Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Souvenirs We Never Lose ❯ What Is ( Chapter 2 )

AN: edited 10-30-05. Some smallish stuff, but added a new verse of the lyrics to Edward's song that I forgot the first time around. Nothing plot-changing, but it's much more well written now. Fewer discrepancies with flow, etc.

What Is…

“Scars are souvenirs you never lose,
And the past is never far.
Did you loose yourself somewhere out there?
Did you get to be a star?
Don't it make you sad to know that life
Is more than who we are?
You grew up way too fast
And now there's nothing to believe.”
-The Goo Goo Dolls, “Name”

Fuhrer Roy Mustang stared vacantly at the sunset outside of his office window. He knew that it was the signal for him to go home. He also knew that he didn't really want to go home. Not yet. For now, he just wanted to sit and remember.

Sunsets always reminded him of times past—both metaphorically and literally. After all, hadn't he watched many sunsets with his arm wrapped around Edward's shoulders, content just to be near him? But…that had been years ago, before they had discovered the Fuehrer was a homunculus, before the rebellion that he himself had led.

He reached up and touched the black patch covering his left eye, a constant reminder of just how much he had lost.

But it went so far beyond the mere physical.

After Ed left, he had waited. Weeks became months. Three months to the day after his final battle with Fuhrer Bradley, the apparent Homunculus, Riza knocked on his office door with the news. When he told her to enter—wholly unsuspecting—she did, but would not meet his eyes. He began to worry. What news could possibly be so disastrous that she, the indomitable Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, couldn't look him in the eye to deliver it?

“Riza…what is it?” he asked, keeping his voice calm.

Surprised, it seemed, at his use of her first name, she finally looked up at him.

His eyes widened at what he saw.

Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“Sir…”

He nodded, unable to speak. Though his face remained emotionless, what had been worry was now a full-blown apprehensive terror, snaking its way up his spine and forming a knot at the back of his throat.

“We just received word from the Rockbells—Edward and Alphonse's friends in their hometown. Al is back, without his armor. But Edward…”

He tensed, waiting for her to continue.

She took a deep, shaky breath. “Edward never returned with him. You know how close they were…and it's been three months. I'm sorry sir.”

He flinched as if hit, but otherwise said nothing, just nodded again. Riza gave him one last sad, concerned glance and turned to leave. Roy could see her shoulders shaking as the door closed softly, and her slow footsteps fading down the hall.

Then there was silence as Brigadier General Mustang sat at his desk, hands covering his face. .

It stretched on, as he lost all sense of time. Then, suddenly--

“DAMN YOU, FULLMETAL!”

He covered his face with shaking hands, resting his elbows heavily on his desk.

“Damn you,” he whispered again, as he felt his palms become wet with tears.

Six months later, he had the opportunity to run for Fuehrer—to be the elected head of the newly organized government. His long-ago dream. Riza urged him to run, hoping to give him a sense of purpose. At her coaxing, he threw himself into his campaign. She remained by his side, steadfast, a reminder of what it meant to be strong. Loving him without demanding reciprocation.

A few months into the campaign, his campaign manager (a new recruit with an knack for knowing the desires of the populace) informed him that, during periods of reconstruction, the public gravitated towards those with a concept of the value of human life, who would keep them out of war--keep their boys alive and at home, and shatter no more families. In other words, a family man.

This was a problem. Roy had no family—no wife, no children, not even a lover.

So, Riza proposed that they marry. He was hesitant at first--all he could offer was friendship and his trust. She knew this, she said, and would happily take what she could get. Hearing this, he accepted. It was the least he could do, after all—she was his best friend, his confidant, his most loyal supporter. If she wanted this one thing, who was he to deny her?

One month later, they were married in a small ceremony attended by only their closest friends and family.

Sitting at his desk in the dying light of the sun, Fuehrer Roy Mustang slipped off the simple white gold band, watching it catch the last few rays.

He remembered how emphatically he had refused to use the traditional yellow gold. It reminded him too closely of hair and glowing eyes of the same hue, and he did not want place that burden on Riza. She did not deserve it.

Glancing back to his window, he saw that it was now nearly dark. He rose slightly stiffly from his seat and stretched his legs.

Time to leave again.

∞

Dr. Edward Elric walked slowly down the street toward his home. One hand gripped his battered briefcase, the other, a large textbook. A black umbrella was pinned, folded up, under one arm.

He heaved a sigh as he watched the last few rays of the sun disappear over the horizon. His students that day had been subdued today, which meant that his own day at work had been a long one. He supposed that it was on account of the rain, which had let up only in time to allow a spectacular sunset.

Which was, like all lovely things must be, short-lived.

His mouth quirked upwards at the corner in a small half-smile utterly devoid of humor. The premature lines surrounding his young mouth and eyes became more pronounced with the expression, and he knew it.

That morning, Dr. Elric had untangled himself from the warm comfort of his wife's arms, pausing to brush her blond hair out of her face, and watched as she leaned into his warm touch. A small, soft smile curved his lips.

Finally, I can touch people without seeing them wince at the cold metal of my hand.

He had rolled out of the bed—he had to be at the school in an hour—still smiling slightly as he walked into the bathroom. As he went to open the cupboard, he caught sight of his reflection, flinching at what he saw.

When did I get to be so old?

His smile had transformed into the same rueful one that he wore now.

Transformation.

He hadn't transformed anything, other than young minds, since he had returned from the other side of the gate, eight years ago. He was 25 now—in fact, today was his birthday.

So.

He was ten years older now—how much time had passed since that day. That fateful day all those years ago, when he had made what was simultaneously the worst and best decision of his young life.

He had given it up for the sake of what he had hoped would be his brother's happiness. .

All of it—his body, his world, his brother, his friends.

His lover.

In the truest sense of the word.

Those long months beyond the gate had become years, and he finally settled into the idea that he might never get home to Amestris, though he could never quite cut the thread of hope twining through his soul. But…that place—his life with Alphonse Heideric—had almost started to feel like home.

Almost.

After all, home is where the heart is, and part of his heart would never be his again. With that realization came the first lines on his face—wrinkles before the age of 20.

Isn't that what it means to be in love? In order to get, you have to give. Equivalent exchange.

But… sometimes, you give, but there is no tangible gain.

And there hadn't been, at first.

Edward had found, long ago, that music was, for him, cathartic--and one thing that had not changed about him was his aversion to tears. So, rather than let the salt drops fall from his eyes, he let the notes fall from his lips, in a rich baritone that even he had not expected when this habit began. His voice was soft, almost caressing the words as he sang them.

“My, my,
How things have changed
Since I have been away.
It's the first time,
But it's different I'm afraid.”

Edward had a song for everything—he had always believed in an appropriate choice of words, and lyrics were no exception.

This had become his remembering song. His Roy Song.

When he had returned, finally, he knew that the building that he had been hiding in had been bombed. Nazis. In that respect, at least, the two worlds had been the same when he left them—always a dictator, always one group persecuting the other.

And he, always caught in the crossfire.

He had not felt pain, so much as a sense of release.

When he had knocked on Winry's door, she'd barely recognized him. And he knew that it had little to do with his newly found height or his clothing.

It had been his face.

“Where's the boy
So happy to be near it all?
He's lost in the travel,
Little part of me so small.”

He spent a few weeks at the Rockbells, becoming accustomed to life in the world that had been his home. While he was there, he finally noticed what had been hidden in plain sight for some time, had he only been perceptive enough to notice.

Winry loved him.

It was in the way her voice softened when she spoke to him, the way the blush rose in her cheeks whenever he touched her, physically or otherwise. The way her eyes shone in the dark as she wished him good night before crossing the hallway to her own bed.

The way her shoulders shook as he told her that he was going back to Central.

He made it sound as though he were going to see Al in his new office, and even believed it a little. She made it sound as though she believed him, as well.

They both knew otherwise.

“Cry for me.
Cry for him.
Cry for the answer,
Cry because it's done.
Cry for the feeling,
Cry for the youth.
All for the prize.”

But when he got there, true to his word, the first thing that he did was to go see Al. He knew from Winry that Al wouldn't remember what he had done for him, what he had given up, or even who he was. He didn't care—Al was still family. So he spent long, sunny days with him, creating new memories to share once Winry's voice over the phone had assured Al of Edward's identity.

And perhaps he had just wanted to put off seeing Roy.

But…he knew he would eventually find himself standing again in front of those great oak doors, just as he had so many times before. At the same time, nothing like before.

“General Mustang? Edward Elric here to see you”

There was a pause.

Then, in an overly loud voice: “Send him in, please, Riza.”

She gave Edward a somewhat sad, sympathetic little smile as she opened the door into the office.

“Go ahead, Ed.”

Unable to fund his voice he just nodded his thanks to her.

“You look older.”

“I know. The lines.”

“No. Your eyes.”

He gave Roy a sad smile. Then he remembered. “I heard you were married to Riza a few weeks ago. Congratulations.” He choked on the last word, but managed to spit it out without sounding bitter, and was proud of the achievement.

“Yes.”

A pause

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you been back?”

“Three weeks.”

An ironic, mirthless smile, and Edward suddenly knew where had picked that one up.

“Why?”

His brow furrowed as he saw Roy glance at his ring.

He heard him mumble, as though to himself, “you always said it was you that was Fate's bitch…” He shook his head, seeming to come back to reality. “Fullmetal—”

“No,” he said, raising one hand. “Stop. I'm not Fullmetal any more.”

He held out his two flesh hands, allowing Roy to take them both in his own for a moment, tracing the lines on his palms. After some time, and with great effort, he pulled them slowly away.

“Nor am I an alchemist. Only a scientist.”

“Can you…?”

“Yes. I choose not to.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

They said nothing, and just looked at each other for a moment. Without a word, Edward nodded and turned to leave. He grasped the doorknob…

“Edward, wait—”

He paused, hope flashing through his golden eyes, but when he turned back to face the General, his face was blank, calm.

“Yes?”

“Uhm…” he trailed off, and Edward waited. If he was surprised that the infamously sharp and quick-witted Roy Mustang was at a loss for words, he didn't show it.

“Would you like to have dinner?” His eyes were pleading, and Edward remembered that look. It was the same one he had seen the first time that Mustang had asked him that question, more than ten years ago.

`More than anything…'

“Sorry, my train leaves in twenty minutes. And…Riza will be waiting for you.” All this was said honestly--no accusation, just deep regret. Edward nearly cried. It was one of the hardest things that he had ever had to say.

“Ah.” Roy said again, that same rueful smile touching his lips, but Edward could see him biting the inside of the bottom one, saw the way he tilted his head down to obscure his good eye with his hair.

…and that look made him want to change his mind.

But…the promise of a decade ago had been violated—out of necessity, but violated just the same—and Edward wouldn't put either of them through the grief of desiring an impossibility. So he walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.

“Through different eyes
The promise that you have made forgets
See it as you may
Deny it while you can
Search for the reasons
As you beg to understand.

 

“Cry for me.
Cry for him.
Cry for the answer,
Cry because it's done.
Cry for the feeling,
Cry for the youth.
All for the prize.”

But, that night, he began to dream of the gate. And the next. Finally, he went to sleep expecting to revisit the terrifying brilliance and dark souls gripping at his body. Expecting the immeasurable pressure of infinite knowledge being pressed into his skull, the desire to scream, but the inability to do so—he was always a spectator in these dreams, watching himself struggle towards the other side.

“Come and go--
Don't get pulled into the light.
Come and go--
Wouldn't believe it if you tried.
Come and go--
It's as useless as it was.
You can go,
The end we know.
I won't tell you anything
So far away you are to me.

NO.”

Every night, he would wake himself up screaming.

And every night, Winry would come into his room and hold him until he fell asleep, rocking him and muttering soothing sounds in his ear as though he were a child.

One evening, he held her back.

A few months later, he kissed her for the first time.

When he made love to her for the first time, a year later, it was without sexual passion. What it lacked in lust, however, it made up for in tenderness. Which may have been better, anyway, he convinced himself.

Two months later, they were married. Edward has always wondered if Winry's tears at the ceremony were of joy or of sadness, and remembered how, all those years ago, she had told him that she would cry for him and Al because neither of them would. He wondered if Winry ever cried for herself.

“Cry for me.
Cry for him.
Cry for the answer,
Cry because it's done.
Cry for the feeling,
Cry for the youth.
All for the prize.”

And right there, during their first wedding dance, he began to sing softly in her ear, warm voice tracing the bittersweet tones of the song they had chosen together.

Years passed. When one day, the news some to him that Roy had been elected Fuehrer—Edward had voted for his former lover without qualms—he knew that Roy was fit for the job. Edward himself was teaching at a nearby school, using his knowledge from the other side of the gate to help students who had finished their basic schooling to become doctors and scientists. Helping them understand that the rule, “be thou for the people,” was not merely for alchemists. Slowly, he got to know Al again, who had begun to accept Edward as his brother when Edward had first visited him in Central. He made Winry and Edward's house his home, though he was often off traveling or in the capitol itself. He never spoke of these visits with Edward, never said whether he had seen Roy--his innate connection with his brother apparently warning him against it.

Though Al remained a Sate Alchemist, Edward never contacted Central to let them know that he was not, in fact, dead. He supposed that Roy had also “neglected” to mention this to the higher-ups years ago. He would never know for sure—he had never contacted Roy after that day eight years ago, and Roy had apparently allowed him to go his own way and make that decision for himself.

Looking up into the now-dark sky, Dr. Edward Elric decided that some things never change.

“My, my,
Swear it's been a lifetime
Since I have been away.
It's the last time
But somehow it's all the same.
Where's the boy?”

The last notes fell softly from his lips as the first stars twinkled into existence galaxies away in the deep velvet sky, reminding him of Roy's dark eyes.

They always were like night and day.

“Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems -- but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems incredible.”
-Salman Rushdie