Built a brand new Gate with my brand new hand, all by
myself."

The time it takes for Alphonse to respond feels close to five minutes, though by this point, Edward
knows time does not work that way in the Gate.

"It's... kinda wonky," he says, but his eyes are tearing up and his nose is snotty, so it comes as more
of a wobble than anything else. Edward barks out a laugh. "But it's incredible, brother."

"Spare the compliments," he says, "it's ugly as shit and I know it."

"Brother!" Alphonse chastises, and combined with the look he's sporting right now, it's too
goddamn funny for Edward to not react.

"It is!"

"It... might not be the prettiest," Alphonse agrees, "but it's still spectacular." They turn to look at
each other. "You built your own Gate. Do you realise what you've been given, here?" Al asks, "the
opportunity you've been blessed with?"

"Yeah," Edward smiles. "I'm so, so insanely lucky."

For one moment, it's just the two of them, between two Gates, standing in the middle of their figure
8 circle. They're gonna go their separate ways soon enough; open their own doors, split their circles
for good, and wake up in the same house to do the same thing over and over again. It's nice, to be
just the two of them like this, for only one more moment; it's the right thing to do, but Edward's
gonna miss it, just a tiny bit, s'all.

"Does this mean you're still going to be visiting Truth in your dreams until you're done?" Alphonse
asks.

"Not necessarily," Truth answers, and God fucking damnit, Edward forgot it was here to begin
with. "As your Gate is, and everyone else's are, too, most of the work done to create your own Gate
is done entirely subconsciously, within the scholarship and training of alchemy. Your Gates were
near identical because your trainings are, but I have no doubt they will diverge from this point on,
so there's no need for Edward to be here, and continue on in the carving himself. I would rather not
have to look at more of that, frankly. That much profantiy gives me a headache."

A headache, it says, as though the bitch has a fucking head.

Alphonse and Edward both turn halfway to look at Truth.

"What you're saying is that we are the ones to carve our own Gates?"

"In a way, you are."

Edward's already known this; having it confirmed verbally, directly, is still a little shock. A rush of
adrenalin that surpasses nearly any other good feeling in the world - the sensation of being right.

"Young Edward is no longer in any need to be here himself; his transmutation abilities have
developed far enough to be able to complete quite impressive transmutations, even if they do not
yet measure up to his past extent."

Though Al does actually know this, because Edward told him, he still smacks Edward on the arm.

"Hey! What was that for?!"

"I'm still pissed at you for not showing me."

Edward laughs; laughing harder than he has in a good, long while. He's giddy. He gets to perform
alchemy with his brother again. He's so fucking happy he could cry.

Alphonse, though, does seem like he has something on his mind.

"Brother won't tell me what it is that he has to sacrifice to regain his alchemy, though." While he
addresses Truth, Al does so with the kind of polite respect that he adopts with strangers, but the
difference lies in his more minor tells; he's stiff as a rod, Al, and the shake in his hands is barely
betraying his fear, but it's clear as day to Edward himself. His eyes jump from one spot to another,
never resting on more than one sight for a single moment. Poor thing's terrified, now that his
conscious has taken his elation's place. "All he's told me is that he doesn't have to sacrifice
anything."

"Because it's true," Truth shrugs.

All at once, Alphonse stops his fidgeting. His eyes blow wide open as he turns his incredulous stare
from Truth, to Edward, back and forth.

"Truth says that my supposed 'final transmutation' wasn't balanced; that my sacrifice went just the
teeniest bit over the top; not in my eyes, but in the eyes of, uh, Truth, it wasn't truly equivalent."
Edward scratches at the back of his neck. "I left before it could actually, uh, say anything. That's
why I started coming back here in the first place; since true equivalent exchange hadn't been done,
the transmutation was left incomplete since it started." Edward pulls at his lip with his teeth.
"Everything I've done since then, has all been within the realm of that original transmutation. Now,
obviously, in order to regain my ability to transmute, I had to sacrifice a lot, and I'm pretty sure two
year's worth of rest and nights counts as a hefty thing to give."

Alphonse looks at him again, then behind them, at Edward's new Gate.
"Your ability to use the Gate came at the price of two years and a handful of months' worth of
nights?"

Edward nods. "Yep," he says, popping the P.

"And now what?"

Edward grins.

"Now, I step through my brand new, shiny Gate, and I don't see this fucker ever again, and
continue rebuilding my alchemy from scratch," he says, pointing at Truth, then, at the Gate. His
own Gate, built entirely anew.

"Speaking of - how is your progress out in the world, Edward?"

Edward rolls his eyes.

"It talks to me like it's my fucking dad," he tells Alphonse, who giggles. "Pretty good," he reports,
nevertheless. "I think that in about a year's time I'll advance far enough to do clap transmutations
again."

Alphonse inhales at this, smiling widely.

"I don't know about that," Truth shrugs.

Huh.

"That means," Alphonse pouts, "I'm gonna have to work way harder than I thought to remain the
better alchemist and the better fighter between the two of us."

That little shit.

"No fucking way in hell," Edward says, and they're about to start a fucking scuffle in the realm of
God before Truth clears its throat and steps forward.

"How about we keep this going?" It asks. "It'll be dawn soon enough for the two of you, and I don't
think either of you are rather keen on leaving this situation incomplete."

Truth is, annoyingly, correct, and the two separate and collect themselves.

Edward takes a deep breath, and Alphonse does, too, at which point they walk to the centre point -
the pinch of their figure 8, the crossover of their circles, the middle point between both Gates. This
circumstance, this ability, this place, has never existed before them and will never exist again.

The part of Edward whose love for science triumphs his own personhood mourns this loss - a great
exploration into the abyss, a submarine to lower them into the depths of the ocean is about to be
destroyed. Suddenly, he's sad he hasn't done more with this, frankly, incredible opportunity. For the
last two years, Edward has been granted a privilege no one else in the world has ever had, and it's
ending, right here, right now. He almost wants to call the whole thing off. Wants to come back
next time with a notebook, the one Mustang gave him for his birthday a handful of months back
because he's happy Edward exists and is alive, and write down everything he can see here.

But he won't, and he can't.

Edward cannot live the rest of his life faced away from the future. It was what it was, and now, it's
up to him to do what he does best - grab it by the horns and live life to the fullest. He and Alphonse
will create their own figure 8's, by going farther and farther, again and again, and coming back
each time, exchanging information like two neurons in a circuit, and carrying this delicate,
invaluable thing with them no matter where they go. They have no need for an arbitrary,
involuntary, external force to bind them close - if there's one thing Edward will always be sure of,
it's that Al is his little brother, his closest friend in the world, and they will never go so far that the
other cannot reach them. They'll see everything the world has to offer them, by each other's side,
from half a planet apart. It is the way things should be done. They don't need a joined circle to do
that.

It is with this confidence that they both step up to their doors. They're closed, and it strikes Edward
at this moment that he's never opened them himself with any clarity of mind. Always with
desperation or sadness; at least, when they weren't torn open to drag him in.

The last time he did so was when he was freeing Alphonse's body, prying against the force of a
million little arms to make sure he can keep his promise.

The door, sans this external force, is surprisingly light.

When Edward turns his head back to look at his brother, Alphonse is already beaming back at him.

"See you on the other side," Edward says. "And you," he says to Truth, "I hope to never see again."

With this, in the exact perfect synchrony they've never had to practice to know, they open their
doors, and step outside the Gate, off to tear apart their old figure 8, and begin upon a new one.

Sunlight greets Edward like a warm blanket.

Judging by the heat, it's nearing 10A.M. and Edward wakes feeling distinctly well rested, and
bursting with energy. When he peels his eyes open, it's nothing, but also everything. The ceiling is
the same, as is the floor, as is the bed, as are his clothes. His sleeping pants still ride up on his
automail leg, and his shoulder still hurts from the spar he and Alphonse had a few days ago, when
he socked the shit out of him.

But the ache is gone.

That gaping, searing, aching void in his chest, it's missing.

Now, honestly, Edward could have lived the rest of his life with it. Grumbling and annoyed, of
course, but he could have. It was a reminder of everything he had, and everything he's lost, and
everything he's done, a little prickle at the centre of his chest to remind him to not get too content
with happiness; that it could be wiped away at a moment's notice. A needed, humbling reminder
that in a sour, ironic way, Edward was grateful to have, to make sure he doesn't completely drift
away from all the things he has had to do to reach the point he's in, in his life.

That being said, he's so fucking happy it's gone.

He feels light; feels happy, feels energised, feels human. Edward feels like he could run a
marathon, right now, run all the way to Central, to celebrate with everyone, to toss Al on his back
and run all way there with him, hug Captain Hawkeye In Ishaval and taunt Havoc and kiss Winry
on the mouth.

Moreso than ever, a brand new light shines on him. It's not a window of opportunities that's opened
up in front of him; it's a universe. Without the veil of pain, he can see everything he was allowed to
do before, and is still allowed now, but with the confidence to pursue; now and forever. No matter
what happens, he has the clarity of mind he was so sorely lacking before.
With his brother by his side and his soul left complete, the sky is not the limit. It's only the first
barrier.

The universe is his to explore. That's all there is to it.

By his side, in the centre of his floor, Al groans.

Edward cranes his neck, still lying in bed, to look at Alphonse just as he opens his eyes.

Alphonse raises a brow, and Edward deadpans at him, at which Al lets out a giggle, then Edward
lets out a laugh of his own, and then they're both absolutely beside themselves, laughing like
maniacs.

They laugh until they're out of breathe; until Edward rolls off the bed, landing on the floor beside
his brother; until their shortness of breath worms them into the strangest positions, Al crumpled
over himself with his nose buried in the carpet, and Edward himself in the foetal position, their
shoulders pressed together. They laugh until they cry and they laugh while crying, holding the
other's shaky shoulders in their hands while they hug.

Two more years might have passed in this state, but the clock only says it's been twenty minutes.
Lying bastard.

Alphonse is the one to calm down first, cleaning his face from tears and blowing his nose with a
napkin.

"So?" He asks, and a giggle leaks through. "What are you going to do now?"

Edward huffs a good natured complaint.

"No, I mean... like, what to do you want to do now?"

Though he has no actual idea, as he's never even considered the prospect before, Edward goes to
respond, but then, belatedly, his mind catches onto something Truth said and he squints. Surely, it
didn't mean...

Before he so much as opens his mouth, Edward blindly reaches for the first thing he could find on
his bedside table. It's an empty mug, which he quickly lays down on the rug, on the floor.

He clicks his tongue and tuts - there are quite a few ways in which he could test out his new theory,
and he needs to decide which one would be the funniest.

Not a minute passes before he's made up his mind. Judging by his expectant, excited gaze,
Alphonse has definitely caught onto his intention, and he's watching with bated breath.

With no further preamble, Edward claps his hands, clears his mind, and sets them on the coffee
mug.

Edward doesn't need to look, doesn't even need to open his eyes or listen to Alphonse's gasp to
know something's happened. He already knows. When he clapped, just for a moment, his soul was
more than just complete. His soul sang.

In his hands lies a small, rough, clunky dog statue.

He was definitely right about one thing - he has a long, long way to go.

But it's better than nothing.

"You asked me what I want to do, Al?"

He beams.

"Yeah."

"I have no fucking idea."

As he is wont to do, Alphonse chokes on his breath when he laughs and tries to talk at the same
time.

"Never once in my life have I been allotted the ability to give a single shit about what I want to do,
and that's not gonna change over night. But," he pauses, thumbing at the dog. It's kind of cute, like
the drawing parents hang on their fridge. "I am going to take this with me all the way to Ishval,"
Edward declares, "and freak the shit out of Mustang."

///

The rest of Alphonse's life will most likely unfold in a matter not dissimilar to this.

After waking up, he blinks the crust out of his eyes, then stretches, yawns, and heads downstairs to
his and his brother's living room. Despite the time they've had this house, they don't actually spend
so much time living in it, so they have yet to finish off the roof. However, the actual rooms
themselves are spacious and nice. Well built, if he should say so himself, as well as warm and
inviting. Alphonse feels right in their house. Feels like it may actually be developing into his home
as he speaks; as the new, clean nooks and crannies develop stories and personalities of their own.

Brother is leaving tomorrow: heading to Ishval, then Creta, then God knows where, and Alphonse
is preparing his own departure back to Xing in a week. Winry said she would take care of Mr. Cat
in Alphonse's absence, and he doesn't doubt that for a second, but likes the assurance of his soft,
black fur. The white spots have a different texture, and it's one of Alphonse's favourite parts of
being alive. Out of all of the animals, Mr. Cat was the only one who maintained his fascination
with Alphonse after the end of the transmutation, which leads Alphonse to believe that the
fondness is, at least in part, genuine. Ed had rolled his eyes when Mr. Cat started showing up at
their doorstep, but didn't have the heart to say no to either pair of pleading eyes, and so, Mr. Cat has
been getting plumper and plumper by the day.

They won't get another cat before Alphonse permanently returns from Xing, which won't be for a
good, long while, but it's alright. He has plenty things to keep himself busy.

Edward's eyes are rimmed with purple, but there's a content curl to the corner of his mouth and a
confident set to his shoulders, which leads Alphonse to believe he's more so excited than anything
else, and it's costing him some sleep. Typical, for brother.

"Good morning, Al," he says. For three whole months now, they've both been at home at the same
time, and it's strange how comfortable they immediately become in each other's presence, like the
last three years haven't been spent in foreign countries with mostly foreign people, becoming
foreign people themselves. There's an engagement ring on Ed's finger now, and he couldn't shut up
about it to save his life for their first month back, and though Alphonse hadn't quite undergone the
same transformation, quite a few things are different about him, too.
"Good morning, brother. Excited to finally see Roy again?"

Brother groans. "God, don't remind me. He and that annoying friend of his haven't shut up about
me coming back down there for two months now."

Alphonse chuckles, rummaging through the third cabinet above the counter for his favourite mug,
then slinks over to the other end of the kitchen for coffee of his own. The entire room is bathed in
ochre tones, and they match the dark wooden cabinets quite nicely. Brother's certainly picked up
the knack for woodworking over the last few years; perhaps Mr. Jones had more of an effect on
him than he cares to mention.

Even if he did, though, that touch only blends in with the rest of the influences decorating the
house; most of their kitchen supplies are from Winry, Roy and Riza; there's an absolutely stunning
and egregiously expensive wall rug hung in the living room, curtesy of Ling; Scar, of all people,
sent them a ceremonial tea kettle, with the instruction to only use it over open flame. Teacher's
come by quite a few times, and never once failing to bring a new terrifying array of butcher knives
and cutting boards with her. Their table cloth and napkins are from Mei, and all their plates, bowls,
mugs and cutlery are gifts from various military men, as is the piano, given to them by the
Armstrong Family; it's horrendously mismatched, all of it, but it's enough to bring tears to
Alphonse's eyes when he takes it all in.

"You must remember, though, to tell him a wedding is happening, and that you're aiming for kids."

"Even if we aren't going to do so for another two years, at least?" Edward's hand curls around his
cup again, the gesture loose and lax. Neither of them have any meaningful plans for the day.

"Especially so."

Ed laughs. "Gotta keep him on his toes, right?"

"Absolutely," Alphonse nods. "Remember - the real challenge comes after he gets elected as
Fuhrer. Everything before that is our trial run."

Brother snorts. "And what have you been contributing to the efforts?"

Alphonse goes to respond, but then Ed's eyes narrow at something undefined and Alphonse's heart
skips a beat. However, a few seconds later, he reaches for a jar of honey, pushing aside the
raspberry jam with his pinkie finger and spreading the thick gold on his toast. Since having left the
Gate behind for good and retrieving his ability to transmute, Ed has regained his old spark back.
Unfortunately, it came back with a few other habits of his, one being his unexpectedly intense
approach to anything and everything; the utter and complete passion in his gaze that could easily
turn panicked or calculating. These days, there's not much that requires such serious approach, so
the look that used to be devoted to only the most heinous of villains is now freely given to just
about anything. Case and point: the two jars, sitting innocently on their humble counter, having
done absolutely nothing that deserves such a harsh glare.

To give him credit, Alphonse's learned to recover quickly.

"What has the raspberry jam done to offend you?"

His older brother's eyes snap over to him, and there's the same harsh, calculative look in his eyes.

"Nothing. I guess I'm just feeling a little tense."

Alphonse can definitely relate. While both of them are always happy to see and be with each other,
the itch to go back out there is damn near palpable. It always is, at this point of their stay. Much as
they love their home, neither of them are ready to call it quits and settle down quite yet.

Though Ed might be a little closer than Alphonse is, and the one and only reason for that is
currently pounding on their door.

Neither of them so much as glance away from their respective coffee and toast, because when
Winry knocks, it's not a request so much as it's an announcement.

And so, after about three seconds of rapid pounding, her head peaks into their living room. Her
hands, clinging onto the door, are notably stained, which only makes the ring on her finger pop out
more.

"Al," she says, breathless. She probably ran all the way here, judging by flushed cheeks and
heaving breaths. "Do you know where I put the-"

"Second drawer to the bottom of the desk that Ed built for you. You asked me to put it there after I-
"

"-Reorganised the tools for me," she says, or pants, really. "Thank you. Ed, be sure to pop over for
at least a few hours before you leave tomorrow, before I actually begin to miss your sorry ass."

And with that, like a summer breeze, she is, once again, gone.

"She loves me, really," he says, and Alphonse laughs against his better judgement.

"I mean, there's a ring on her finger for a reason."

He expects there to be some form of reaction to that, maybe his usual surge of pride, or the
increasingly rare immature stutters and blubbers, but Brother falls silent at this. His grin freezes,
before turning into something entirely synthetic, then melting into nothing. Through the movement
of his mouth, Alphonse can see that he's tonguing at his teeth, the way he does when he's not sure
how to share what he's thinking.

That, too, has thankfully become blissfully rare.

"Things are okay now," Ed eventually says, and though it's spoken like a question, Alphonse
knows it isn't.

Often times, once they spend enough time with each other, by themselves, they begin to tiptoe back
onto shaky grounds. It's not easy work in the slightest; any misstep can generate a reaction that
neither of them are able to anticipate. Alphonse has once gone three whole days without speaking
once to his brother. Edward once went into such an aggressive regression that he locked himself in
his room for five hours. These things aren't easy, even at the best of times. Ed in particular has
developed the affinity to treading old grounds like a long abandoned battlefield; the land mines,
planted maybe half a metre down in the soil, have shifted in the plane as the years went on - sore
spots have toughened out, and old shields have begun to develop cracks at the weak points. There
is no way to know what is where until they step in the wrong place.

Still, now, they know ways to work around that, too.

"Yes. They are. We went through the hard part of coming back, a long time ago."

His elder brother hums.

"It almost kind of feels like you're a different person."

Edward barks out a laugh. "Well, thank fuck for that." Dragging the mug across their counter, Ed
rises from his seat, rinsing the cup out at the sink. "Rest in peace to that guy. No offense to him, but
he sucks, and I'm very much so glad to not be him anymore."

Alphonse teethes at his lower lip.

"In retrospect, there are things that he did that were not the greatest to himself," he says, as though
they are not talking about Edward himself, who is alive and well, right in front of him. "But I think
you had to be that person so you can become who you are, now."

Ed beams. "Are we still reminiscing about your psychology textbook days, Al? I thought you got
over that annoying habit."

Predictably, Alphonse punches him on the arm, and even more predictably, Ed pretends to be
entirely unaffected, but Alphonse's seen him rub wherever Alphonse hits once Ed thinks he's no
longer looking.

"Still, though; is it not nice to think about?"

With the last bite of toast in his mouth, Brother has no choice but to mull over the thought as he
chews and swallows.

"Yep." After saying so, he burps, then adds, "I didn't think about it much, then, because I really
didn't want to, but fuck, Al, I don't think I would have made it much longer, like that."

Alphonse hums, then huffs through his nose. It's so, so silly. They're sitting in their living room,
that they built on their own, surrounded by the physical manifestations of all their loved ones' love,
talking about, of all things, the first year after the Promised Day. It's familiarly painful and so, so
great, like pressing down on a healed over scar and remembering the ache that used to be there. It's
far gone, the wound, but the effects still linger.

Alphonse probably wouldn't have survived, either, to be honest. Carrying all that guilt on such
narrow, brittle shoulders was killing him, especially considering just how much of it was entirely
unjustified. He feels almost angry on behalf of his younger self, but he knows not much could have
been done to make it better. Not when everyone else was already doing the best they could,
picking up their own pieces in the process.

"In that case, I'm glad you didn't have to."

Ed nearly retorts, but then, he does something that Alphonse was not expecting. That, in itself, is
strange as well - Brother is someone Alphonse knows quite well.

"I never regretted it, you know."

Alphonse deadpans.

"As much as I am very smart, I cannot actually read your mind, Brother."

Ed's nostrils flare as he scowls.

"Giving up my alchemy. For you," he gestures with his new hand. Regardless of how much time
passes and how even his arms are, it will forever be his new hand. "I mean, I did get the chance to
relearn it, but even before I knew I would, I did it for you. I would never give you up for anything.
You know that, right?"

Brother has this interesting tendency to state everything in the negatives. Anything he would have
to give as opposed to everything he wants to give. Maybe one day, he'll learn that the world isn't
out to get him anymore. Hopefully, Winry will be able to help a little more with that.

"Yes, I knew. I never once thought you regretted it."

Edward huffs out an exhale, something sharp and definitive.

"Good."

Just like that, the topic ends; not everything has to be a long, drawn out conversation, nowadays -
they can just be a sentence, and no more. They soon part ways - Edward goes over to the Rockbell
house to spend some time with Winry, and Alphonse will go and practice some of Mei's techniques
for maybe a few days longer before heading on another journey of his own. Their departures are
never too far apart. It's only his third visit - far from the last he will visit Xing, but maybe the last
time in a while. Winry wants to get married, and Ed wants kids, and Alphonse wants to be there to
be present for both of those things; he's never had a blood uncle, and he wants to be a good one, a
present one. Knows Ed and Winry have already managed to argue about which one of them will
get Alphonse for their bridal party or best man status, and he can't do any of that if he's in another
country.

Mr. Cat brushes against Alphonse's calf, and he's suddenly overcome by the burning need to pick
him up, cradle him in his arms, and press a flurry of kisses to the top of his head, so he does exactly
that, and Mr. Cat melts in his hold. The air is crisp and clean, as is expected of autumn in
Resembool, and there's nothing better to do right now than to sway, oh so slowly, oh so slightly,
with Mr. Cat in his grip, who buries his small, black nose into the crook of Alphonse's elbow and
fall asleep right there.

These are the actions that mark the day to day life of Alphonse Elric.

Swaying to and fro, his hips no longer protest the movements. His legs no longer shake at being
used for more than a minute, and his feet stay sturdy on the ground. Mr. Cat seems quite happy
with the padding he has received, and Roy no longer holds back on the amount of power he puts in
his hugs. Life, ever so gradually, leaks back into his every move, a garden that flourishes only
when no one is looking.

The progress came to both him and his brother when neither of them were expecting it, and
perhaps, that is the way it was always going to happen - an unexpected movement in the
background of their hard work, and suddenly, they are better. The older they get and the farther
removed they are from their aches, the more Alphonse knows this to be true, and Ed probably does
as well; the ultimate truth of betterment happens when no one is looking. It is a complex truth, but
an all encompassing one, and one they must understand wholly in order to perform their true goal
of creating a better, happier, more giving world. In order to give, they need to have what to give,
and to do so, they had to become more whole people. There was no other way around that.

Now that their reserves are not always on low, that they no longer run from every noise and flinch
at every shadow, and have the ability to settle in the depths of their minds and escape unscathed.

Alphonse believes this to be the ultimate goal, but that's a thought process that's very long term,
and, in all honesty, rather intimidating.

For now, Alphonse focuses on Mr. Cat, who is happy, chubby and healthy, thanks to them.
 Alphonse will take this happiness as a sprouting point, and spread it as far and wide as he can. And
when he inevitably fails, sometimes, he will look back on days like these, on moments like these,
and remember this feeling. How cherishable it is, and how fortunate he is for this to be the life he
gets to live every day, if only he chooses to, as opposed to fuelling his conviction with misery.

And he chooses to do so, indefinitely.

That's all there is to it.

Chapter End Notes

This is finally over. Wow. Holy shit

;,)

jessicahoward2k18 I hope you're happy because you guessed every single one of my
ending ideas. Every single one.

In the spirit of every fanfiction author ever, I will now detail all the major events that
have happened in my life since the beginning of this fanfic:

-Got sick, thrice

-Went on vacation
-Had multiple close and dear friendships end
-Bought flight tickets to Japan
-Collected the entirety of the FMA;B manga
-Adopted a cat
-Changed my job
-My country kind of went into war for a week or so?? lolz
-Wrote like 60% of my script
-Bought concert tickets for the first time since 2019
-Got tattooed
-Probably more shit that I'm forgetting about.

A million thank you's to all of you for reading my story - hopefully you all liked it as
much as I did. See you in the future!!!!!

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!