{Epilogue}

None of them are quite sure what to do, now.

There must be a tombstone, of course, and a funeral, even though Sirius wouldn't have appreciated it and it's not where he truly belongs, anyway. But, damnit, the stubborn old man had come to mean a great deal to all of them—him, and Al, and the Rockbells and the Hugheses and everyone else in Central—and no matter how much he hated this universe, no one in this universe ever hated him.

(Ed's trying—and failing, sometimes—not to blame Sirius. After all, he was strung too thin, knocked down one too many times, and though Ed thinks he would persevere were he in Sirius' situation, he knows the two of them are very different people.)

But he can't help, sometimes, being angry at him for giving up.

They make the necessary phone calls, to Gracia and Mustang and set the date for the burial. Ed pays for it out of pocket, buys a headstone to match their parents', and doesn't care how much it costs, doesn't care that he doesn't have a bottomless bank account anymore.

He isn't so sure that Sirius ever got a grave in England…and he'll be damned if he doesn't try to make up for it here.

Granny asks questions—of course she does, because she's a smart woman and there are so many things that don't add up about the man that she was far too discreet to ask about while he was alive. But then, when Ed gets off the phone with Gracia (she had sounded upset, but more resigned than tearful, like she had seen this coming just as much as they had), the short woman all but drags him to the living room, sitting him down on the couch beside his brother and pinning them both with a hard stare.

And, just like that, the story of the magical world comes out. Granny's clearly surprised, but it makes far too much sense to question—the glowing wand, the moving photographs, they're too strange to be anything from this world. And then she asks, when they're finished, why he's never performed magic before now.

"He gave it up," Ed says, his lips twitching involuntarily down in remembered pain. "To get us home. There was no other way…he gave up a part of himself to make sure we were all right."

Granny's face softens, then, and Ed realizes that she never knew Sirius, before. It's obvious, and surely he realized that there was a stark contrast between the Sirius in England and the Sirius in Amestris—but he was predisposed to respect him, knowing exactly what he's gone through in life, watching him interact with his patchwork family, seeing the steel in his eyes every time he vowed to protect Harry.

But Granny doesn't know any of these things—only that he saved her own family, and that he wasted away in her spare room despite their best efforts to save him. Ed realizes this, that she—and everyone else in this world—never knew exactly what kind of strength Sirius possessed, how he drew courage from those he cared for, how he protected them in every way he knew how.

(It kills him that none of them will ever know this…not really.)

But looking at Granny's face, he thinks she's beginning to understand, and without dishonoring his friend's memory by telling his life story to a near-stranger, he thinks this must be enough.

.

.

It's upsetting how easy it is to clean up Sirius' things and prepare him for the burial.

He died, of course, in borrowed pajamas, and all his outfits but one were mere afterthoughts, pieces of cloth that he hated and only wore out of necessity. These clothes Ed and Winry pack neatly into boxes and send to a charity in East City, where they know some man will be happy to have them. After all, Sirius is—was—taller than Ed, and skinnier than Al, who is quickly filling out the way their mother always said he would. None of these clothes would fit either of them.

Meanwhile, Al and Granny are busy dressing Sirius in his robes for the burial—the first time, as far as Ed can tell, that he's worn them since he arrived in this world. And when the four of them meet up later, their appointed tasks complete, both of them have haunted faces that tell Ed that it wasn't just his imagination when he looked at Sirius and saw skin and bones, cheekbones too well defined, bony fingers and black-ringed eyes.

(He spends the evening knowing he could have done more, and the fact that he couldn't save one of his dearest friends—who has saved his life more than once, never asked for any of this, and only ever chased after those he cared for—is just as awful as the fact that he couldn't save an innocent little girl.)

.

.

Without opening him up—which none of them are willing to do, and anyway, it's not at all necessary—Granny can't say for sure what killed Sirius that night.

She thinks maybe his heart, warped by constant stress and grief and longing, simply failed. Or perhaps—more fanciful, but Ed has lived in a world of magic and knows stranger things have happened—his body and soul rejected this universe in a way the Elrics' never did in England, his mind unable to cope with such things—and this polarity transferred to his soul, which simply decided to leave the strangeness behind.

While this is not impossible, neither of the Elrics know enough about the intricacies of the soul (even after all this time), and neither of them know whether Sirius—robbed of his magic—could have been shattered so much by this that his soul simply let go.

(The idea has been terrifying for years—when Ed was younger, he had nightmares that he would wake up one morning and Al would just be gone. Now that it might have happened—to someone who was never soul bound at all—it's just as crushing as his subconscious envisioned.)

It drives Ed mad that it's possible, that there was no way to save Sirius before he died—because while he knows all too well that the dead are gone, Sirius' soul was still anchored to this world and they could have—they could have—

He does not cry, that night, but he wishes he did. The tears are in his mind and his heart and his lungs but they do not surface, because he knows this is what Sirius wanted anyway—saw it in his eyes on that train ride home from Central, saw it every day when Ed asked him to assist him in some menial task just to engage him in something—

This is what Sirius wanted—to be free from this world of strangers, but damnit, if he hadn't been so selfish and remembered that there are people who care about him too, maybe it wouldn't have come to this.

(Selfish is an awful term, but he is angry and he is grieving and maybe he's being selfish himself too, just for a moment, because Sirius has come to mean so much to him after all this time together and why couldn't he see that?)

.

.

The service is, of course, small and private—there are scarcely a dozen people there, because Sirius hadn't been here long enough to make any more lasting connections even if he had tried. But Mustang and his entire team take a few days off work and take the train down with the Hugheses, and the four of them are of course there; the minister comes to officiate, even though Ed knows Sirius has never been even remotely religious. Neither have any of them, to tell the truth, but it's custom in Resembool for him to send off the dead, and the man knows this and keeps the service relatively secular in respect.

The tombstone is simple; Ed knows that Sirius would never have wanted something grandiose. They bury him near their parents, because Ed is fairly certain his mother would have loved him (tried—and probably done better than they did—to bring him back to himself, even if it was only ever temporary) and it's the closest thing he has to family in this world, anyway, even if it's not really close at all.

Gracia cries, and even Havoc's and Mustang's eyes are suspiciously bright. Elysia stares at the coffin as it's lowered into the ground with wide eyes, though she says nothing; she likely remembers her own father's funeral, remembers that screaming did less than nothing to bring him back, though there are tears welling in her eyes as well. The rest of them—Ed refuses to cry, just like he has all these long years, though Al's shoulders are shaking as Ed wraps an arm around them in comfort. They should say something, he thinks suddenly—the minister's speech is short (after all, he never met the man), and none of the people here, truly, knew what a good person Sirius was.

Even if he succumbed to grief when Ed would have persevered—even if he gave up when there was so much left fighting for—Ed knows that one too many hits can break a man, and with nothing left before him but a foreign country and a foreign culture and a foreign life…

He knows why Sirius did not last as he did in Azkaban, because here, there is not even the remotest possibility of redemption, of seeing his friends again.

But he finds himself without words—he can think of absolutely nothing to say, to tell all these people exactly what kind of goodness Sirius held in his heart. So he stays silent, and the rest of them say nothing as well; eventually the service is over, and Ed feels a gaping emptiness in his heart as the rest of them disperse, back to the Rockbells' for the night before they return to their duties and their lives in the morning.

Though they have all left the cemetery behind, Ed stands there for several minutes longer before wiping his eyes, stepping carefully around the fresh mound of soil before whacking the headstone lightly with his right hand.

"You stupid bastard," he says, and his voice chokes as he rubs a sleeve across his eyes again. "I hope you know we're gonna miss you like hell."

And then he turns and walks away, shoving fisted hands into his pockets and pulling his shoulders up to his ears, allowing a few tears to trail down his cheeks in his solitude before he joins the others.

.

.

.

.

Sirius is buried with the only things that ever mattered to him in this world—his photographs, and his wand, and the robes that make him look more at home than his borrowed clothes ever did.

Ed can only hope that, wherever he is, he's found his happiness and his life once again.

.

.

.

.

The last thing he sees is the smiling faces of his brothers before the world goes dark, and then explodes in blinding light.

Then he is lying on a soft surface, broken in and sagging and entirely too comfortable for how old and decrepit it is. He reaches up and rubs his closed eyes groggily, feeling the pounding of a hangover along his temples and behind his eyes and Merlin how much Firewhiskey did they have last night—

But he realizes exactly what he's thinking—realizes that he hasn't had Firewhiskey in months and months (not since he's been home) and this couch he's lying on feels eerily similar to—

His eyes snap open in disbelief, take in the grey upholstery that Lily always hated and swore she'd change one day, and nearly passes out again at the sight of the living room he hasn't seen in more than fifteen years.

Everything—it's exactly as it always was, the haphazard copies of Transfiguration Today scattered across the coffee table, brightly colored toys strewn across the floor, the slightly askew picture by the narrow stairwell that everyone always knocked into while going upstairs—

This—this is Godric's Hollow, and he wonders suddenly whether he's finally snapped, whether he's drooling all over the Rockbell's spare room right now and this is all in his head, or—

There's a flush from the washroom nearby, and Sirius jumps, his brain still trying to catch up to what is happening around him. But he's not given any time—the sink runs for a scarce few moments, and then the door is opening, and Merlin James is standing there, a sheepish grin on his face as he heads straight for the stairwell, not even glancing toward the couch as he calls up the stairs—

"Oi, Lily, might not want to use the loo for a bit, sorry in advance—"

His voice is just the same—exactly the same as it was fifteen years ago, and even as Lily (Sirius feels lightheaded at the thought) heaves an exaggerated sigh from upstairs, Sirius feels a strangled sound leave his throat. James spins around, his hand going for his wand quickly and his eyes wide, but he freezes as he locks eyes with Sirius.

The two of them stare at each other for a few long moments, but then Sirius is on his feet, vaulting over the coffee table and moving to stand close to James. He can feel his breath as it hits his skin, hears his own labored breathing as he tries to take in the sight. This—this is James—this isn't Harry, no matter how similar the two of them look—his eyes are dark rather than green, and his nose is different, and—

He reaches out a trembling hand to touch him, half-afraid he'll disappear in a wisp of smoke like so many other dreams have. But his hand meets solid flesh, a bony shoulder beneath thin summer robes, and Sirius lets out a sob before throwing his arms around James, crushing the air out of him—

But that doesn't matter, because in the same instant James is embracing him as well, and this is a hug like he has not had in years—this is comfort and warmth and home wrapped up in one man's arms, and Sirius feels himself relax like he hasn't in more than a decade as James' arms tremble around his shoulders.

"You're real," he mumbles after a very long time, muffled and barely audible, but James has always understood him and only lets out a sob in reply, gripping him tighter.

"Am I…am I dead?"

This is the only logical explanation he can come up with, and it doesn't upset him as much as it probably should. After all, if death brings him away from Amestris and back to his family…this is all he's ever wanted, right? Since he was twenty-two years old and standing in the rubble of this ruined house, all he's ever wanted was to see his brother alive again.

(Maybe, later, he'll feel guilty for leaving the Elrics behind. But now, they don't even cross his mind—he's so wrapped up in James' arms around him, James' breath against his ear, James' presence before him at all and he knows he's not quite processing this, it hasn't sunk in yet because he hasn't seen him in so goddamn long and now—)

"I suppose so," James says with that not-quite-laugh he always did (does), his fingers curling slightly into the back of Sirius' robes to grip him tighter. "I'd say sorry, but—"

Sirius cuts him off by tightening his grip, stealing his breath, and mumbles something incoherent that hopefully gets the point across—he's not sorry to be dead at all, if being dead brings him here. And they lapse into silence again, standing there by the stairs of the little house Sirius was sure he'd never set foot in again, simply reveling in the fact that they are reunited once more.

He realizes, suddenly, that there are tears streaming down his cheeks, and he'd be embarrassed if this were anyone but James—but, after all, they've seen each other through their lowest points, through grief and anger and everything in between, and his brother has dealt with much worse than tears from him. So he does not wipe them away, only mutters in a choked voice, "I'm so sorry…"

James stiffens at that, his hands sliding from Sirius' back to his shoulders so he can push him away slightly see his face. "What on earth are you sorry for?" he demands, his own voice rough with unshed tears. "I should be the one apologizing, for sending you through all that hell—"

Sirius barely even registers that James knows what has happened—perhaps that's just a perk of the afterlife, he supposes vaguely—but responds, his face contorting further, "If I hadn't suggested we use Peter—and I—I couldn't protect Harry like I promised I would, I swore I'd protect him with my life and—"

"Shush," James cuts him off, pulling him close again with trembling arms. "You did the best you could—you did more than anyone could have ever expected of you, even after everything—even when you were gone—"

"I gave up!" Admitting it sends shards of guilt piercing through his heart, because he's never said it aloud though the looks he received from the Elrics told him as much anyway. "I couldn't handle it even though Ed and Al did, I didn't even try—I wanted to die—"

"And I don't blame you for that one bit," James says, his voice turning a bit hard as his grip spasms, holding Sirius even tighter. "You got pushed too far, farther than anyone else I've ever known, and don't you think for one second that makes you weak."

The words he's wanted to hear—the rational voice of his best friend who has always, always talked him out of bouts of rage and near-madness—it's what he's needed to hear all these long months in solitude, and he sags against James' grip as the tears begin falling faster. "I missed you," he rasps into his shoulder, because he has no idea what else he can possibly say in this situation. There's nothing else to say, and James recognizes it too, for he only responds with the same, his voice thick with pent-up emotion as he attempts to hold himself together.

There's no way of knowing how much time passes before they eventually let go of each other, though Sirius' hand lingers on James' shoulder, afraid that if they lose that contact, he will disappear again. But James takes a step away, toward the kitchen, and when Sirius' hand falls he is just as real as before.

He doesn't think he's ever felt so content.

"Lily, we've got a visitor!" James hollers as an afterthought, an enormous grin on his face as he steps into the kitchen, humming thoughtfully before he pulls out some potatoes and sausages, setting water on the stove to boil. "You'd better get down here!"

There are a few moments before light footsteps descend the staircase, and Lily's voice echoes down—"Is it Marlene? She said she was thinking of dropping by—"

But then she catches sight of Sirius, grinning at her with watery eyes, and her mouth falls open a bit as she stares at him. She gains her composure quickly, though, her face morphing into a wide smile as she steps forward, engulfing him in a hug as tight as her husband's.

"It's so good to see you again, Sirius."

Sirius can only hum in reply, resting his cheek on the top of her head; he's overwhelmed by her presence nearly as much as he was by James'. After all, Lily became an integral part of his life, once she married his brother—and the gap she left in his heart when she was killed was nearly as wide.

It's several moments later that James yelps from the stove, and Sirius turns to see him sucking on one of his fingertips, glaring petulantly at the frying pan where sausage is sizzling merrily. Lily rolls her eyes, gives Sirius one last quick hug, and steps toward the stove, turning the dial down and shoving James away with a laugh.

"Still can't cook?" Sirius finds himself asking, a grin on his face despite himself—it's so normal, so strangely domestic that he feels silly laughing at the sight. But, after all, he hasn't had the chance to experience such things in so long, he feels like he might deserve a little bit of happiness, here.

"Not to save his life," Lily cuts in before James can reply, sticking her tongue out at her husband before pulling out her wand to chop the potatoes. "It's a nightmare, I swear—can't leave him alone in here for too long before I start worrying that the house will burn down."

Sirius laughs, louder this time, and James pouts a moment before turning to Sirius, cocking his head in thought. "Hey, Padfoot, have you got your wand on you? I reckon you'd be able to, now…"

Sirius stops short at the thought, considering James for a moment before simply concentrating on his dog form.

In a blink, he's a good three feet shorter, everything appears in shades of grey, and he feels his tail wagging of its own accord at the sight.

And then James is laughing, and Lily is laughing, and before Sirius can even consider changing back James has crouched down and hugged him tight, burying his face in his shaggy neck. "Welcome home, Sirius," James says, very quietly, and Sirius can only agree, leaning into his brother's embrace and closing his eyes.