all good people hurt (and the righteous all die screaming)

by mossopossum

Summary:

Dust still swirls in plumes around them, and he can still feel the shifting of debris as it settles. He sees his friends in only outlines, but their movements are clearly panicked and he still can’t really think but it scares him. His head hurts. His thoughts are like drifting clouds.
Edward wished the lightheartedness could have lasted, but it never did. He always found a way to smother it.

-or-

Edward will never let somebody get hurt when it could be him instead. Roy Mustang just wants to keep the kid from killing himself before he's even a teenager.

Notes:

This has been brewing in my google docs for an embarrassing amount of time yes i do have adhd how did you know ???
heads up this is likely what many consider out of character, but in reality I would imagine all of them to be a lot softer than they are portrayed canonically because Ed is a child after all. Also i have taken the freedom of fiction and ran with it because you're in my house now babey and we are soft and emotionally available!!!
title comes from a poem i wrote which can be found on my art and poetry account on instagram @beetle.toad which you should definitely follow maybe if you want i guess perhaps
please enjoy me vomiting my emotions on you <3

It was admittedly rather nice, even if he’d never say it aloud.

 

It was rare for him to be required to tag along for any kind of military mission outside of his own excursions for the stone, but even though he’d groan and protest, it always left him with an ease he didn’t get to experience much anymore. He liked the thought of him being needed, being helpful—it left less room for him to feel useless after so many failures in his own endeavours. It also just felt good to be included, like he was one of them; part of the team.

 

Growing up, he never really had any friends other than his brother and Winry, but as he stood there with Havoc slapping his hand in a high-five, Breda patting him on the back, and even Mustang with a playful hand rubbing his hair, he thinks this must be what it would have felt like. A cheek-splitting grin, light, genuine laughter, and the sun on his face. This must be friendship.

 

“Man, it’s a real shame you can’t drink, kid,” Breda laughed, slinging an arm around Ed’s shoulders hard enough to make him stumble slightly. “Because I would love to buy you a beer just for the look on his face when he lost to a 12 year old.”

 

Ed just rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the smile pulling at his cheeks.

 

Their mission had been pretty simple—a mine under military jurisdiction in Lysden with ore going missing and evidence of alchemy in the stone. It took only a few days of them going undercover as citizens for them to gather enough intel to discover the mastermind, a worker in the mines who felt he deserved more than his salary and had convinced a few fellow miners to join him. He sympathised with the men, because they probably did deserve more than they were given, but they had been stealing and selling far more than they needed to sustain themselves and it was clear that their crimes were not committed out of desperation, but greed. He no longer felt very bad for them, especially not after they’d tried to put up such a fight after being caught. 

 

However, their alchemy had been comically weak, and it took very little effort to subdue them. Granted, it was quarter to midnight and it appeared that the lot had given up a good few nights of sleep in pursuit of their scheme. They truly weren’t the smartest bunch, and in the end, their stupidity had been their fatal flaw. Using alchemy as much as they were without replenishing their energy through sleep had made them sloppy and unable to cover their tracks. The whole mission had been laughably easy.

 

Truly, Edward hadn’t really needed to come along at all, but he suspected they had invited him more as a chance for them to bond than out of necessity. He didn’t mind, especially when he’d gotten the opportunity to kick a few heads in. 

 

He smiled at the ground, kicking a rock as they made their way out of the mine. Tomorrow they’d board a train back home, and though it made him feel awfully silly, he was kind of disappointed it was over so soon. 

 

“Boss, how come we don’t bring him along more often?” Havoc joined them in their walk on Ed’s other side. "Our missions are never this fun!"

 

Roy rolled his eyes, but not even he could keep from smiling. "They aren't exactly meant to be, lieutenant."

 

Fun. The word itself sounded foreign, and he rolled it over in his mind a few times just to appreciate the sound. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. He was blue skies and sunlight and warm breeze and he was filled with a lightness that had been absent for some time. This contentment had dwindled into a rarity in his life, and with the weight cleared from his mind the realisation of how short it had been bled through. He was twelve. Only twelve. That's all. He didn't get to remember that very often. 

 

Cool night air flooded through the shaft, but the shield of body heat willed away the chill, and if he slowed his pace ever so slightly just to savour it, well, no one had to know.

 

"Eh, who says?" Havoc laughed in response and Edward soaked up the sound, revelled in the safety of being sandwiched between the two soldiers. "Why shouldn't they be? Happy military, happy country—good for the economy." 

 

Another round of laughter followed, and he felt a horribly unwelcome burning behind his eyes. He grinned, all teeth and tight lips and deep-seated frustration at the melancholy he couldn't shake even in joy. What a curse it was, this smudging sadness that stained and spread no matter how much he scrubbed scrubbed scrubbed it still seeped right through him, sullying every good opportunity with its reminder. 

 

He doesn't think he was born this way, but he doesn't think he'll ever not be this way again either.

 

Conversation continued idly around him, and try as he might to fall back into the lightness of before, he'd already tainted it, just as he always did. Instead, he leaned into Breda’s side and felt the warmth of Havoc’s hand on his shoulder, desperately trying to etch the memory into the back of his skull. He couldn’t seem to erase his melancholic nature, but maybe, just maybe he could cover it up. 

 

He shook his head, lifting his gaze from his shoes.

 

Mustang had gained quite a bit of distance on them before deciding to wait, dramatically halting and turning to face them, making a show of checking his pocket watch. The smirk on his face betrayed his little act, and Edward felt a little brighter at the sight. Knowing that the idiot was pleased with him was much more heartwarming and validating than he cared to admit, and he certainly hadn’t been particularly obedient during the mission in hopes of seeking approval. No, the pat on the back and hand mussing up his hair had simply been a cheesy outcome of his attempt to get the stupid colonel off his back. He didn’t need or want the bastard’s praise, and the comment he’d made after everything had been wrapped up had been repeating in his head for so long for no reason in particular.

 

‘You did good out there today, Fullmetal. I’m proud of you, kid.’  The sound of his voice was insufferable even in memory.

 

You did good. I’m proud of you. What silly, fickle words. Meaningless. Irrelevant.

 

I’m proud of you. That asshole had no business making him feel so…so…

 

Appreciated. Loved. Enough. Capable.

 

So childish . Like he was alive and could suddenly feel blood rushing through vessels and tissue anchored to bone and how humiliating it was to be made of flesh and soft vulnerable bits.

 

Once again he found himself shaking the thoughts from his head, wanting to tear his hair out at the realisation that the asshole had managed to get him all worked up through his own subconscious. Looking up, he could tell that time had passed without him, the large space between the three of them and the bastard in question now only mere metres. It infuriated him how the soft, fond look on the man’s face could make his heart sink.

 

“It’s about time.” He grinned, all cocky and arrogant and not caring. “For Havoc and Breda, I mean. It’s actually quite impressive you managed to hop your way up here on those tiny little insect legs so quickly, cricket.” 

 

He couldn’t believe he ever even considered liking the guy. 

 

Laughter erupted around him and he marched forward, fighting a reluctant smile of his own when he heard it—just barely noticeable over the lively atmosphere. He paused, listening, observing, following his ears until finally he saw it, every conflicting feeling running through him replaced with cold dread in an instant.

 

The world around him tunes out, and time itself falls still.

 

Directly over Mustang’s head was a large, wooden support beam, aged and riddled with tunnels that spoke of years of termites eating away at the old wood—and in the middle, a splintering fissure, creaking and groaning and sending an ominous sprinkle of sediment onto the cavern floor. The split only seemed to grow before his eyes, and all he could imagine is Roy’s crushed, mutilated body, his blood soaking dry earth into clay and it’s under his fingernails and drying on his skin and before he can even think he’s surging forward, grabbing onto the man in any way he can. He’s unsure whether he’s pushing or pulling, coming or going, living or dying—all he knows is that he’s shoving with all his might, sending the colonel flying and himself toppling hard onto his front. He hits the packed dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of his chest and the sense out of his head, and with the others momentarily addled by his actions, there’s nothing any of them can do when the tension finally snaps.

 

Hazily, he can see the second they realise—faces falling, movements desperate, words he cannot hear over the pounding of his heart tumbling out of hanging jaws. He doesn't think he's ever seen such a peculiar look on Mustang's face, and though he can't identify it, it makes him feel a little guilty and a little warm. 

 

Split seconds is all he has, they'll never make it to him in time, physics just happens to be cruel like that. It’ll be over before he even processes what has happened and all of them know it, but the way they scramble for him is a kind gesture nonetheless.

 

When he was 8 he'd lost his footing at the very top of the highest hill in his hometown, the only reason he hadn't fallen headfirst down the dirt road and cracked his skull open was because Al had yanked him backwards at the very last second. He can still recall the vivid shades of purple and blue that painted his brother's kneecaps in perfect colour, and he can remember the guilt just as readily. Every time he apologised Al would simply smile and say that he was worth the bruises. Back then, he was sure that no one would ever be able to match that kind of love for him—to love him enough to hurt in his stead. 

 

Now, seeing his teammates wildly stumbling to reach him like he was a porcelain pot that had been knocked off a shelf, he almost wants to cry because they look just like Al did that day—like he was worth the bruises.

 

Before he can pursue the thought any further, a falling rock clips him in the temple and knocks consciousness out of his ears. Later, he’ll feel grateful for the moment of reprieve. Despite the gnawing pain and vague nausea of the concussion he knows awaits him, he can’t help but feel glad it prevented the awareness of hundreds of pounds of stone crushing his legs like a mortar and pestle. It at least saves him the memory. 

 

He wakes to urgent voices and tapping on his face. 

 

“Come on, come on, up and at ‘em, kiddo,”

 

“Havoc, he—!”

 

“It’s alright, he’s gonna be fine, boss. Isn’t that right, chief? Come on now, give me something to work with, sweetheart.” 

 

The incessant tapping against his cheek is really beginning to be bothersome, and he furrows his brow, an irritated groan escaping him followed by a sputtering cough when he inhales a mouthful of dust.

 

“There he is, that’s it." Sounds are coming through a bit more clearly now, it reminds him of all the times he'd seen Fuery fiddling with a radio dial, tuning to a frequency that made the static dissipate.

 

The first coherent thought that makes it through the thick mud that is his brain is the bitter taste of ochre, and the next, albeit less coherent, is that maybe his head has actually been turned to mud. The feeling of sand grinding between his teeth when he works his jaw is enough to bring his awareness all the way up to the surface, and along with it, terrible realisation. 

 

“M-my leg, I-I can’t,” The words leave him without any real thought, flesh hand going to grip the pant leg above his knee white-knuckled on instinct alone. Sensation seemed to be far away yet only around the corner—like he knew the feeling was there but his mind hadn't quite caught up to it yet.

 

“I know, kid. Hold on, hold on…” Havoc soothed, the earlier jovial mood gone from his expression. In the dim light, he appeared nearly feral as he pawed away at the rubble. Edward wished the lightheartedness could have lasted, but it never did. He always found a way to smother it. 

 

Dust still swirls in plumes around them, and he can still feel the shifting of debris as it settles. Oil lamps mounted on the walls were their only source of light, shadows and orange hues making it even harder to see through the muck. He sees his friends in only outlines, but their movements are clearly panicked and he still can’t really think but it scares him because he can tell they’re trying to keep him calm but he can’t possibly be calm because his head hurts and his thoughts are like drifting clouds. 

 

His heart pumps a little faster, trying to think think think but his mind is completely scrambled. He can’t move his legs but he wants out because he doesn’t feel right at all.

 

When he tries to assess the state of himself, the industrial mixers from the bakery he'd visited in Central once come to mind. He's never sympathised with bread before, but the image of thick dough being beaten and churned by that large metal hook feels eerily similar to his current situation—like he's flour and yeast and beating heart pushing and pulling and twisting. 

 

At this point, he’s really beginning to feel unwell.

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” A glance towards the voice revealed Mustang was looking feral as well, but not in the same way Havoc did. His black hair was dulled and lifeless with dust, smears of it on his face and under his fingernails. The thought of it makes his heart jump, but he’s quick to remember that he’s the one stuck and there’s no blood anywhere he can see so he feels a little better, cares a little less about his legs being buried. Mustang was wide-eyed and breathing, and he allows himself to feel relieved before his mind is shifting focus again, taking in the incensed face the man was making.

 

He didn’t quite look desperate or harried or worried like the others, he looked furious, worse than anything Ed had ever conjured up from the man before. It almost didn’t register in his mind as the same person who had been gently teasing him a blink ago, he was mad enough to appear unhinged in the harsh lighting it brought dizzy unease crawling under his skin that he told himself  wasn’t fear. “I cannot believe you, I–you–you idiot ."

 

The tone of his voice made him feel like he should be apologising, but he didn’t know what he did. Mustang was mad a lot but he looked different this time and Edward wanted it to stop because he thinks a few gears inside him were knocked out of place and he doesn’t want to fight or be yelled at until they fix it. He’s not scared, but maybe a little.

 

What happened? Please don’t leave. Are you mad at me? It hurts. You’re scaring me.

 

It was a lot, the ringing in his ears deafening alongside the overlapping voices and the numbness enveloping him giving way to shrieking pain that only seemed to ramp up and up—

 

A strangled noise akin to a sob crawled up and out of his throat.

 

Rushed whispers were exchanged around the huddle above him. The words were lost to him, but whatever they were seemed to thin out the tension some, and the relief washed away any interest he had in deciphering them.

 

"It's okay, hold still. Don't move, don't move, kiddo." Havoc paused in his frantic digging to smooth the hair away from his face, thumb brushing comfortingly against his temple. He didn't care that the action left him smudged with loess, and the dirt certainly didn't stop him from wanting the touch to stay.

 

"Almost got it, big guy. Hang in there," Breda reassured him, voice tight as he lugged away a particularly large piece of rubble. The painful, spacey feeling was intense enough that he barely even noticed the relief in pressure. "Okay, okay, I'm gonna lift this rock, then you can pull him free. Alright? On three," 

 

Around him, shadowy figures get into position. Through half-lidded eyes, he watches the blurry outline of Mustang moving to help Breda, fingers fidgety as he plucks off his gloves and tucks them away inside his coat. The colonel disappears behind him where his eyes can’t reach, leaving only Havoc in front of him, smiling in a way that makes him appear frayed as he tucks his hands into each of Ed’s. 

 

There’s dirt in his mouth and he wants to go home.

 

"Squeeze my hands as hard as you like, alright?" Havoc told him, thumb circling over his knuckles. Edward couldn’t take his eyes off the comforting motion, the sensation grounding if only slightly. “Lay still, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of there, just let me do all the work. I don’t want you moving around too much until I can have a proper look at you, you hear?”

 

They're talking to him like he's very young again, something he's noticed they tend to do whenever things get serious. He hates how much it calms him because he’s not a little kid but maybe he is or at least kinda wants to be sometimes. 

 

In the dredges of his agony, shock still rampant within him, he only just has the presence of mind to shake his right hand out of the man's grasp because he'd crushed a lot of apples trying to get the hang of the automail and he doesn't want Havoc to end up like them. A layered sound comes from the shadow looming over him, something startled that quickly transitions into an attempt to soothe him, carefully trying to guide his hand back down. Edward shook his head with a frustrated warble. The metal hand wasn’t smart enough to know how to be gentle.

 

"M'no," He panted, shooing away the reaching hand so he could press the wrist of his automail into it instead. "Can't. I—I'll break your h-hand. Apples."

 

Havoc smiled sadly down at him like he understood even when he didn't, gently squeezing the metal wrist. He appreciated it even though he couldn't feel it.

 

"Okay," He breathed, squeezing Edward's flesh hand encouragingly. "Big breath in, squirt. Ready?" 

 

His heart is beat beat beating so hard it feels like it’s vibrating and he doesn’t want to be stuck anymore but moving doesn’t sound very nice either.

 

The only response he could muster was to tighten his grasp over careworn fingers, face screwing up as there was movement by his feet and a sudden loss of pressure before he was being tugged away from the mess of stone and broken beams. Any relief he felt upon being freed lasted for only a second as blood that had been forced out of muscles and veins starts rushing back with urgency, giving life back to pulverised flesh and bone

 

After a few seconds of dragging, the hands holding his move to scoop beneath his armpits, turning him over and easing him against the stone wall. As soon as they let go he's instinctively curling himself around himself, uncaring of his teammate’s earlier warning. 

 

His leg is roadkill. By morning, someone will come along with a shovel to scrape him off the asphalt and toss him into the ditch to rot.

 

"Woah, hey—don't move, chief. What’d I just say, huh?" Havoc places a hand on his shoulder and hip, gently holding him still. "Let me see, let me have a look, kid." 

 

There are fire ants under his skin and he’s tired and sick and he wants them off . The hands on him are slight and careful but they feel like red hot metal, the contact searing and stifling but still so wonderfully human and he’s torn between shoving them away and holding them in place. He feels like one big conflict and it burns like an itch somewhere internal and unreachable. 

 

It’s a new kind of hurt he’s never felt before. He knows it must be broken but he broke his elbow once falling out of a cherry tree and that pain was sharp and clean where this pain is smudged and all over and messy. Once he’d slammed his finger in the heavy oak door at Winry’s house and it’s kind of like that but bigger. He remembers how badly it throbbed no matter what he did, ice didn’t help and neither did bandaids or his mama kissing it better over and over and he’d thought it was the worst thing he’d ever feel but he was wrong.

 

The hand on his side lifts away, barely there fingertips moving down, down, down and he knows that they’re friendly but the pain makes him feral and the growl of warning that sits low in his throat shocks him with how much it sounds like a wounded animal. Shoving the touch away when it inches too close to the molten centre of where he hurts is instinctual, but the look of poorly hidden surprise from the man he knows is only trying to help him has him hurrying to explain.

 

"Don't—don't touch it." He grits out, rearing back into the wall of the cave, filled to the brim with restless energy he can’t seem to shake. Understanding bleeds into the lieutenant’s face, the blue of his eyes standing out starkly against the generous layer of grime on his skin. He holds his hands out placatingly, and they are just as filthy.

 

"I'm not gonna hurt you, kiddo. I promise." 

 

Gentle, gentle, gentle. They’re handling him so carefully and he craves it just as much as he abhors it. It’s maddening, the way his mind can only feel in opposites and extremes—he wants the softness, he’s starving for the affection, but he’s spent so long hungry that the mere idea of filling the emptiness scares him more than the hunger. But oh, how he wants it. He wants it so dearly, so innocently and childishly, but the person he is today wasn’t born from his mother; it was forged in the burning embers of a house fire. He’s metal and bolts, his childhood a cathedral of tragedies, and when life gets hard he cannot afford to bow—he must get harder to match. 

 

It’s why he ducks away from anything tender, he’s too ravenous to accept it in moderation. A simple brush of fingertips is all it takes for him to want to beg to be held, tightly enough so that he will not fall apart. 

 

He stares at the face regarding him, apprehensive and skittish, but the rational part of him seems to take back a bit more control and he reluctantly moves his trembling hands away to reveal the mangled mess that is his leg, visibly misshapen and wrong even through the leather pants and the thick coating of silt. Havoc hisses through his teeth, scanning the injury with an indecipherable look. 

 

"Alright, I—I'm gonna take your boot off. Okay, Ed?" He spoke warily, an air of caution about him like he was trying to calm a cornered animal. An uneasy sound slipped through his teeth, and the man's face softened. "C'mon, I'll be gentle. I swear I won't hurt you, kid"

 

And he was true to his word, untying the shoe and removing the laces altogether, pulling the tongue back as far as it could go to tug as little on the injury as possible when he slid it off his foot. Despite the great care taken, even the miniscule movement had his bones grinding together, sparking like two rocks striking one another. The pain was white hot and urgent, taking up so much space inside him it left no room for even thoughts, and he trembled with the effort it took to bite back a cry.

 

"Sorry, sorry, I know." Havoc soothed, a tortured look distorting his features. He didn’t take his eyes off of Ed as he tossed the boot aside, keeping his focus forward even as he was reaching into an internal pocket of his coat. He pulled out a pocket knife, flicking the blade open and tearing into the seam of his tattered pant leg without warning, apologising under his breath when Edward flinched away. When he rips the fabric open, the drop in the atmosphere is palpable, and the nagging ill feeling he’s been fighting off is growing frighteningly quickly at the sight he’s met with.

 

Knowing that the mess of flesh and bone he’s looking at belongs to him is a feeling he can’t explain. The skin is mottled and gnarled, pale and sickly where there isn’t a graze or gash painting it red, and his foot hangs limply at an unsettling angle. From what little is discernible in the dingy light and through the layers of crimson mush that looks to be either coagulated blood, shredded tissue, or both, the bone doesn’t appear to have broken through the skin. He tries to focus on the small positive.

 

It doesn’t last long, and he can't help the whimper that escapes him, limbs suddenly very heavy and head very light. 

 

"Woah, okay, chief—easy, easy there," A warm hand cradles his jaw, moving his gaze away from his injury and towards a pair of steady blue eyes. "You're fine, alright? You're just fine."

 

He swallows, blinks, mouth filled with static and vision with sparks. Nausea overwhelms him so quickly he can feel the sensation overflow into his sinuses. He doesn't feel fine, he doesn't. 

 

A strangled sound from his right reminds him of the two others present, and lazily, he lets his eyes flit over to the source. The colonel doesn’t look like himself, and it’s getting harder for him to tell if their drawn, weary faces are a result of the light, his concussion, or their circumstances. Perhaps an amalgamation of the three. All he knows is that his stomach is in knots and seeing them look scared is scaring him even more.

 

"I can’t believe this," Mustang sighs, rubbing his face like it might smooth away the worry lines etched into his skin, more flustered than Ed's ever seen him before. "How do you do it? How do you find trouble everywhere , huh? You—you're gonna put me in an early grave, pipsqueak." His face had softened greatly, almost defeatedly, and he smoothed a hand over Edward's crown. Only then did he realise how they shook, and—oh. Oh.

 

Maybe he hadn't been angry after all. 

 

"Alright, let's get you horizontal, kiddo. C'mon," Havoc's face is warm even in the harsh lighting of the mine, hands scooping under his knees and lower back to pull him forward and ease him down to lay with his head cushioned in Breda's lap. 

 

The world moving around him is dizzying enough that he closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Breda’s face is looming over him. Though it’s upside down, the look of concern is still clear, and it appears very foreign on someone he’s labelled as unflappable. He’s not sure how to feel about it, but the large hand settling on the side of his head is undoubtedly very nice.

 

At his feet, Havoc and Mustang keep busy—cutting away the remnants of his pants a few inches above the knee, placing a rolled up uniform coat beneath his shin, and rinsing away blood and debris with water from one of their canteens. It burns, but hushed words and comforting hands soothe him through it.  

 

“How’re you holding up there, beansprout?” Mustang asks him, and he simply couldn’t be bothered to find the energy to make a fuss about the moniker, especially when it was said so fondly.  “I don’t want you drifting too far, okay? You’re looking a bit too spacey for my liking.”

 

That damned colonel should feel lucky he’s not feeling present enough to tell him where to shove it. 

 

He hurts so much he can think of nothing else, and letting himself be distant feels so nice when it offers such reprieve. He doesn’t want to be there, wants to tell the man to screw off and let him take a step back even though he knows he shouldn’t, and something must show on his face because Mustang huffs out a sound just shy of a laugh.

 

“I know, I know you’re not feeling well, cricket,” The words are said so softly, accompanied by slender fingers combing back his sweaty bangs, and Ed thinks Mustang is doing a terrible job of keeping him awake. “Hold on a little longer for me, you gave your head quite the smack and I wanna make sure you didn’t scramble that genius noggin of yours.” He scoffs internally, and although it takes much more effort and focus than it should, he does his best to make the meanest, most unimpressed face he can manage—and it must work, because it gets a low laugh from the colonel, hand swiping behind his ear. “Yeah, I’m the worst, aren’t I? At least I know your personality is intact.” 

 

He’s smiling at him, but it’s not happiness that he’s showing. It’s an entirely new side to the man that he’s only ever seen in sneak peaks, little snippets of emotion he only lets free when he thinks no one is looking. Those small glimpses have occupied Ed’s mind for hours at a time before, and he can look at a transmutation circle complex enough to make an expert’s head spin and break it down into its vital components within minutes but he can’t for the life of him figure out the anomaly that is Roy Mustang. 

 

And it bothers him immensely, not knowing—to look a man in the face and be unable to predict his next move, to be completely oblivious to what’s going on inside his head and never be entirely certain where his intentions lie, it makes him anxious. Maybe that’s why he gives the colonel a hard time, because it irritates him that he’s so closed off and unreadable—that must be it. He likes to push his buttons because the ass just pisses him off, not because he knows if he makes him mad he can always know what to expect. Because anger doesn’t lie. Anger can’t be used against him, can’t be faked and strategically implemented to gain the upper hand. Not because an honest insult hurts much less than a kind lie. 

 

But the very hand capable of unthinkable destruction is stroking the hair from his face, and that meagre gesture feels much more genuine than all the months of vitriol between them combined, and he’s beginning to question himself and every idea he had of the man in front of him that he thought was concrete. He and the colonel had more screaming matches than they did conversations, but he thought at least he could be confident that every interaction was true. Those eyes have him rethinking. He’d screamed at him just minutes ago and now his eyes were so soft when he looked at him and he wonders if every bitter word they’d exchanged had ever really been anger at all. 

 

Now, he’s thinking anger isn’t always as black and white as he thought, and that changes everything he thought he knew, and it makes his head hurt and stomach roil all the more.

 

“This needs to be splinted.” 

 

Havoc’s somber declaration breaks his train of thought, and whatever he’d been thinking of skitters off into little meaningless pieces.  

 

It’s dark and there’s a chill in his bones. His leg hurts.

 

“All’s around here is dirt, rocks, and a whole lot of nothing,” He continues, considering. “And it looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for a while, so I’d really like to make sure that leg’s as still as possible in the meantime.” 

 

“Stuck?” The small, worried interjection comes so unexpectedly that at first he’s unsure if it really came from him. He’s still feeling awfully spacey, and he doesn’t like how loose it makes his tongue. 

 

Jean smiles at him sadly, like he pities him, like he’s a child asking a silly question because the answer is obvious to everyone but him. He works his jaw, tilts his head, hesitates in more ways than one. The mannerisms are akin to that of a parent trying to delicately deliver the news of his puppy running away, but his eyes betray his intent, and Edward follows his gaze. 

 

Suddenly, he feels very, very awake.

 

Packed tightly from ceiling to floor lie boulders and wooden debris of all shapes and sizes, the slightest of gaps filled in with gravel, and the gaps in the gravel with sand. From his current vantage point, the area they’d dug him out from can be seen, highlighted by the disturbance in rocks and the unmistakable dark stain of blood. What he’d been buried under appears pathetically pale in comparison to the entirety of the wreckage, and if he hadn’t fallen when he’d pushed Mustang…

 

He’d been trying not to make a big deal out of it, been trying to reel in his reactions and maintain his composure—but it feels like a big deal, now. It feels like a really, really big deal.  

 

"Hey, listen—" Havoc begins, resting a hand on his shoulder. "The air vents weren't covered up, we've got lots of water, and the first shift in the mine starts at five am. Someone's gonna find us." 

 

The attempt to comfort him was appreciated, but unnecessary, as it wasn’t exactly the idea of being stranded that frightened him—one good thing about being alone on an island for a month was that now mishaps like this tended to pale in comparison. Hell, he’d slept in worse conditions intentionally before. What worried him was an issue of a more internal source. 

 

He was used to being roughed up, could take a punch as easy as shaking the hand of an old friend, familiar and unflinchingly. He’d mastered a poker face and could compartmentalise almost concerningly well, but he always had the chance to scuttle away into a corner to lick his wounds in private. Maintaining a blank face was easy enough in short durations if he knew it wouldn’t be long before he could allow himself to break—to fall apart and just hurt away from prying eyes and sympathy. 

 

Clumsily, he dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his watch and flipping it open. 

 

12:07 am. 4 hours and 53 minutes until any hope of discovery, and there was no telling how long it would take for help to arrive; not to mention the time it would take for them to assess the damage and strategically sift through all the rubble. There wasn’t a chance in hell he could make it that long without irreparable damage to his pride as well as the inside of his cheek, which he’d already bitten raw.

 

15 minutes in he was already losing his grip, and the pain was only getting worse by the second.

 

"Yeah, kid. Ever been camping? It's—it’s kinda like that. In, uh—in some ways." Breda spoke up from behind him, his argument weak but his intentions making up for it. It was a lot like a rabbit jumping into the street and slamming on the brakes, squeezing your eyes shut only to open them to an arm across your chest, pinning you against the seat. 

 

It was just a rabbit. It’s just a cave. There’s no need for them to protect you, but they do. They do anyway.

 

"I've always hated camping," Mustang mutters loathingly, and as much as he’s found the bastard’s misery insufferable before, he feels it now. He understands. 

 

“G-Good thing,” He grunted, words forced out. “Thi-is ain’t nothin’ like c-camping then.”

 

He sounded pathetic, words chopped up into bits passing through his chattering teeth, but they all laughed anyway and although it wasn’t nearly as carefree, he closed his eyes and pretended that none of this had happened at all and he was walking back to the inn, two arms around his shoulders.  

 

4 hours, 51 minutes.

—------------

 

Every time he thinks the pain has reached its peak, it gets worse. 

 

Shock made him dizzy and fuzzy-headed but he wanted it back because he liked it better when it all felt a bit like a dream, blurry around the edges and just a bit past his understanding. Now it feels real, very, very, real. Like it's happening because it is.

 

He thinks his body gave up trying to shield him from the true extent of the damage around the time Havoc pressed two slivers of wood on either side of his leg, wrapped it up in torn up bits of his undershirt and pulled . A splint, he’d said. To help him. He trusts the lieutenant implicitly but it feels more and more like a lie with each passing second. 

 

The pressure is hell. Back home, when he and Al were still little, their mother used to take a can of sweet milk and place it in a pot to boil. She promised them that if they were good all day, the milk would turn into a creamy, caramel spread for them to enjoy after dinner. If they were bad, the milk would go bad and simmer and broil until the can swelled to its breaking point and exploded, then he and his brother would be responsible for cleaning sticky sweet residue out of every crook and cranny of the kitchen. 

 

His leg feels like sweet milk gone bad, pressing tightly against the bindings and printing the wood grain and woven lines of fabric into his skin like a stamp. He’s outgrowing his flesh and his skin is tight tight tight like aluminium and someone’s gonna have to pick bits of him out from the gap between the stove and the counter.

 

“You were never one to do things half-way, hm?” He feels the voice more than he hears it, low and rumbling from where his ear is pressed against Mustang’s chest. Breda had passed him over to the man when he and Havoc had gone to scavenge for something to tie his leg up with, as well as check in on their captives. 

 

Moving wasn’t something he’d been too excited to do, and he didn’t understand why Havoc had to take Breda instead of Mustang. When he asked, they gave him an excuse that he couldn’t remember, but they all shared a silent look and it seemed meaningful in some way so he didn’t dig. Plus, he couldn’t act like it didn’t feel really nice to be pulled into a warm lap instead of placed on the cold stone, and Mustang was rubbing his back in steady circles that made it easier to forget his leg felt like it was put through a meat grinder.

 

“It’s like russian roulette with you, kid,” Mustang muses, like he’s not really talking to him at all. Just speaking. Settling his nerves, filling the silence. “Except at times I think the gun you were handed is fully loaded. Just shitty, shitty luck, huh?”

 

Edward hums in agreement. Words are beyond him, now. He’s shaking, shaking, shaking and his fingertips feel like ice but his blood is molten and it burns behind his eyelids and makes a campfire below his knee. Some time ago, they’d taken another piece of cloth torn from Havoc’s shirt and poured water over it to lay over his forehead and occasionally wipe over his face when the sweat started to soak him. The cold water is jarring against his scorching skin but it feels good anyway.  

 

“Time?” Someone asks, and he listens a little more closely than before. 

 

“1:32 am,” A different voice replies, and Edward bites back a sob.

 

3 hours, 28 minutes.

 

—---------

 

“It’s getting worse.”

 

He’s unsure who’s speaking but he wants to scream because they have no idea. They have no idea. 

 

“It shouldn’t be getting worse now, he shouldn’t be in this much pain.”

 

Mustang’s voice is recognizable, if only because it’s so close. Sweat has turned the spot where his forehead lays on the man’s white shirt translucent, and it’s gross but he doesn’t care and Mustang seems likewise preoccupied. 

 

God, he hurts. The word is wrong because it’s not big enough, like calling outer space big when it should be called immense, colossal, infinite—there’s no collection of letters in any language to make such magnitude comprehensible, no way to file this feeling down to something bite-sized, something digestible. An astronaut can describe the endless vacuum of the universe to ground control but he can never make them understand. You cannot teach colour to the blind beyond meaningless adjectives. The deaf may feel beat and rhythm but they do not know sound. 

 

He’s panting, heaving in every breath and forcing it out again and again and again but it doesn’t feel like breathing. It doesn’t seem like air. The pain is like headlights in the night and he is a crossing deer, the thought of the forest on the other side is nothing to him because his world is bright bright bright and that’s all he is and ever was and he doesn’t stand a chance against it. They’ll leave his body on the shoulder to rot. 

 

“Talk to me, what are you feeling? What can I do?”

 

And he cries, he cries cries cries because he’s stars and they can name the constellations and they’ve felt the sun’s warmth but the incandescent heat that is his existence is something they will never possibly perceive.

 

It’s not their fault, but no matter how high they jump, they will never know flight like the bird does. 

 

1 hour, 59 minutes.

 

—------

 

“Something’s wrong.” 

 

Roy feels the need to say it aloud, even if he knows they can all feel it. Their unease is clear in the way Havoc’s mouth doesn’t stop moving, chewing his lips and grinding his teeth to stave off the urge for a cigarette—and Breda’s pacing, circling the cave over and over again to the point where he swears his tracks are beginning to wear away the earth. 

 

And he knows Havoc is aware of something he isn’t, because he’s been staring at the trembling bundle in his arms for five minutes unblinkingly, and he looks like he’s going to be sick. He wants to ask but he’s terrified of the answer. 

 

“Yeah, I know.” Jean says, quiet and sombre and much too apprehensive for his liking. 

 

"You know what it is. I can see it on your face."

 

It isn't a question and he doesn't expect an answer, but part of him still hopes he'll deny it, shake out of his trance and tell him he's delusional. The silent, pained look he gets in response staunches the notion in a second.

 

Havoc breaths in, holds it, breaths out. The air is thick and humid.

 

"Ed, I—I'm gonna take a look at your leg again, buddy."

 

Edward's brow furrows even more than it had already been, wobbling his head weakly side to side. The sound he makes is stuck halfway between a growl and a keen, like part of him wants to nip at any hands that get too close and the rest of him just wants to beg .

 

Please don't touch me. It hurts. I don't know what to do. Please fix it.

 

"Shit…" Havoc mutters under his breath, eyes squeezing shut. He reaches out to sweep the bangs back from the boy's sickly skin, and his hand trembles ever so slightly. Sweat plasters the blond locks to his head. "I know, don't I know it, honey. I'm only gonna look, okay? I promise."

 

He expects more of a fight from the kid, who’s all gnashing teeth and brazen tongued at the best of times and downright combative at the worst. Never yielding, not when it didn't matter, or if he could back away, it wasn’t even an option to him. There lives an undying fear of his worth falling short simmering beneath his skin, and he’s constantly clawing his way afloat, always screaming.

 

I am enough. I am enough. I am strong and I will prove it. I’ve fought like hell to be here and I will do it again.

 

Hostility has been etched into his bones, woven through his shifting growth plates and filling in the hollows of fallen baby teeth. He doesn’t know how to exist without conflict anymore. 

 

But he lays his head back against Roy’s chest, eyes flitting shut, body limp and listless save the tension in his jaw, and the relent is frightening.

 

“Okay, let’s take a peek, here.” There’s a certain tone the second lieutenant falls into when he’s nervous, and it’s singing. He’s so careful with him, fingers just skimming when he tugs aside the dirtied fabric of their makeshift splint, still Edward flinches when he feels the movement. Something Havoc sees has him swearing, quickly but equally as gently untying the bindings and letting the scrap wood fall away. 

 

It was a running joke around the office that Ed had tiny feet, his sized-up combat boots appearing much like those of a small child ( small child small child he is a small child) alongside ones belonging to a soldier. Looking at them now though, Roy wonders if he’d be able to squeeze those size 6’s into even Jean’s 12’s anymore. The entire limb is swollen beyond belief, discoloured skin shiny and taut. Even the tiny wrinkles in the creases of his toes have been forced smooth, early signs of bruising blotted under the nails. Without any real thought, he pulls Edward’s head closer to his chest, tucking him under his chin. The injury is stomach-turning just to look at, and the thought of what the kid must be feeling has him tasting bile. 

 

Havoc only has to glance before he’s turning away, hand plastered over his mouth with shoulders tightly wound and Roy knows that he knows and he knows that it’s bad. Bad enough to make the lieutenant who’d aced every survival training and field medicine exercise he’d ever taken turn sheet white. 

 

And not for the first time that night, he wished that it had been him under all that rubble. 

 

—-----------------------------

 

Something really bad was wrong with him. 

 

He was beginning to think that life only ever gave him good things and joyful experiences as a warning, a way to soften the blow before it piled on more death and trauma and pain. His happiest memories could never just be happy memories, always tainted with loss, allways foreboding. He couldn’t think of the day he, Winry and Al had spent at the park laughing until they cried without bringing back the aching weight of returning home that night to find a solemn soldier at their doorstep with a letter. Or when he and his brother had finally figured out a transmutation they’d been stuck on for months, running home to find groceries spilled over the floor, oranges still rolling away from his mother’s still hands. 

 

There was no happiness unburdened in his life. No laughter that didn’t promise tears.

 

He feels foolish to have thought he could have had that small moment of peace with his friends earlier just to keep, a memory that was clean—he’s paying the price, now. He’ll never be able to recall the feeling of hands in his hair without remembering the crushing weight, the vision of his teammates huddled to the side hushing whispers to each other he can’t make out but knows are about him.

 

Mouthing words and side-eye glances were not new to him, but they still made him feel as small as they had the very first time. An atmosphere like this never meant anything good. 

 

Ten minutes had gone by since Havoc and Mustang had exchanged a frantic look that made his stomach wobble. They’d spread out their coats together on the ground, laid him upon it, brushed the hair from his eyes and promised to stay close. It was cold and he hated himself for it but he wished that Mustang would hold him again, but he was muttering something to Havoc and they all looked kind of sick and he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t stupid but he kind of wishes he was sometimes, wishes he was just dull enough to let the truth slip past him instead of striking him in the face. 

 

He doesn’t want them to take his leg again, doesn’t want to even beg them not to for fear of putting the idea in their head. He fought through automail surgery once but he doesn’t think he can do it again. He doesn’t want to do it again. 

 

He looks over at the small huddle of soldiers and he knows it’s irrational and morbid but he looks at the guns holstered on their hips and feels like a sick dog about to be put down. 

 

And it hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts so much he can't move or speak, can only lay there and shake and let tears fall from his eyes in a continuous stream, breath hitching and heaving. He’s flesh and bone but he really does feel like a rabid animal and the thought of being shot in the head is feeling more and more like a mercy. 

 

—------------------------------------------------------------

 

“There’s got to be another way, we can’t do this, I—” Roy sucks in a breath, frenzied and trembling. “I can’t put him through that, it’s—it’s cruel. ”

“You think I want this?” Havoc hisses out, eyes wide and jittery, looking for a moment like he’s going to cry. “I wouldn’t even consider touching him if I knew there was any other option, but if I don’t—if we leave it—” He snaps his mouth shut, pacing a few steps, jaw tightly set. “Nerve damage isn’t far away. Either we release the pressure, or that kid loses another limb, and I’m not going to be the reason he becomes a triple amputee before he’s lost all his baby teeth.” 

 

Baby teeth. Baby. He's still a baby. Baby. Baby. Baby.

 

He makes it most of the way through before his voice starts to crack over the last few words, turning away with a shuddering breath to reign himself in, teeth clenched over white knuckles. Anger isn’t quite what they’re all feeling, but it’s an easy face to uphold, and in the sweaty, squirming, destroyed sort of emotion, the urge to scream and rage and punch the shit out of something is definitely present. Mad, but not at each other. Not really. There just wasn’t anything else to swing at.

 

Honestly, he’s not quite sure what exactly it is that he is mad at. Life, the universe, the shitty, shitty gamble of circumstance—he’s just pissed, pissed that he’d seen Edward smile unguarded for what felt like the first time and then he’d watched him crumble underneath fallen earth in his stead. It was as if the boy was punished each time he let himself be young. The cards dealt to him were rigged against him and Roy wanted to burn the world to the ground because it was so unfair and he still has to poise himself on his tiptoes to reach his coat off the rack. His skin knew the sharp edge of a knife all too well but he’s never shaved a day in his life, face free of hair save for youthful peach fuzz. On his birthday, Hughes had brought in a cake to the office that Gracia had made, and his nose had scrunched up and head tilted to the side like a damn puppy because for so long his life consisted of just surviving each day that he hadn’t celebrated in years. They’d had to remind him it was his birthday. He looked like he didn't know what to do with the information.

 

He didn’t get to experience the simple joys of being a child, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all and Roy hurt for him. 

 

“Compartment syndrome,” Roy said, like the diagnosis was just sinking in. “I’ve only ever heard it in passing before. It’s—” He swallowed thickly. “It’s said to be one of the most painful things to experience.”

 

Amputation, automail surgery, compartment syndrome—the kid might as well be using a list of the most horrific things known to man as a checklist at this point.

 

Havoc worried his nails between his teeth, sighed heavily. Guilt was already spilling out of him, and Roy suddenly regretted the mindless comment that in hindsight felt a little bit like rubbing salt in the wound. “It’ll hurt at first, but he’s gonna feel much better after. The longer we wait, the more pain he’s gonna be in, and the more damage is done.” The blond said levelly, sounding more like a self-assurance than a statement. 

 

There was no other way and he had to face it, no matter how badly he wished it not to be true.

 

Roy felt his jaw waver slightly, eyeing Edward’s crumpled form sweating straight through the pile of coats he laid upon. Breda knelt next to him, wiping the tears from his cheeks and speaking to him in comforting murmurs softer than anything he’d ever heard from the man before. Despite the touch, Edward’s eyes were vacant, like he’d crawled deep within himself to try and distance himself from the agony. The thought of adding to it made Roy feel very heavy and very old. 

 

“I’ll make it quick,” Havoc promised, seeing his obvious reluctance. “You know I’ll be careful with him.”

 

He let his gaze linger on Edward for a moment longer before turning to meet the eyes of his second lieutenant. Even in the hazy light, the tearing, aching feeling they all shared practically bled from his expression. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the man would make it as easy and painless as possible for the kid, but there was only so much he could do. A bullet still shoots just as mercilessly no matter how gently the trigger is pulled.

 

He trusted the lieutenant, knew he was just as torn up about the situation as he was. Still, he wondered bitterly to himself just how careful one could be performing surgery on a conscious child with a pocket knife in a candlelit mineshaft. 

 

—--------------

 

“You really know how to keep me on my toes, huh, kid?” Roy couldn’t help but mutter fondly, wringing out and re-soaking the thin piece of cloth before carefully wiping away the muddy tracks of dirt, sweat, and tears over Ed’s cheeks. The kid’s half-lidded eyes fluttered shut at the feeling, a whimpering sigh that made Roy’s heart pang with sympathy falling through his parted lips. “I know, kiddo. You haven’t by any chance pissed off some crotchety old witch at some point, have you? Nobody has luck this bad, you’ve gotta be cursed or something.”

 

Edward sniffed, shaking his head slightly with a hum. 

 

“Only—th’only c-curse I got’s— s’you .” 

 

It takes all the little energy he has left to get out those few slurred words, and out of everything he could have used it to say, he’d mustered up all he had in him just to insult him. Roy’s grinning despite it all because this kid —he’s just remarkable, isn’t he? God, how could anyone expect him not to love him to death? Because he loved him to death. He did. He loved the hell out of that stupid kid. His stupid kid.

 

His kid. That’s his kid. That’s my kid. Oh God, my kid. 

 

“Brat,” Is all he ends up saying, but he says it with a smile and the kid smiles weakly back, and for now, he thinks that may be enough. 

 

“Are you ready?” Breda asks from behind him, hand squeezing Havoc’s shoulder.

Jean just sighs, nervous energy practically buzzing around him. He picks up his pocket knife, wrapping his hand in the thick fabric of his uniform skirt to grab the metal canteen from where it had been situated over the flame of an oil lamp before pouring a bit of the boiling water over the blade. The rather large threat of infection prodded Roy in the back of his mind, but he refused to dwell on it. There was no point. 

 

“As I’ll ever be,” Havoc breathed out, posture screaming with anxiety. “Though I really don’t think I’m the one you should be asking.”

 

Immediately, all eyes shot over to Edward, laid out on his back over now damp jackets, still violently trembling. They’d stripped him of his jacket and thought it best to remove the pants altogether, leaving him clad in only his undershirt and boxers. Even with the slight chill in the air, sweat still seeped out of the poor kid, leaving Roy thankful not for the first time tonight that Jean had insisted on bringing what he’d previously considered to be a ridiculously unnecessary amount of water with them for what was supposed to be a short trip. They couldn’t get it down in the kid fast enough before he was immediately losing the fluids. Roy just counted themselves lucky that they were able to calm him down from vomiting it right back up.

 

"Ed," He croaked, heart clenching in his chest. "Whenever you're ready, kid." 

 

Edward's breath stuttered, somehow losing even more colour from his already deathly pale skin. His lips pulled into a thin line, jawline quivering with how tightly he grit his teeth together. The kid was almost eerily good at disguising his emotions, and it took even Roy a while to be able to read him. The truth, he'd learned, could always be found in his eyes, even when his expression betrayed no feeling. He couldn't hide the way the way they glazed over, pupils shrinking to pinpricks in terror. Selfishly, Roy wished he could believe the calm facade he'd adopted, just to save himself from the truth of what they were doing to the kid.

 

Stiffly, Ed nodded. Roy wanted to wish the world away for him, hated how easily he relented when he should be screaming and cursing God himself for how he's been treated. Pieces of him continued to die over and over and not once did he grieve for them, not once did he beg, never asked for kindness or mercy—just let himself be silently beaten, suffering passively catastrophe after catastrophe because it was all he knew life to be. 

 

And he wanted him to know that this wasn't how it was supposed to be, that he deserved so much more from the world, that this life he was leading wasn't fair—but this is how it is. This is how it is. It was eat what's served to you or starve, a reality that Edward had swallowed long ago and one Roy wasn't sure he ever would. 

 

He wonders if the kid even knows. Playing the part of indifferent and untouchable came easily to him, but Roy has an inkling that the kid has no idea how strong he truly is, has no clue how he can take hardships and pain with more grace and valour than most grown men. 

 

God, he wishes things could be different—-but God, if he isn't damned proud.

 

Scooping up the pile of lanky limbs and feverish skin felt much like handling a snowflake, intricate and precious and delicate, like one sudden movement would have him slipping through his fingers. He feels like a newborn foal in his hands, wet and trembling, holding on like the world itself was new and daunting. Roy takes great care not to jostle him as he eases them to sit, his own back against the wall and Edward’s against his chest. The air around them is thick and suffocating, and as he loops his arms around the boy, pinning his arms to his sides, he imagines himself toeing the line between comforting and restraining and wonders where he lies. Asks himself how far intentions really take him. 

 

Killing a man even for the greater good is murder nonetheless. The firing squad doesn't care for reasoning. What they’re doing now is beneficial and doesn’t really fall under the strict boundaries of the law, but what is it, if not a horrible crime? He certainly feels guilty, still feels like he should be punished.

 

I am, he thinks absently, I am being punished.

 

In front of them, Havoc seems to ready himself, eyes wide and barren in a way they haven’t been in years. Their surroundings are as clean as they’re going to get, they’re all in place, and the knife is held in his hand, the sleeves of his button up rolled to his elbows. All that’s left to do is begin, but no one is willing to say the word. 

 

Blearily, Ed lolls his head forward, breathing heavy and shallow through lips that pull into a weak smirk. 

 

"D-Do I—do I get a beer n-now?” He pants, looking much too pleased with the baffled looks he receives. 

 

A memory springs to his mind unbidden, one of gleeful laughter and lighthearted mischief. In his mind's eye Hughes is doubled over, giggling like a schoolgirl as he relays to him the dinner he'd had the night prior. A right of passage, he'd called it—giving a sip of beer to Edward, recalling with absolute giddiness the face the kid had pulled and the long tirade of curses that had the man convinced he'd finally found a rival to his hatred of milk.

 

Not for the first time that night, he's struck with the selflessness of that idiot kid—jumping blindly into landslides and trying to comfort the people about to fillet him like a fish.

 

He didn't want the beer. He gets all he wants from the question when the men smile and shake their heads incredulously.

 

"After this? Kid, I'll buy you a whole damn bottle of scotch." Breda promises, seconded by Havoc on the condition that he shares. 

 

Between his knees, Havoc pins Ed's ankle, and Breda presses down on his thigh with both hands. Roy can feel every muscle in the kid's back and shoulders go rigid, but he doesn't make a sound, still trying to spare them any guilt. 

 

Ashamed of self preservation, intoxicated by the belief that to give is to be good, that worth is how much he can provide. With a knife pressed to his skin and hands held captive, still he finds himself at fault, scouring the circumstances for incriminating evidence. Crucified, preaching penance. 

 

Roy squeezes Edward tightly, like if he held him close enough the thick, clinging remorse might seep out of him and press itself into his skin. Like he could prove it. Like he could make him feel it. 

 

Sound exists only in the form of haggard breathing, Breda's rushed, airy whispers of comfort that bordered on prayer, and the distant sound of dripping water. Jean, back of his wrist digging into his eye socket, appeared as hollow and haunted as the cavern around them.

 

"If there is a God, he's one sick bastard." he confesses, and no answer follows. Roy had decided his faith long ago, a slow realisation, a dwindling with a beginning he knew concretely but an ending he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was the weeks he’d spent in stiff, rusty clothing after a young soldier had stepped on a landmine, steady running water a long forgotten luxury and casualties an inevitability to accept and ignore. A few fellow soldiers helped him scrape the private off his blues, bits of bone and unidentifiable tissue brushed off into the sand. He never learned his name, but he knew the taste of his blood with sharp, unforgettable accuracy. There were a lot of unknowns he was content to let remain so, but in his mind there was one undeniable truth that surfaced with the mention of anything holy.

 

He doesn’t know if God exists, but the devil lives and breathes and he looks like a sheet of glass with a shiny silver backing.

 

A wave of unwilling acceptance falls over them, much like the sudden silence of a cornered animal who could see the end in sight. Edward breathes in heavily, breathes out with a sort of finality because he knows the cornered animal is him.

 

“I’m so sorry.” Jean forces his hand still, presses down on the knife, and drags. 

 

Edward doesn’t scream, but the choked, desperate sob he lets out feels almost worse. Down the side of his calf from just below the knee to just above the ankle, his flesh splits open, Havoc going as deeply as he dared with one cut to make the process as quick as possible. Yellow bubbles of fat are quickly glossed over with red, and the sight makes Roy’s stomach roll over. 

His hand finds its way beneathchin, averting his screwed shut eyes and tipping his head back to rest on his shoulder as if looking away will make him forget. 

 

"Hold still, sweetheart, try to stay still," Havoc brokenly pleads, laying a barely there hand on the uncut side of his leg. Trying not to nick important strands running through his flesh has to be near impossible, but the poor kid can't help but squirm in agony, pushing against the hands holding him though clearly trying to resist. 

 

"Pass out, kid, it's okay, it’s okay," Roy finds himself begging, heart and muscles pulling on his ribs and throat, body caving into itself. “C’mon, please pass out, Ed.”

 

Blown, glassy eyes loll in their sockets, settling on Roy’s face. His pale lips thin out, curling in desperate frustration. Roy’s chest seizes, struck harshly by how very young he looks in that moment, teary-eyed and rosy-cheeked, flesh hand fisted into the fabric of Roy’s jacket still draped over his shoulders. A new wave of adrenaline seems to have come over him the minute the knife touched his skin, previous sleepy weakness cleared away by the sharp onset of fight or flight, the urge to push against them and run back with new fervour.

 

"Breda, you gotta hold him tighter, I'm scared the knife's gonna slip, I—I'm closer to arteries than I'd like to be." 

 

"I'm trying —poor kid's gonna have bruises in the shape of my damn hands.”

 

“You gotta stop fighting me, you’re gonna hurt yourself, Ed—shh, easy—” 

 

“Ed, I’ve almost got it, honey. Don’t move, I need you to stay very, very still for just a little longer, okay?”

 

It’s a combined effort, Breda hesitantly pressing down a little harder on his thigh while Roy cinches his arms a bit tighter over the kid’s torso. Edward tenses bodily, digging the crown of his head into the crook of Roy’s neck, holding his breath in an attempt to stay as still as possible. He’s not sure what happens within him, then—whether it’s the crisis induced chemical imbalance that sends him over the edge or the tiny, forlorn cry that slips through Ed’s tightly clenched teeth—but the last of the bonds suppressing some long buried instinct within him melt away completely, and he presses his lips to the kid’s sweaty brow and Edward leans into it. 

 

It’s a step into uncharted territory, a connection they’d been dancing around for a long while, toeing boundaries neither of them were brave enough to cross. Roy’s taken the plunge head-first and the waters are murky, the relief of giving in swirling together with the fear that he’d just doomed them both to hell. A touch that’s sure to leave a mark, something irreversible and unignorable they’ll be forced to face—just not quite yet. For now, they’re both content with each other’s heartbeat, drowning out all other sound.

 

Whatever Havoc does next has Edward winding up and inhaling sharply, then like a puppet with severed strings, falling exhaustedly into Roy’s arms.

 

“It's done, it's done! That's it, it's over. It's over," Jean says somewhat frantically, tossing the knife to the side like it had burned him. Blood coats his hands, more reminiscent of motor oil in the darkness, but his hands still hover like he aches to do something to make up for what he's done.

 

Edward lays panting in his arms, eyes half-lidded like he was ready to drop off to sleep at any moment. He's still pale as all hell and overall just sickly, but despite its gruesome appearance, it's clear that the gaping incision has provided him great relief. Roy won't pretend to understand how that works and truly doesn't care, because while Edward's cheeks are wet the tears have finally stopped, and he feels like he can breathe a little better than before. 

 

“Breathe,” He soothes, laying a hand against the cool, sticky skin of Edward’s neck, the kid’s pulse thrumming against his fingers. “That’s the only thing you’ve got to do now, okay? You’ve done brilliantly, just rest now, kid.”

 

Seeing Edward unwind has left them in a state of tentative relief, like they’re unsure if it’s truly over. Slowly, they’re sitting back, Havoc sagging to sit on his heels as Breda rubs his hands apologetically over the spot on Edward's thigh he'd been holding down, white fingerprints pressed into his skin. 

 

"Is it—" Roy starts, words stumbling out of him. "Did it work? Are you okay?" 

 

Exhaustion has set in once again, Edward's condition as whiplash inducing as ever. Trying to pass out has been traded for struggling to stay awake, and Roy feels another pang of frustration at the bitter irony. 

 

Ed wobbles his head off of his chest, the three of them leaning in waiting anxiously for the verdict. 

 

"I—" He coughs out, voice hoarse and subdued. "I f-fucking h-hate mine ins–inspections." 

 

There’s a tightness in Roy’s throat like he wants to cry, but a laugh perseveres. A little in awe, a little in disbelief, and a little in simple admiration.

 

The storm has thrown him yet again into the unforgiving ocean, bashed him against the rocky shore and drowned him in the undercurrents—but he keeps washing up, battered and bruised and cursing, spitting up seawater onto the beach and wringing himself out. The salt dries in flakes on his skin and in his wounds, but it never sours him, never shrivels or bitters him. Much like broken glass he does not leave the water unscathed, he comes out draped with abrasions; filed down and grated and left stinging. All the abuse he’s suffered from the tides and he comes out softer, smoother, humbled where he should be furious. 

 

And he’ll never fear the waters, never not see beauty in the bay. 

 

Roy laughs again, because he just can’t believe it, doesn’t think he’ll ever truly believe this kid is real. Havoc looks shell-shocked, Breda just stares, but then they’re smiling and shaking their heads along with him because nothing feels too real at the moment and they all need the laughter. 

 

Jean presses the butt of his palm to his forehead, leaving a rusty smudge as he looks up at the ceiling. His laugh sounds only just shy of hysterical, but not a single one of them is going to leave this cavern as sane as they’d entered it. “Jesus–oh, Jesus, I need a goddamn drink.” 

 

Edward hums, sounding far too content for someone with his injuries. A small smile quirks the edges of his lips, and with eyes still closed, he mumbles out a single word.

 

“Scotch.”

—-

 

"Boss, you keep fussing with that blanket and you'll wear a hole right through it." 

 

Roy looks up from the sheets, ears going slightly red upon realising he'd been caught. Spread out in an armchair across from him, Havoc eyes him with that horribly knowing and mawkish look he's been on the receiving end of more and more lately. 

 

He clears his throat, smooths out the edge of the blanket once more and places his hands in his lap.

 

"He runs warm when he sleeps," He says sheepishly, because it's true, a factual observation that’s not nearly as soft as they’re making it out to be. Throughout the many times the kid has fallen asleep in his presence, it always goes the same way; he wraps himself up tightly in his coat or a throw and burrows into himself, but Roy can always tell the minute he’s dropped off because the covers are kicked away and his shirt becomes tucked up and twisted amidst spread out spindly limbs. Hospital blankets could be quite heavy and they’ve got it tucked up to his chest, and Roy just can’t decide if the kid is comfortable or not. Truly, he’s likely conked out enough for it not to matter, but there’s still a sheen of sweat on his brow yet a bit of a draft in the room and after the day they’ve had he just can’t stand to imagine the kid in any kind of discomfort. 

 

That’s just basic human empathy, though—nothing more. 

 

“Roy, he’s out cold,” Breda tells him, like he’s humouring him, wearing a matching Hughes-like smirk. Traces of mud still remain on his face, cracking and flaking in the creases. They could laugh and joke with each other now, but not one of them could muster up the strength to leave even for a moment to wash up. “Look at him, I’ve seen livelier corpses.”

 

It’s said to lighten the mood, get him to loosen up a bit, and he appreciates the sentiment but the words don’t float through the air like banter they sit heavily on his chest like a prognosis, like a possibility. He wants to but he can’t wipe the comment off, he’s become sticky with doubt. The wound still feels much too fresh, and he can already tell it’ll be sore for a long while yet because a harmless remark from a friend is all it takes for him to spiral into visions of young skin gone stiff and pallid and pennies placed over clouded golden eyes and images that make the back of his throat burn and dread claw at his ribs.

 

“Don’t,” He says, a little sharper than he means to. “Don’t say that.”

 

Without looking up, he can see the look the two lieutenants exchange, can sense the break in the mood. Edward doesn’t budge an inch, doesn’t so much as twitch and Roy can’t think of anything else but corpse corpse corpse until he gives in and just outright lays his hand over the boy’s chest. Each subtle movement of his fingers with each beautiful breath and the steady flicker of a heartbeat feels like a higher power trying to prove itself, but not enough for him to thank any kind of god. There isn’t any kind of deity he could forgive for this. 

 

In the corner of his eye, Breda shifts guiltily.

 

“Boss…” He starts softly, tone a bit apprehensive, like he wasn’t sure what to say. Immediately, Roy feels a bit of heat rise to his face, suddenly hit with how ridiculous he’s acting. It’s almost like a chemical imbalance somewhere, like a bizarre second round of pubescent hormones and mood swings. It feels as if Ed has wormed his tiny self into his brain and has started trashing the place, unplugging cords and introducing new ones and rewiring his psyche—for the first time in a long time, he feels a little out of control, and it only makes the lingering anxiety spike. 

 

“No, no, it’s not—” He inhales deeply, trying to settle the weird uneasiness he can’t seem to shake. “Sorry, the little shit’s got me on edge. That’s all.”

 

There’s a considering pause, followed by a nod of understanding and a small smile.

 

“He’s a good kid,” Havoc says, Breda hums in agreement. 

 

“Him?” Roy scoffs, gesturing to the still figure beside him, his hand appearing much larger than normal against the comparison of Edward’s chest. The realisation has something brewing within him, something innate, something determined. “Nope. No. Not even a little. Tell that to all the grey hairs on my head. He’s trying to ruin me. Destroying my image.” It comes out much fonder than he intends, and try as he might, he can't smother his smirk.  

 

Any leftover discomfort dissipates, and he's reminded of how lucky he is to have these men by his side.  

 

The click of the door opening turns their heads, met by a tall, lanky man stepping into the room. A doctor, Roy realises, eyeing the white overcoat he's wearing—though clearly not a seasoned one, thick dark hair and bright eyes betraying his youth. The new arrival offers them a cordial smile, paired with a subtle nod of his head. 

 

"Good morning," He greets. "I'm Dr. Loughry, I just came to check in on Mr. Elric, make sure he's recovering alright from the anaesthesia."  

 

Medical complications were an avenue Roy hadn't considered, but with the simple mention of it his mind easily latched onto the notion and ran away with it, filling him with so many horrific possibilities he could feel them piling up to his throat. Drinking that fourth cup of coffee from the cafeteria isn't feeling like such a good idea anymore.

 

"Of course. Thank you, doctor." He shifts in his seat, trying to settle his racing head. "Please, come in." 

 

The man obliges with another polite smile, picking up the clipboard from the foot of the bed on the way in. Watching the proximity between Edward and the stranger shorten has him feeling an unwarranted sense of displeasure, but even as he acknowledges how foolish it is he can’t stop himself from tracking every movement the doctor makes, sitting alert and on guard in his place.

 

“Any signs of waking?” Loughry inquires, pressing steady fingers to the inside of Edward’s wrist, seemingly finding what he was looking for when he scribbles something down onto the chart. 

 

“Haven’t heard a peep from the little guy,” Breda answers, and Roy finds himself glad one of the others had answered. His head still didn’t feel quite screwed on right.

 

“Hm,” The doctor muses. “Should be any minute now, then. The boy may have been hit a bit harder by the medication on account of the automail.” Loughry’s hand drifted absent-mindedly towards Edward’s right arm, slender fingers brushing against the junction between metal and skin.

 

A stab of alarm shoots through him, but just as he reaches his own hand out to redirect the doctor's well-intentioned touch, a flash of quick automail fingers beats him to it. 

 

Edward goes from comatose to wide awake in an instant. 

 

Whether out of shock or pain from the unyielding grip of a steel hand circling his wrist, Dr. Loughry lets out a small cry, clipboard clattering to the ground. His free hand shoots to join his other one, instinctively prying on the vice-like grasp. It could be comical, how his face had gone from collected and calculated to wildly startled, but he would wait until he was sure the kid hadn’t truly hurt him before laughing at the poor guy.

 

There was an unspoken rule in the office, one that no one said aloud but everyone was aware of nonetheless. It was set into place following the incident in which Havoc had been knocked clean out by an iron fist to the face after coming up behind the kid and clapping a hand onto his shoulder; his right shoulder. Collectively, it was decided to never touch Edward without permission, and definitely never touch the automail.   

 

Physically, the prosthetics could be a great strength, especially in combat—but emotionally, they were great, gaping wounds, and Edward guarded them with bared teeth.

 

“Woah, careful!” Roy tries to calm, taking hold of the boy’s metal wrist. “Relax, Ed. You’re alright. You’re safe, kid. This man is a doctor, he’s just having a look at you. You wanna ease up there?”

 

Wide, golden eyes stare back at them, pupils blown wide with drugs and the way his gaze skated around the room making it clear that whatever they had strung up in that IV bag wasn’t sitting well with him. It made him appear much younger, and a sharp pang shot through his chest at the sight of the poor kid so out of it. 

 

Edward sat ramrod straight in bed, eyes flicking uncertainly between the wrist held in his hand and the face of the man who owned it. The kid hated doctors.

 

“I can assure you, I do not bite.” Loughry reedily tries to amend, face long and gawkish like he still hasn't quite caught up to what's happened. Roy has to bite back his amusement. Seeing grown men cower back from a twelve year old boy has always been one of his favourite parts of having the kid on the team.

 

“I do," Edward replies a little breathlessly, hazy eyes boring into the doctor in a silent threat. Loughry honest to god gulps, and Roy can't help himself. He laughs.

 

“Oh, I know you do,” He chuckles, lack of sleep and relief at seeing the kid up and acting like himself washing away any trace of professionalism he has left in him. “How’s this, you let the nice doctor have his hand back, and if he tries to hurt you in any way you have my permission to bite him. Better yet, I’ll bite him for you, alright?”

 

Edward studies him, considering. With a lazy blink, he relents, releasing the white-sleeved arm and letting his own fall back to his side. 

 

“I’ll bite him,” Ed reiterates, voice smoothed over with drugs. “I’ll bite him, I will.” 

 

Roy smiles, huffing out a breath just shy of a laugh. “Okay, alright. Settle down there, soldier.” Gently, he presses his hands against the kid’s shoulders to have him lie back down. Ed goes down easy.

 

Hilariously, Loughry is now eyeing them both as if they might snap at him, and Roy finds himself tempted to bare his teeth just to see what would happen. Reluctantly, he restrains himself.  

 

"I apologise, doctor," He amends, though admittedly only half meaning it. "He's a bit protective of the automail."

 

The man blinked, holding his wrist to his chest still looking quite starstruck. 

 

"Oh, no, that's quite alright," He quickly replies, seeming to shake himself back into his earlier composure and moving to pick up the dropped clipboard. "Forgive me for startling you, Mr. Elric. Automail users are understandably quite prone to being a bit anxious about people touching it."

 

Edward made a sour face at the implication but didn't fuss as he normally would, something Roy couldn't help but feel grateful for. They needed as much peace as they could get. 

 

"May I have a look at your leg then, major?" The doctor asked cordially, and Ed turns his head to face Roy, bags under his eyes nearly purple with intensity. It's amazing how much he can say without a word, how his eyes could be beseeching. 

 

I don't know him. I don't trust him. I'm scared. 

 

I trust you . Worst of all, I trust you.

 

It's so unfair, these choices he's forced to make, how at times the greater good means betrayal that no matter how small is still just that, betrayal. 

 

"I'm right here," he says in lieu of what he thinks he's supposed to say. "I won't let him hurt you, kid, I promise. Just let him have a look, okay?" 

 

Edward purses his face in a way that makes his lower lip jut out entirely too much like that of a child. Roy knew his age, repeated the number in his head unhealthily often, but the facts were so much easier to push away when he could turn them into hypotheticals—he hated how the youth could look him in the eye, how the innocence could slap him in the face. 

 

He tries to steel his face, doesn't know if he succeeds or not, just holds Edward's hand and hopes he looks like he knows what he's doing. 

 

With careful hands, the doctor pulls back the blanket, unveiling the source of the large lump around the kid's leg that he'd been too afraid to peek at before. 

 

It's almost more horrific to look at now than before. 

 

Swathes of bandages wrap around the entirety of Edward's lower leg, the tips purpling toes just barely poking through. The gore and bruising is all hidden away beneath the wrappings and the injury itself is looking much less severe than it had hours ago, what makes his stomach sink is the cage of rods and bolts holding it all together like scaffolding to a building under construction. Lengths of silver are skewered into muscle and fragmented bone, looking more akin to a medieval torture device than one of medical origin.

 

It's frightening even to Roy as a grown man, and although he's not quite sure what he expects, he braces himself for Edward's reaction.

 

"Oh, man–" Ed murmurs, tinging green. "Ugh, s'... s'gross ." Is all he says, though. Whether the muted reaction is due to the drugs or simply Edward's concerning tolerance to the macabre is hard to tell, but he's just glad that the kid isn't working himself up. 

 

"It's called an external fixator," Loughry explains wryly, smirking slightly. "Quite a new and fascinating advancement in medical technology, though I suppose to anyone unaware of the practice it would appear rather frightening. I assure you, however, that we have seen excellent results with this method, and complications are uncommon."

 

Edward studies the device, conflicting feelings flitting over his face, like he can't decide if his fascination outweighs his discomfort with the thought of the metal stakes he's admiring are drilled into his own body. He seems to settle on overwhelmed, pulling the hand Roy's holding up to his head, turning and burying his face into his sleeve. Watching the childish action leaves him feeling as if all of his internal organs had suddenly turned to liquid, sinking down to his feet. With a little wiggling, he turns his wrist to bury his fingers in the golden crown of hair.

 

He thinks idly about if this was what it was like for him after automail surgery. He wonders if anybody held him then. 

 

The doctor continues to look the apparatus over, shifting bandages and checking up on incisions and grazes that are bright and raw against the white cloth. As time goes on, Edward's grip on his sleeve tightens steadily. He doesn't let go, even when Loughry straightens up and leaves the room with orders to rest and drink some water when he's feeling up to it. Although the ferocity in which he holds onto him lessens, there is still a considerable amount of tension in the way he's laying, and Roy doesn't like it one bit.

 

It settles down as the day drags into night, but even at total rest, Edward clings to him like he'll disappear if he lets go, like he's choosing to, like this affection isn't just a result of desperation. Roy holds him back and understands. He understands. 

 

Around dinner time, Havoc and Breda sneak out for a spell to stretch their legs and get a bite to eat. They had tried to get him to tag along as well, but while Edward had been dozing on and off all day, the thought of the kid waking up to an empty room made his skin crawl—the idea of leaving the kid at all was enough to make him itch, so he thanked them and declined. They didn't push, only nodded like they'd already known, leaving with a promise to return with something for him and Ed from one of the restaurants down the street. It was quiet after that, a nurse or two skittering in every now and then to toy with tubes and check vitals the only interruption to what was, after the day he'd had, a much welcomed peace.  

 

Unfortunately, the lull in atmosphere didn't do him any favours in terms of stifling the ever-present buzzing in his head, everything he'd rather not think about bubbling to the surface. 

 

Why, above all else. Why. Why . 

 

He was a man who had learned to read between the lines, had built a lot of his career off of that skill. Convicts made up entirely of disguises layered on top of each other, personalities shuffled in and out of rotation like playing cards, couldn't fool him with a poker face. He could read their thoughts as easily as if they were written on their foreheads, and he resented how years of refining this ability could be stumped by someone who couldn't reach the top shelf. He'd never met anyone who could rattle his cage like Edward could. It was infuriating—and oh so terribly endearing.

 

"Every time I think I've figured you out," He mused aloud, brushing the hair back from the kid's sleeping face. "You just have to pull the rug out from under me, huh?"

 

"Hm," Ed hums sleepily, startling him a bit, having thought the kid was conked out for the night. Just another instance of the brat keeping him on his toes. "Maybe you're just stupid." He mumbles, not even bothering to open his eyes, content to enjoy the sensation of fingers through his hair like a cat.

 

"Perhaps," Roy indulges, smiling despite himself. It was refreshing to see a little bit of his spark come back. "Although I find it rich the one throwing themself head-first into crumbling mineshafts is calling me stupid."

 

Edward huffs, eyes still closed. "I find your face rich." It's said lazily, with no conviction—not even a hint of anything that would suggest this was the same kid that cursed him and his entire bloodline to hell on a regular basis. It was as if the tension between them had drained away, their proximity quiet and comfortable, each of them unguarded. He just couldn't figure out where it had gone to, or if it had ever truly been there at all. 

 

“What the hell did you think you were doing, pushing me out of the way like that?” The question had been poking at him all day, digging in like a burr in his side. He'd imagined the words to bowl out of him, hot and heavy and forceful—but in the moment he's in now, every breath against the inside of his wrist like a gift—he is honest, and he is quiet. 

 

Edward blinks, looks up at him, and huffs out something like a laugh and something like a sigh. “I was thinking your dumb ass was about to be turned into colonel jam,” He replied, eyes closing again like it meant nothing, like he didn't have to think about it at all. “You're welcome, by the way. I could have let you become blood oatmeal, but I'm just nice like that, see?”

 

Roy resented how easily he could throw himself away, hated the poor kid's guts for hurting in his stead—hated himself for being solid and whole. 

 

“Edward,” He said lowly, with a seriousness that had the corners of the boy's lips tugging down, his head lolling to the side to face him. “If it's ever between me and you, you choose you, do you understand me?”

 

There's a full-bodied pause in which several emotions cycle over Edward’s face. He works his jaw, breathes deeply through his nose, and looks away from him. Roy wants him to answer already, wants the response to be simple and easy and concise. He wants to hold the worth of this kid and show it to him, press it against him until he believes it. He wants love to be clean, but it isn’t. It’s wet and messy and red like blood and it bleeds and stains and hurts.

 

“You don't get to make that decision,” Ed says finally, still defiantly averting his gaze like it could make what he’d done calculated, like it could cover up the kindness in a heavy, practical coat. 

 

And Roy wants to be angry, is angry—is tender, is skinned alive, is filled with pride.

 

“You don't get to force me to live with that. That's not fair,” Edward continues, voice more potent and stern than before. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Because against my better judgement, I unfortunately care whether you live or die, and you don't get to tell me I shouldn't.” He says it like he’s decided, mouth twisting in a frustrated, quivering line. “You don't think my life wouldn't be a hell of a lot easier if I could pick and choose what mattered to me? That isn't how it works. So, I'm sorry if this isn't easy enough for you, but you're going to have to suck it up. You don't get to offer up a life and not expect one in return, and you don't get to love me and-and—” He sucks in a breath, teeth grinding, arms pulled tightly around himself as if to keep his very being together. His cheeks are flushed, forehead shining with sweat from the exertion of his tiny, battered body, sparking a small pang of regret in Roy’s stomach for even bringing the topic up with the condition the kid was in. Roy reaches out a hand to calm him, to apologize, to make the boy sit still, but Edward is swinging his head back to face him, and the look he’s receiving has him freezing in his tracks.

 

“You don't get to love me and expect me not to love you back, bastard. Equivalent exchange.” Edward spits out, blinking and huffing and holding back visible tears that make Roy feel like grains of sand, endless and everywhere. 

 

And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think he could if he tried. It’s with very little thought that he’s sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, gathering the kid into his arms and holding him like a drowning man to dry land. He braces a hand against the back of the boy’s head, blond hair sticking up like straw between his fingers and he’s lightheaded with the feeling of his rising chest because what a gift—what a gift. He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams but he’s never been more whole.

 

“You scared the living shit out of me, kid.” He admits, only realizing the few tears that managed to slip past him when his voice comes out tight and wet. The churning ache in his chest feels like being shot without an enemy to curse at.

“Sorry,” Edward mumbles into his collarbone, face hot and sticky and real against his skin. It’s a word he very seldom hears from the kid, and the sincerity in which he says it makes Roy’s insides roll over. “I’m sorry,”

 

“Shh…it’s okay, it’s okay, kid,” He says, smoothing his hand over his hair. “Don’t apologize, just—just don’t die on me, okay?” It’s a plead disguised in a lighter tone, but they can both see it for what it is. They can both still taste the dirt between their teeth, and neither of them need to say anything at all to understand.

 

Roy hates the world. He hates the sound of birds outside his window, resents the burning sun and finds the chill of winter even worse. The colour yellow is tacky. Music gives him a headache. Babies make his spine curl. He’s a pessimist at best and a piece of shit at worst. And this kid, this stupid, stupid, kid—He loves this kid so much it bleeds out around him, he loves this kid so much it makes him wonder how he could have ever hated anything at all.

 

The two of them stay there until time blends into itself, the sun moving in streaks across the wall until the room goes dark. Havoc and Breda come slinking back in late, far past visiting hours, sneaking past hospital staff and planting themselves in the chairs at Edward’s bedside to settle in for the night against the rules.

And if under Havoc’s coat is a hidden bottle of scotch, well, nobody had to know that either.