Sometimes, just because he was a suit of armor, now, invincible in nearly every aspect—he forgot that Edward wasn't the same.

That Brother was still human.

And still fragile.

(Even though he tries to act so strong.)

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. No time to waste. He could be dying. Could be dead. We have to get them out. Have to get them out. Now now now.

There was a yank on Mustang's arms when he found something in the way of the sand moving, preventing it from obeying his alchemy. His heart, however, picked up pace upon realizing what it was, and he quickly ushered more strength into his hastily-drawn transmutation circle to urge the sand beneath the boy's coffin—box, box—up and to the surface.

And oh, oh gosh they were so, so close, now—but Mustang felt a spear of pain stab his chest. Something was wrong. Something was off. And it shouldn't be, because they didn't have time for anything else to be wrong.

It took Mustang a split second to realize what it was—that that sound he was subconsciously hearing was muffled screaming. And not just anyone's screams.

Alphonse.

"GO! GO!" He shouted, launching himself forward even as one of his crew threw him a crowbar (so much quicker and faster and safer than simply blowing up the huge box with alchemy)—and oh, oh gosh, oh no, were they too late? Was Edward already dead and Alphonse too mentally broken to salvage? Was that what he was hearing? The tortured cries of a lonely, abandoned brother? But he forced those fears aside and simply told his body to heave.

With a snap, the lid came away quicker than expected.

2 minutes left.

He shoved it off—caught a glimpse metal—oh, thank God, that was Alphonse—because he didn't realize some small part of him was afraid that they had been fooled with a fake cof—box.

But then his eyes locked onto Alphonse's soul ones—and for a split-second, just a hair's breathe of time. there was silence as they each registered each other's presence.

Oh, gosh, they had made it.

But then, Alphonse's scream tore through the relief, frantic. High. Scared.

"GET HIM OUT OF ME!"

It spurred Mustang into action as he realized—oh no—oh dear—oh gosh—something was so, so wrong. What was Alphonse saying? He could hardly hear it over his own breath, his own swears as he hurriedly fumbled with the leather latches on Alphonse's armor. "—E CAN'T BREATHE! HE'S DYING! COLONEL! HURRY! GET HIM OUT!"

Oh gosh.

With a tear, Mustang through the chest plate to the side as soon as it was free—oh gosh, there the boy was, small, still, pale, lips so blue, and oh, gosh, why were his eyes still open?—and instantly, he caught on to Alphonse's panic, reaching inside the boy's armor to pick up his brother—oh gosh, so limp, so heavy, but yet still warm; he wasn't too far gone yet—and pulled Edward out, putting him on the sandy ground, even as he shouted to the others, "Air! Respirator—get it! He's not breathing!"

He knew. Without even looking at the boy, he knew—because the Fullmetal Alchemist he knew had never been such a dead weight.

(Wrong choice of words, Colonel.)

But then he felt Hawkeye—he didn't know how he knew it was her; he just did the instant she touched him, shoving him out of the way and kneeling in his place. He watched, hypnotized, as she bent over Edward, shouting, "He needs CPR first, sir! We need to get his lungs working again before it'll be of any help!"

And before he could even give the order, she was doing it. Pressing, both hands, on the boy's chest, a quick—thump, thump, thump—and then putting her lips to Edward's, forcing life back into him.

(Because he could swear—the way the boy looked—he had none left.)

1 minute left.

It went on for three more times, and each time, Mustang could feel pain in his sternum, sharp and acute. Cold fingers, gripping and scratching—because oh gosh, this couldn't be the end. He could feel his sweat trickle down the side of his face and throat, thick, sticky and warm.

He was half-aware of Breda and Havoc helping Alphonse out of the coffin—a desperate, frantic Alphonse who was constantly asking about his brother every five seconds and struggling hard against their hands to get to the other half of him. But he couldn't stand on his own—oh yeah, Mustang remembered, they had taken his feet—so there they stood, hovering, shouting, desperate and writhing. Crying, as best Alphonse could. Off to the other side waited Falman and Feury, the latter holding the transportable respirator, which was ready and humming.

And then, suddenly, Edward's body jerked, gagged, coughed, and Mustang felt he could both cry and wring that little neck silly for all the scares it had given him at the same time.

"Falman! Feury! Now!" he bellowed, shooting to his feet, not bothering to wipe the sand off of his uniform as the two surged forward.

But Edward was giving up a fight—a fight against an unseen enemy—maybe his own inability to properly breathe?—his one arm flailing about as he continued to heave and hack and gasp so jaggedly, and erratically that Mustang had the image in his mind of half-mutilated, completely-malformed lungs within the boy's ribcage—but yet the worst part was, he was making some sort of odd, deep, groaning noise underneath it all.

He's in pain.

And even as Mustang took a step forward, unsure what to do, it was futile. With Falman holding down Edward's struggling arm and leg, Feury pressed the mouth piece over Edward's blue lips, instantly making the plastic fog up with the heat of the boy's crazed breaths. A minute passed—maybe two—and then the struggling slowed down, Edward's eyes drooping with a combination of exhaustion and the slight dose of sedative gas within the respirator's chamber.

But no one missed the way his roaming, half-wild eyes glanced first left, and then right—finally landing on his brother, who drew the first light of recognition out of the half-conscious boy. Falman felt Edward's arm twitch—an instinctive reaction, the older man realized—as if he were trying to reach out for Alphonse.

Then the eyes drooped shut, sleep claiming him.

No one commented on how they all waited for a few moments afterwards, just watching the boy's small chest as it feebly, hitchingly rose an inch and then fell—rose again, and then fell once more. Perhaps weak, but still constant. A cycle forced into being by the respirator, but at least it was keeping him alive.

After all this, still alive.

Please tell me
You'll fight this fight
I
Can't see
Without your light
I need you to
Breathe into
My life

After everything else—after everything had finally settled down—Edward in the hospital, sleeping (which the doctor recommended be the best recovery; this way, he subconsciously re-learns to breathe on his own)—Alphonse situated—the team, after nine hours spent in this hellish day, retiring for the evening—

—Alphonse found the most annoying thing to be that he was still handless and footless.

Somewhere, he was sure, in the backwater parts of his mind, some part of him was boiling over that matter. Obscenely angry, because this meant he couldn't touch Brother—couldn't put that leather hand on his chest just to feel the reassuring rise and fall that meant Brother was alive.

But the larger part of him was instead concerned with what lay before him on the hospital bed. With so important a person lying there—someone who he had very nearly just lost—all other brain functions simply failed to work besides waiting and watching for those golden eyes to open again, and that broad, proud smile to grace those lips.

And besides that. Some part of him was still processing everything, too.

Because his mind couldn't…cope yet. With what happened.

He could still hear the way Edward choked when he couldn't breathe. Could still feel the vibrations of that small body convulsing without air—and could still remember the horror when he realized there was nothing he could do and oh gosh Brother was going to die right here inside him, trapped; his one last family member, relative of blood, brother of soul and mind, his other half was going to die because he was just a stupid suit of metal too useless to do anything.

He never thought he'd feel so week as a freakin' seven-foot-tall set of armor.

It made Alphonse feel horrible inside. Churn his soul, sicken him—he was pretty sure he'd feel nauseous if he had any human organs at the moment.

But thinking of organs brought up the matter of Brother's lungs and that—

—well, he still found himself struggling to breathe when he remembered the way Edward couldn't.

Alphonse shifted where he sat on a large chair conveniently left for him by the nurse ladies. "Brother," he finally, brokenly, mumbled, knowing Edward couldn't hear him, but wanting to—needing to—say this anyway, if only to get it off his chest. He sighed shakily.

"…let's…never lie about not being brothers again."

Because if something like this happens again…I don't want to have remembered ever denying you.

In the silence, overcome, Alphonse let himself give in to his childish, younger-sibling desires—because oh, gosh, Brother, Brother, dear Brother mine—and comforts. Bending down over the older Elric, he carefully laid the side of his helmet, so as to not poke Edward with its spikes, on the lower part of his brother's abdomen.

It was stupid, it was childish, but there. He needed this. He just…did.

And if Alphonse could have cried—especially when he felt, much to his surprise, the gentle and shaky pressure of his brother's flesh hand on the top of his head—he would have.

"…it's okay, Al," came the wheeze, a whisper. "I don't...want to again…either."

Alphonse could only give the barest of nods, too overwhelmed to speak, even as the hand tightened on his head—emotions so vivid, so painful, but so honest, because you're all I have.

Don't tell me
This is goodbye
I
Won't grieve
It's not yet time
Each breath breathed
Is keeping hope
Alive

"So, Mustang. I hear you had quite the interesting day, yesterday."

A clearing of the throat. "Yes. You could say, that, sir."

"Considering the fact that you didn't get anything that was expected of you to get done—and that your men and yourself were reported several times out in town and even outside of town, running around—and we have two more criminals, whose charges have yet to be seen, in jail—I think it should serve the general interest of the military if you should inform me as to what it was you were up to."

"With all due respect, General Grumman, all that happened was because of an oversight on my part. I sent a subordinate on a mission that had been faked, and it lead them into great peril. Yesterday had been spent retrieving them. The two in custody are guilty of apprehending them. That is all."

The General on the other side of the chess board nodded reluctantly. "I see. So I don't get to know the specifics?"

Mustang cracked a smirk as he moved his knight forward. "Oh, you do. Just on my report."

Not out loud, not in person. Because I can't promise to still keep my composure at this point in time.

General Grumman nodded, smile waning. "I see, I see."

So keep breathing
Go on, breathe in
Keep on breathing
Go on, breathe in
Just breathe

Boots and clanking armor across a metal floor. The sound had the only two heads in the vicinity look up, attention caught by the sight of the golden haired boy and his brother walking right towards them, silent, but eyes hooded with a deep emotion.

And while the woman cowered at the sight of them, large dark eyes afraid, the man with the glasses—her old boss—in the cell across from hers, laughed.

"So they found you!" he declared, eyes wild and so, so angry. "Oh, how I despise that Colonel. Tell me, Edward, how long did it take?"

The boy shrugged, red-clad shoulders shoved up and then down as they came to a stop in front of his cell. "Apparently not long enough. I'm still walking, ain't I?" And there he grinned, a bright, radiant one matching his eyes and hair—and oh how Odi Sanguis hated him, too. After all this, that pride, that smile, that fire still remained. "So guess what? You didn't win."

CLANG.

Odi Sanguis threw himself at the bars—but neither the boy nor the armor jumped or winced. Calmly, languidly, they watched him even as he writhed and hissed at them, "You fools! It's not over yet! You act like this is all—that this is the end—but it's not!" And now, here, too, he began to grin—a wide, crazy one, his breath hitching with excitement as he licked his lips. "I told the Colonel you were my most fascinating subjects yet—and it's true! I can't just let you walk out of here alive! Not until I break you—until I break you all! I promise you, there will be many, many more horrors after this one—I am not so easily stopped!"

His voice, having grown to a near-shouting volume, echoed throughout the prison.

But Edward merely blinked.

"…wow."

Turning to Alphonse briefly, both of them sharing some sort of look—what was it? What were they saying? And how could you even share a "look" with an expressionless face of metal?—Edward then glanced back at the man behind the bars, clearly unimpressed. "Don't you have anything better to do with your time? And those are some big words coming from a guy whose trial will most likely not end well for him. Do you know what they do to people who abduct military personnel and then try to kill them?"

Odi shook—not with fear, though. With something else. Some other, hot, unnamable feeling coursing through his veins. He wanted revengerevengerevenge—because this brat deserved anything and everything he could do if all of it was only to wipe off that stupid smile from his face. "I am aware, Fullmetal."

The grin broadened. It made him sick, sick— "Good! Then that means that this is goodbye. It wasn't nice knowing you, and I kind of hate your guts, but at least you're getting what you deserve. Toodles!"

And as the boy turned his back—such a small set of shoulders for one who's carrying such a heavy burden—Odi decided there was one last card he could, and would, play. "You don't even know why, do you?"

The boy froze, the armor muttered impatiently, "Brother…" as if this was the last thing he wanted to stay for and hear, but by that point Edward had already half-way turned around, glaring at him heavily. And such a deadly glare for one so young. "Why what?"

"Why I hurt you. Buried you. You and your brother."

That small mouth frowned, thinking. "…nope. I don't know. But I don't care, either. Knowing how crazy you are, it probably won't make sense, anyway, so—"

"—Family."

The word made the boy freeze again. But this time, he didn't turn around; he simply stood there, waiting, and Odi took that as his sign to continue. "After all, surely you, the genius child prodigy, the Fullmetal Alchemist, knows what my name means?"

And that Edward did. Odi Sanguis—old Cretian.

To hate family. To hate blood-relations.

"The Colonel, of course, denied that you all even resemble a family. But I disagree. Perhaps not all of you are related by blood, save for you and your brother, but you surely act like you are." There was a definitive grin in the man's voice, as if he was excited to hear this, as if it would further his 'research,' as he then asked, "But what I really want to know is, do you, too, deny this claim, Edward?"

There was a pause as the boy thought, turning slowly so once again, his side was facing the criminal. He was frowning carefully, golden eyes large and focused elsewhere—possibly, probably, on a different realm entirely.

Even his previous employee was crawling forward in her cell, large, dumb, curious dark eyes watching the child as he, for some strange reason, pondered this question so deeply.

Then finally, he answered slowly, thoughtfully. Taking so much careful time to speak his words—and yet, why? What was it that was most important he was trying to get across? Trying to say perfectly, so clearly, that it could not be misunderstood?

"I once heard it said….that 'When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family.'"

Silence.

A long pause followed, after which Edward finally nodded and Odi could swear the armored brother was smiling without, really, even smiling. But bowing his head, golden bangs shading his face, the boy shrugged and then muttered, "I've decided not to argue with that kind of logic."

And then he left.

Simple as that.

And leaving Odi strangely mystified, and so, so insatiably curious.

Each breath breathed
Means we're alive
And
Life means
That we can find
The reasons to
Keep on getting by

It began with something simple.

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye entered the Colonel's office, carrying the morning's mail and more papers that he would have to read over, sign, and if necessary, make amendments to.

Everything was perfectly ordinary, down to the request for coffee, the polite talk of the weather, and the subtle flirting that always made the Lieutenant's mouth twitch even as her hand flittered toward her holster semi-threateningly.

She wouldn't shoot the Colonel, she told herself. Not really.

It was just like every other morning.

Until one thing broke that noisy morning routine—so quiet that under any other circumstance, it would have been ignorable—so easily dismissed—but after what had happened the day before yesterday—

—when Edward coughed, in the middle of lounging against Havoc's desk and talking with the Second Lieutenant, everyone froze, and Alphonse was at his shoulder, and no one else could breathe for a moment as they waited, holding their breaths, watching and unable to move until the boy's own lungs continued to work smoothly.

And when they did, the team finally relaxed, and the noise continued as the Colonel turned to his subordinate and grinned, and made another dry remark, this one concerning children and "all the heart-attacks they'd give; man, am I glad I'm not a father."

But to that, Hawkeye did not reply. She merely smiled, and shook her head.

Because some deep, impenetrable part of her sincerely disagreed.

And if reasons we can't find
We'll
Make up some to get by
'Til breath
By
Breath
We'll leave this
Behind

So keep breathing
Go on, breathe in
Keep on breathing
Go on, breathe in
Just breathe

All you
Have to do
Is
Breathe

Fin

Crystal's Notes: Oh gosh. It's complete! Good Lord! It's done! I can't believe it! Alkjdsfjsdfkdslfkjdslfjldsjf ldsjfldskjf!

…I hardly ever finish something. Please bear with me as I express my sincere excitement into my pillow pet.

SO ANYWAY.

(Whoa. It's done. I'm…still reeling from that.) Credit were credit is due must be given, I suppose. CHARACTERS are not mine; they are Hiromou Arakawa's, as I'm sure you know. She's a delightful cow, really. I admire her greatly.

(…like, dude, I really finished this.)

QUOTE where title comes from belongs to Jim Butcher; it was procured from his novel Proven Guilty (which I actually have not read; but I am assuming it's a great book).

SONG LYRICS at the end belong to the song "Breathe" by Superchick, which I actually have heard, have adored, and thought it would fit rather well in the conclusion of this story (seeing as how breathing and all has become a sort-of-intentional motif throughout this piece).

(I finished a story! YES!)

THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH, YOU ALL! Like, honestly. YOU guys are the real reason this story is finished. Without your reviews, your favorites, your motivations, I would have given up and raised my friend the white flag, declaring "Hiatus." But I didn't, ONLY because of you guys, my reviewers, my darling readers, whom I adore more than words can say.

And Pen-Name-Kitsune-Chan, I will admit, I never did get to somehow reference your idea. For that, I apologize. But I would like you to know that I still think of it, smile, and greatly admire your creativity, so thank you, you wonderful person, you. (heart heart)

So, now that all of my thank you's are given, 'tis finally time to draw this thing to a close…

…with the declaration of a new FMA story coming up. Honestly, if you like having Edward in awkward situations, along with a puzzling mystery and the awesome pair of Mustang and Hawkeye kicking butt, it might be worthwhile to check it out. I'm not sure yet what I will call it, as it is still in the works, but look for a new story from me soon.

As for a sequel for this story—maybe. I haven't decided yet. And I'll probably remain undecided for a while, even though its tickled my fancy. Perhaps I'll see what you guys think.

Because who knows what lies around the bend?

(I never do.)