Ed woke up feeling strange that morning. It wasn't something he could exactly put into words, but it was something he could feel in the heavy gazes of his friends and family, in the pain ironed into his soul. It was something soft but prominent, a promise, like the smell of rain in the air before a storm.

The only way he could have described it was that he felt like he was close.

And he wasn't afraid.

Ed had been dodging death since he was a kid. Ever since the day they had tried to bring their mom back, it seemed like the world had it out for him and Al, and he had been terrified of death and what it would mean for his little brother.

But now . . . well, Al was as safe as he could be. He was surrounded by so many friends, so many people that had become more family than not. Ed knew his passing wasn't going to be easy on him, but Al wouldn't be alone. He would eventually be okay.

And Ed was so tired. He was tired in a way that hurt, and he couldn't seem to sleep it off despite the dozen or so naps he took in the day. He was tired in a way that made hanging on hard.

But with Al safe, he had one last promise to keep.

So, on this warm afternoon, they were going to the Summer Festival. His wife drove the Rockbell Automail wagon, Hawkeye perched on the seat next to her and taking a turn with the reins every now and then. Breda, Havoc, Fuery, and Falman followed on foot, chatting and cutting up with one another, occasionally calling out some inane question or comment as they traveled.

Ed was sandwiched between Alphonse and Mustang in the open wagon. They did their best to keep him upright and comfortable on a bed of pillows and blankets as the rough road bounced and shook his withered body. He slumped against Alphonse, curled and trying to keep himself from being sick as pain jarred into his bones. He knew from experience that throwing up while wearing the glass mask was not pleasant, and he doubted Al wanted any of that on his clean trousers.

He was definitely not going to say anything, though. Winry wanted to go to the stupid festival and he was going to go or die trying.

There was a time when that would have been a joke.

Al had an arm around his shoulder, both to cushion Ed's back from the hard-wooden railings behind them and probably out of some silly brotherly urge to protect. Out of the corner of his eye, Ed caught that disapproving set of Al's jaw every now and again. He'd made it very clear that he did not want Ed going. Mustang had, too.

Actually, everybody had, even Winry, but Ed had made a promise. He promised her they'd go, and he intended to take her, come hell or high water.

And so everyone had obliged. Al had fetched Pinako's old mule from the neighbor's stable. Winry, Fuery and Hawkeye packed way too many medical supplies, and Falman had gone to fetch a bleary-eyed Mustang from Ed's house.

Ed wondered for the millionth time just what that conniving old man was up to. He'd said work, but Ed didn't quite buy that. Even Hawkeye didn't spend that kind of time over at his house, and everyone knew that if she wasn't hovering over his shoulder, the amount of work he got done was negligible at best. Maybe Mustang was starting to be bothered by Ed's declining health? But that never seemed to be the case in person. He handled Ed's humiliating issues with as much grace as Ed could have hoped for, and had probably mopped up just as much blood and vomit as poor Al had these past couple of weeks.

But the strangest event by far was that morning, after Ed had insisted he was going. Everyone had thought he was asleep on the couch, but he overheard Al on the phone with Mustang. He only caught bits of the conversation, but he seemed to be trying to talk Al into bringing Ed to his own home the following day.

He never caught the "why," and judging by Al's tone of voice on the call, he didn't quite get the "why" either, but he said he'd talk to Ed and Winry about it.

No one had brought it up since, and if he'd had the energy, he'd pester the answers out of the Brigadier General, but as it was, he decided it probably didn't matter much. Maybe Mustang had a thing about dying in your own home or something.

Folk music drifted through the afternoon breeze, and Ed was glad to know they were getting close. He wasn't sure he could take much more of this cart ride, and was most certainly not looking forward to the return trip later that night.

A particularly rough pothole tore a hard cough from his lungs, bright red splattering the inside of his mask and clinging to his lips, the taste of iron fresh on his tongue once more. His side spasmed, hot pain shooting, muscles wrenching. Ed coughed again, this time weaker but just as agonizing.

Breathing was just way too much trouble these days.

Winry and Hawkeye both gave him a worried look over their shoulders. "Sorry," Winry said, biting her lip. "I should have warned you."

He tried to wave her off, but all he could manage was a twitch of his fingers, wrapped as they were around his side. It wasn't their fault the roads out here were terrible. Mustang reached over and pulled the mask off, cleaning the inside while Al wiped down Ed's face, despite Ed's groaned protest. He coughed and panted, chest straining to take in air that his scarred lungs rejected, clearly out of spite.

It hurt.

"Breathe slower, Brother," Al urged, wiping his mouth again, then taking a clean cloth to his forehead and dabbing sweat. Finally Mustang returned the mask to his face, sweet oxygen easing the strain in his chest, loosening the tightness that had lodged there.

Ed felt eyes on him but chose to keep his gaze down, focused on a loose automail screw rolling across the floorboards as he tried to breathe. Ed despised being watched by everyone while he lost control of his respiratory system, but there wasn't much to be done about it. He curled tighter in on himself and consequently Al, trying to find some leverage against the blossoming pain in his side.

It would pass. He just had to give it some time.

Nausea curled in his stomach, mouth going watery.

It would pass.

He coughed again, gagged, shivered. Mustang pulled the blankets tighter around him and he screwed his eyes shut, clamping his jaw together.

He would not get sick.

He would not get sick.

It would pass.

He breathed in and out slowly while Al combed his hair back, like he used to do when Ed was sick and he was stuck in armor, always so gentle. "We should have stayed home, I'm sorry I should have—"

Ed cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. If he'd had the breath and the energy, he might have socked him.

Ed was here because he wanted to be here. End of discussion.

He didn't notice when they stopped, focused as he was on not throwing up. One moment they were moving, and when he opened his eyes next they'd stopped. The others were gone, save for Mustang, Al, Winry, and Hawkeye. The smell of carnival food and smoke seeped under his mask, doing his nausea no favors, and music sang out from nearby, voices lilting over the laughter of children and the cries of sheep; some silly folk song he half remembered from his childhood.

When he was fairly certain he wasn't going to lose his last meal, he dared to look beyond their little wagon, seeing colorful tents and crowds of people just across the road in the large meadow staked out for the festival. It was in the same spot every year, the corner of Mrs. Sailee's property. Local legend had it that it was the very spot the first field in Resembool was ever planted, and the festival was one part for gratitude and one part for good luck..

All the bustling and activity was enough to make him nervous.

Children darted through the legs of adults, balloons bouncing in their wake. An organized game of cornhole was underway in the open center, both men and women jeering at each other loudly as the game got more competitive. Mr. Sweeny passed right in front of them on the road, urging a large heifer before him and sparing Ed a concerned look as he went.

"You okay?" Mustang asked, still sitting beside him, dark eyes burning holes in the side of Ed's head and calling his attention back to his immediate surroundings.

Ed didn't have it in him to be annoyed at the moment. "Fine," he answered, voice reverberating uncomfortably in the mask. He wondered if anybody could actually understand him.

"Shirt up," Mustang ordered.

Al shifted so he could block the open side of the wagon, giving him just a bit more privacy out in the open air. Ed's grip wasn't quite strong enough to get his shirt untucked at his current angle, so Al moved to help. Between Al and Mustang, they got the bleeding on his front and back to stop, cleaned the wounds and changed the dressings. They resituated the tangle of lines and tubes into something less chaotic, pressing the mask back to his face and securing it behind his head.

After all of that, Al laid him down across the wagon, then he and Mustang piled the blankets and pillows over and under him like a children's fort, protecting him from the cool breeze and the hard floorboards.

It was all part of the plan Ed had been forced to agree to if he wanted a ride to the festival: they would take him as long as he rested after they arrived, and then frequently after that.

He was annoyed at being tucked in for a nap like some toddler, but Winry crawled up and sat beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder with Al. She brushed his hair and smiled down at him, and his sour mood dissipated under her touch. "How do you feel?"

He reached to remove his mask, but she pulled it down before he could manage to touch it. "Like . . . a million cenz."

Her eyes crinkled, lips pulling in a sad kind of smile. "You idiot."

"Aren't you going to . . . go enter that pie contest?"

Her smile quirked at that. She leaned down, kissing him on the forehead, then turned to gather her pie from the corner of the wagon. "I'll be right back."

"Knock 'em dead," he said by way of encouragement, trying to plaster a cocky grin on his face that dissolved into a grimace as soon as she and Hawkeye were out of sight.

Al tried to be subtle, but Ed saw him reach for the makeshift IV tree behind Ed, adjusting the morphine drip just the slightest. Ed had been annoyed when he'd found out Al had been dosing him without his knowledge, but as his pain levels increased, so did his acceptance. The morphine was no longer quite the issue it had been in the beginning.

If he was going to die anyway, maybe taking the edge off of it wasn't such a bad idea.

Mustang and Al were staring at him.

"Go . . . pet a chicken or something," he huffed at them. "I don't need watching. I'm fine."

They both exchanged unimpressed looks over his head.

"Shut up, Fullmetal," Mustang replied serenely, leaning back against the wagon rails as he pulled out a bunched heap of papers and a pencil nub from his pocket. "Take a nap. I'm trying to work."

Ed rolled his eyes but curled on his side as a wave of pain clenched his stomach, breath catching on the exhale.

It was always worse in the afternoon and evening, but Ed didn't have a lot of choice. That was just when these stupid festivals ran, so Ed just had to buck up and deal with it. Maybe a nap would improve things.

He tucked his elbow under his head, trying to find a position that didn't hurt so much. Alphonse slid in beside him, snatching a spare pillow for himself and reclining in the warm sunshine, his shoulder touching Ed's.

Ed smirked at his little brother and Al gave him a weary smile back.

It didn't take long for exhaustion to weigh his eyelids down, soothed by medication, Al's presence, and the soft scratch of Mustang's pencil.

He slept, and he dreamed of his mom.

XxXxX

It would have been a beautiful evening outside if it weren't for all the people. Winry, the saint she was, wheeled him next to a stone fence to the side of a tree, relatively out of the way, and between that and the four blankets smothering him, it made him feel just a bit less exposed.

A little less vulnerable.

The sun was just dipping below the horizon, turning the world vivid pink and gold to the west, and a deep navy to the east. Lanterns and bonfires burned, casting cheerful warmth and skittering shadows into the approaching night, crowds gathering for the inevitable dancing to come.

At least he got to be relatively alone with his wife.

If one didn't count all the people.

Another pack of small children—the Terrel and the Rodger's kids, if Ed wasn't mistaken—gawked at him openly on their way by, and Ed had to remind himself for the hundredth time that he was there for Winry, even as he adjusted the blankets self-consciously over the stump of his left leg. The blankets sagged unnaturally where the limb should have rested, both obvious and incriminating.

But who was to say that's what they were actually staring at? Ed had a lot of oddities to pick from.

Mrs. Andrews, the bakery owner, stopped by to try to discuss his health like the busybody she was. As Winry tried to usher her away, the old woman grabbed her hand and patted it sadly before wandering off to share her findings with her pack of parlor biddies.

Mr. Snow gave him one of his biggest grins, proudly displaying his Rockbell automail legs in a pair of shortened trousers—he'd been a part of the massacre in Ishval, one of the many soldiers to come home missing pieces of themselves. He asked Ed how the weather was down there. The idiot always did like to make fun of Ed's height, and Ed's exhaustion was the only thing that saved the moron's life. That, and the sad waver in his eyes that was hard to see until he turned away, his big grin levelling itself out into a grimace.

Fifty more people just like them came by; the curse and blessing of a small town. All greeted the famous "Fullmetal Alchemist" that they'd known since Ed was a baby. He knew all of them, all faces he had seen over the years, and he really wanted to go crawl in a hole and die in peace when the little Dalter boy asked loudly why Ed had that "funny thing" strapped to his face.

The hero worship most Resembool kids had for him had turned to something a few shades warier now that he resembled a corpse more than a Hero of the People.

His friends and family tried to run interference for the most obnoxious of his hometown acquaintances, especially Al, but it still wasn't quite enough to abate his gnawing discomfort when kids openly stared, or when the adults sent him concerned glances over their shoulders. Ed absently wondered if this was how Al had felt all those years in the armor.

He was too afraid of the answer to ask.

And more than that, it hurt his pride a lot more than he wanted to think about. It was fairly humbling to go from being able to take on supernatural beings to hardly being able to draw breath.

The excitement of Ed's arrival finally started to die down when people realized he was in no condition to entertain them or their obnoxious offspring. The multitudes finally moved on, Ed only drawing occasional stares instead of entire crowds.

When the attention died down, he somehow convinced his friends to stop hovering, or at least to hover farther away. They finally settled for watching him from a distance. Mustang and Hawkeye strolled the meadow-made-plaza and kept sending furtive glances his way when they thought he wasn't looking, Al and the rest of the team camped outside of a food stall, nursing mugs of some sort of local ale and greasy food and not hiding their stares much better.

He tried to sit up straight even as his side demanded that he cave, drawing a hand to press against it. It seemed like all the morphine Al had pumped into his system wasn't doing a thing.

The ride home was going to be fun.

"You okay?" Winry asked from her perch on the fence behind him, legs crossed on the high stone. Ed was able to make out the pale curve of her knees if he turned his head to the left or the right. She had her hands gently draped over his hair, combing it with her fingertips. It was definitely soothing, even if Ed's problems couldn't exactly be soothed.

Ed nodded, trying to control his breathing against the glass of his mask, eyes on the open square before them, searching for distraction. The plaza was framed in wooden stalls and laughter, filled with faces he knew milling about under strings of fairy lights and around the bonfire, calling to one another, reveling in the simplicity of a small-town celebration. It had a surreal quality to it, like the first day of summer could last forever, suspended in time, if only Ed could somehow burn it into his memory.

Miss Nedham filed around the corner, the Resembool Rascals in tow. They were a local band that played all that hokey folk music that Al liked so much. The group dragged out some crates and chairs, all sitting down at the edge of the large clearing with their banjo, guitar, fiddle, washtub bass, and spoons. Ed remembered both Winry and Al always liked to sit by the band and watch the dancing when they were little. Ed had always been busy with other things, like trying to ride the show pigs while everybody was gathered in the square.

Hobbies were hard to find for a kid in Resembool.

Winry's blonde hair spilled over his shoulders from up above as she gently put her cheek against his head, and Ed wondered what it would have felt like to take her dancing as the band launched into their first tune. He twined his fingers in through hers, watching a handful of people jumped into a square dance, couples and children joining in as they all held hands in a big circle that expanded and contracted around the fire, their shadows reaching with them at their heels. It was kind of mesmerizing.

He stole a glance across the square at Mustang. The older man was leaning against a fence post between two stalls with Hawkeye next to him, their eyes glued on the display. He could almost hear Mustang's commentary about "quaint little backwoods hobbies," or some tripe. The arrogant lowlife.

"This is nice," Winry said, her voice soft in his ear. He wasn't exactly sure what to make of her tone, like she couldn't decide if she was sad or happy.

He gave her hand a weak squeeze, pawing his mask away with his other hand. "Maybe Al . . . will take you dancing."

"I'd rather sit with you," she said, her free hand beginning to comb through his hair once more. He'd worn it down and loose, since tying it back made his scalp hurt now for some reason. Seemed like just blinking made something hurt.

"Kind of a . . . crappy honeymoon."

He heard the smile in her response. "I'm sure there are worse places. You could have taken me to the Xerxian ruins."

He swallowed back a sudden pang of longing, smothering it before it could take hold. That had been the last place he'd gotten to see, before he got so sick he was forced home. He still had three books of research notes all stacked on his desk at home, something he'd never get to comb through, study, or publish. Maybe Al could take over in his stead.

He swallowed the longing behind a faint grin. "Hey," he protested. "That would have . . . been cool."

"Maybe for nerds," Winry teased gently, pulling him from dangerous thoughts the way she always had.

"I want you . . . to go with Al . . . when this is over."

Her hand stalled, a gentle pull on his hair before slowly resuming her strokes. Around them, people still laughed. They danced and sang in the warm glow of the fires, but their little corner of the world had gone cold. "What are you talking about?"

"I've got some money . . . from the military. It's yours and Al's. The world is . . . a beautiful place, Win. I want you to see it. "

"Ed," he could hear the wince in her voice. "Can you please not talk like that?"

He smiled, the expression more sad than not. "I don't have . . . much time for . . . beating around the bush."

She didn't respond, and Ed hoped he hadn't said something wrong. Tact wasn't exactly his strong suit.

He tilted his gaze up, drawing a breath that was a little too harsh, ending in a rough cough, his throat feeling like he'd swallowed splinters. He lifted his handkerchief, dabbing away the splattering of gore from his chin. He didn't even bother with his shirt, though; it was way too far gone. The small fit left his head pounding mercilessly, and he pulled the mask up to try and convince his lungs that they could do their job.

Once he could breathe again, he put the mask down—when had it gotten so heavy? —and looked up once more at the Resembool sky, now that night had fully taken hold of the countryside. Thousands of stars glittered down at them, and maybe a planet or two. Ed didn't know much about astronomy, but he knew beauty when he saw it. It reminded him of something, some rhyme his mother used to say to them on nights like tonight, when the fireflies burned in the fields and the galaxies smiled down at them.

"Starlight, star bright," he murmured. "First . . . first star I . . . see tonight."

"Ed?"

"It's a poem . . . I think. Maybe nursery rhyme."

"Your mom used to say that one."

"Yeah."

"I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight," Winry finished.

He smiled a bit. "Yeah."

And Ed felt a dozen unspoken wishes flutter between them, too cliched or too simple to verbalize, but still there in the soft silence, even while everybody's world kept spinning and Ed's slowly ground to a halt.

But in the end, maybe the simple things were all that really mattered.

"It's all making sense, Fullmetal."

Ed blinked, swiveling his head to see Mustang with Hawkeye and Al in tow. Ed wasn't even aware they had left their little respective corners. "What?"

The general stopped beside him and Winry, slouching against the fence like he had nothing better to do. He had that smarmy grin on his face that Ed had always hated, but with a softness in his eyes that took the edge off. "Your complete lack of taste in music."

Ed rolled his eyes, coughed into his handkerchief, and decided to let Al handle this one. He'd stick up for his music when no one else would.

"This is culture, Roy," Al informed brightly.

"That woman is making 'music' with kitchen utensils."

"And you make fire with a terrible fashion statement."

Mustang opened his mouth to respond, then looked at Hawkeye helplessly. She only smiled. "He has you there, Sir."

Ed choked on a laugh that hurt way too much, trying to squash it and only ending up coughing. His chest felt like it was the only thing on fire here. Well, that and Mustang's ego.

"I'll have you know that gloves are the height of fashion."

"Twenty years ago," Al snarked back, face fluctuating from looking pleased with himself and worried for Ed, who still hadn't quite gotten back to breathing.

"Just because Fullmetal is currently indisposed doesn't mean you have to take up the slack," Mustang grumbled. Yeah, he was definitely sulking now.

"Get 'em, Al," Ed croaked.

Al gave Ed one of those fierce grins that made him proud. It was good to know that he'd been an excellent influence on his baby brother for all these years.

"He doesn't need encouragement," Mustang groused. "You two give me way too much grief."

"It's well deserved, Sir," Hawkeye assured him.

Mustang put a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Captain."

And was it just Ed, or were they standing just a bit closer than usual? Interesting. Maybe it was just because they were far from military eyes out here in the sticks.

Well, Ed was always happy to exploit any of Mustang's weaknesses.

"Why don't you . . . take Hawkeye dancing?"

It was hard to tell in the dimness and the way the fire's light scattered the shadows across Mustang's face, but he was pretty sure he saw him blanch. Mustang actually froze, not bothering to look at Ed or Hawkeye, dark eyes fixed on the bonfire and the spinning crowd in front of them. "I'm afraid I don't know any backwoods dances, Fullmetal." His voice was very careful.

"Don't be an . . . idiot. They're dancing . . . in a circle. What kind of . . . stupid alchemist . . . can't fathom a circle?"

The look Mustang gave him was nothing short of unimpressed. "I think you should put your mask back on. The lack of oxygen is addling your brain."

"Brother has a point," Al said.

Behind him, Winry groaned. "Are they always like this?"

That question was probably directed at Hawkeye, because she gave a long-suffering look aimed at the space over Ed's head. "All the time. Come on, Sir. Let's make sure the men haven't devoured that whole stall over there."

"I tried," Ed said, almost giving a shrug, then thinking the better of it when a wet cough twisted its way from his chest again, a slow curl of nausea scraping the back of his tongue. Each cough punctuated a splitting headache that had started just behind his eyes, and he briefly wondered if he could turn up the morphine without anyone noticing.

HIs side suddenly hurt in new and improved ways, warmth seeping down his hip like the thing had torn open for no good reason. He pressed his hand against it and tried to be subtle, even as his breaths became terse and shuddery.

Hawkeye's lips pressed together in a thin smile. She saw, because nothing got past her, but she was gracious enough to leave it to people Ed was more comfortable accepting help from. She really was a saint. "I appreciate that, Edward. Come on, Sir."

Mustang caught it too, Ed could tell. He exchanged a look with Alphonse, who just gave a little nod in return. Yeah, Al would definitely be addressing it when Mustang and Hawkeye were gone. Ed wasn't sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed.

"We'll be back," Mustang said, then he and Hawkeye turned and headed to the food stalls.

Ed pulled the mask back on his face and watched them go.

XxXxX

Roy liked a party as much as the next sycophant—though his parties were usually more debonair and a little less "folksy"—but he was ready to call the evening quits. One look at Ed's face was enough to convince him he needed to start rounding everybody up for the return trip home.

He sat at one of the mostly vacant picnic tables, taking the occasional sip of lemonade—he would not be drinking tonight— as he kept a wary eye on Ed.

He looked bad. And though he'd looked bad for a while, he looked somehow worse, even just these past two hours. Their presence here went against Roy's better judgement, but Ed had given him that patented stubborn look when Roy or anybody else suggested that they not go. Ed clearly needed to do this, though Roy was unsure why.

His eyes lingered on the three blonds, studying them through a forest of dancers as they laughed—and choked — as the two boys he'd seen more as sons than anything captured a moment of joy before it could be snatched away. It looked like it was at Ed's insistence that Al took Winry by the hands, leading her out to the dancing grounds. Roy followed them with his gaze, his attention suddenly drawn to the flames in the center, people of all ages laughing and clapping and calling to the music, all under a grand expanse of stars. He wondered if he stared long enough, if he could sear the beauty of it into his memory, like a photograph to decorate the walls of his mind.

"Sir."

Roy looked up at Riza. She sat across from him, their little table nestled right beside their team's. Breda made some joke behind her and their whole table roared with sudden laughter. Roy waited for it to pass before responding. "Hmm?"

"Is it tomorrow?"

She knew it was tomorrow. She was asking if he was sure.

He gave her a smile that would have convinced anyone else. "Yes. I think it would be nice for Ed to feel a bit better for his party on Saturday, what do you think?"

"I think that's a poor excuse if you're not ready."

"I'm ready, Riza," he promised, trying to look confident. "Think you can distract everybody long enough? I'll just need a moment."

She looked at him hard, shadows and fear chasing in her eyes. Riza did not scare easy, so it was enough to give Roy pause, but he knew things now, things only the Elric brothers and Izumi Curtis knew, about the Gate and alchemy and sacrifice. He'd seen the Truth. Roy Mustang wasn't infallible, but he was as sure as he could be.

"Sir," she agreed without sounding like she agreed. "Doctor Marcoh will be there?"

Roy shook his head. "He left yesterday on the evening train."

Her lips turned down and disapproving. "I wish you'd told me. We should have a doctor there in case—"

"Miss Rockbell is more than capable if something goes wrong."

"Have you discussed it with her?"

"And risk Ed hearing about it? Not a chance. If I don't spring it on him, he'll foil me before I can so much as explain myself."

She didn't look happy. In fact, she looked upset, but she pressed her lips together and looked out at the festivities.

He reached for her, enveloping her hand in his larger ones, marveling at the soft sides of her fingers and how it contrasted to the callouses on her pads and palms as he traced the lines of them under his thumb.

He felt her eyes on him, questioning, but he didn't respond immediately, nor did she take her hand back.

"Riza," he began, voice pitched lower than was probably necessary in the mostly empty area. "You know better than anyone that I've done a lot of terrible things in my life. And I've only just now begun to do some good." She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn't give her room to respond. "I've done some good in Ishval, but it'll never be enough to wipe away what I've done."

His eyes slid back to Ed, the blond slumped in his chair and watching Al and Winry. Roy couldn't make out more of his expression with the mask, but he looked like he was in pain. "No matter the outcome, I'm going to fulfill my promise. But I think . . . I think if I can do this . . . Ed's already saved us all. I think there's no telling what good he can do in the world if he'll just live long enough to do it.

"And . . . he's my friend."

He's my kid.

He dared to look up at her, her sherry eyes boring into him, reading him the way she always did, even while her own thoughts remained closed. "I have said my piece, Sir. I know you've made the best choice with the information you have. And I trust you." She looked away, but left her hands in his, warm and certain. "I made a promise. I will follow you."

And his heart warmed a few degrees.

With Riza's support, he knew he could do it.

He had to.

He looked away, back at the dancing crowd, and smiled. "Thank you, Riza."

He searched almost lazily for Ed through the gaps in the dancers. A girl in a red skirt spun out of his line of sight and a cold stone dropped into Roy's gut, hands tightening around Riza's, breath freezing in his lungs.

The wheelchair was tipped over, Ed spilled on the floor like a broken toy.

He wasn't moving.

Roy got up so fast the bench behind him flipped. He ran through the crowd, a couple turning into him. He stumbled, but kept moving, eyes locked on Edward, hoping he was just seeing things.

He probably just coughed, overcorrected and fell. He was probably just fine.

Then why wasn't he moving?

As Roy got closer, he could see the blood blossoming in an ever-widening circle on Ed's back, his stomach, coating his hands and sleeves like spilled paint. Bloody vomit seeped into the dirt around him, a dark oily stain on the earth, dripping from his slightly-parted lips.

Roy hit his knees by the young man, ignoring the blood lapping up his trousers. He gently rolled him over, Ed's eyes were cracked open and glossy. He was as pale as death, the blood on his chin a terrible contrast. "Ed, are you okay?" Roy asked, every fiber of his being screaming that Ed was not okay. Still, Roy hoped, prayed that Ed was okay.

He had to be okay.

Roy was supposed to make it okay.

Ed didn't look at him, didn't blink. Roy pulled him into his lap, and it was so easy because he weighed nothing, a shriveled carcass in his arms.

Ed didn't react.

Dreading what he would find, terrified to do it, Roy slipped two fingers under the boy's jaw.

There was no pulse.

Now, now, don't hate me . . . this is not the Ed dies fic. That's DOA :'D

I hath promised angst. I must deliver.

But don't forget, ROY HAS A PLAN.

I went to an acupuncturist yesterday, because I've had some pretty bad tongue tension and jaw tension that's affecting my singing and I wanted to try some stuff to lessen it. The guy told me, in not so many words, that because of where my tension was, I was emotionally constipated, and I said LOL, that's absurd, I express myself plenty with memes and fan fiction. And then he stuck needles all over me and told me to meditate on my feelings, and then he left for like forty minutes. So then I started getting these weird cramping sensations where he stabbed me, and then my phone started blowing up, and the only feelings I ended up meditating on were anxiety and pain.

But I've got less jaw tension now.

I'll respond to reviews/comments from previous chapters over the next couple of days c: You guys are the best. Sorry I traumatize you with cliffhangers all the dang time xD Special thanks to firewood figs, for talking me off of ledges and making my nonsense more sensical c: This chapter kind of kicked my butt, and she was a ton of help 3

If you have the time, please drop a review/comment, and I'll see you next chapter c:

God Bless,

-RainFlame