Work Text:
The world is burning and it’s Roy’s fault.
He’s breathing hard; more ash and dust than oxygen — coating his lungs, his skin, his hair. It’s spiced with the scent of singed flesh.
The pounding of his pulse rattles hard in his ears and makes his vision swim with its force. He shuts his eyes tightly and lets the sharp gravel eat into his palms in an attempt to ground himself.
The street is now but a husk lined with skeletal buildings and ghosts haunting charred shells of empty flesh. The wind whistles their cries through the cavernous silence and the harsh sun has joined forces with Roy’s own hateful flames to bring them to life again in the shadows of smoke. The echoes of their screams reverberate tirelessly through his mind. Roy doubts it will ever stop.
Flames still eat at what little remains; spiteful tufts of colour that linger and dance in the sandy breeze, clinging to sturdy framework or the occasional corpse. Rubble from the explosions he had caused, toils like a slow tide, filling the road and washing the world grey. It consumes what of the dead it can in a pseudo-burial - like the land itself is trying to bring its people home.
His stomach churns from the souring smell. And from the festering self-loathing rearing its head in a wave of nausea.
Roy dry heaves into the ground, sickened. With desperate fingers, he claws at his own hands and the soft white material of the gloves covering them. The array stitched there is neat and red like a surgeon’s incision — red like the blood he has spilled and burned away. Red as the death staining his conscience.
This is what he has done.
A small unsuspecting town, an unguarded and unprotected town. A community that he had sent up in flames—
No one deserved this.
When the panic attack hits, Roy feels it coming.
He doesn’t see the figure, stumbling on a mound of pulverised building, calling his name between spitting obscenities. He doesn’t see them survey the scene and doesn’t see them catch sight of Roy and scramble messily the rest of the way towards him. He doesn’t see anything because he can’t breathe from the ghostly hands crushing his windpipe and the lack of oxygen is making his vision swim.
“—Fuck it. Mustang!”
Hands grip his shoulders and he seizes, imagining the hand that will strike down next. A killing blow. A deserved blow.
“Oh shit. Sorry,” the person says, the weight disappearing. “Sorry. Fuck.”
Roy knows, logically, that he is probably definitely hyperventilating. He knows this is the wrong place for such vulnerability. But he also knows that the ground is spinning and falling away beneath him, and despite the fire and the desert's tireless sun, he is racked with shaking, hollow chills, like old pipes in loose joinery rattling in winter. He knows he can’t breathe.
“Hey! Hey, Mustang… Roy, can you hear me? C’mon, Bastard, I need you to breathe for me, okay? Focus on me. In and out, yeah? In and out.”
————
Time slips by, lost to the crackle of dying fire and bound up in the low tune of the children's song that the other hums as Roy finally starts to relax.
His saviour is a picture of gold and grey. Dust streaks his angular face and runs tracks through his mussed blond hair, haphazard and flyaway as it escapes from a once neat braid. His gold eyes are big, inquisitive coins, and Roy is struck by the unbidden memory of a dark candlelit hallway and the Xingese fairytale distraction, of a dragon the colour of the sun and its mountain treasure. He imagines he will never again meet someone quite like this again.
He’s sat before Roy. His casual clothes and long brown coat filthy, his left leg cast away from the rest of his body, and his right hand still drumming the dirt. Despite that, he still manages to look graceful.
No uniform. Not military then. Not Ishvalan either, if the fact that his new companion is alive is anything to go from.
The smoke must have gotten to him. When Roy speaks it is the harsh grate of gravel on gravel being tipped from his mouth. “Who are you?”
The man blinks, coughs, and glances away. “I’m… Russell. Heiderich. Russel Heiderich.”
Roy’s no fool, he recognises the name is probably a fake, but he decides to leave it be. He understands, there are many reasons why one might wish to hide their identity. Especially in times like this. And while his job dictates he should care, Roy decides he doesn’t — especially because they are sitting in the charred ruins of a mass grave of his own creation and he, himself, might be the reason.
Because Heiderich knows who he is.
Roy would hide his name too if he could.
People are beginning to recognise the name ‘Roy Mustang’ and his ever so simple title: Flame Alchemist. Suddenly the mention of his name has an unspooling ball of connotations slewing out before it. It makes Roy sick. But what is surprising is that Heiderich knew him by sight, and while Roy’s name is well known, his face is not.
Of course, there is always the chance someone has sent him.
Roy’s not certain what is more worrying. But his body feels like lead, and his bones fletching; his arms quiver like frail branches in the wind and he fears he will break and be dragged down to drowning by the world-weights draped like carrion across his shoulders.
So, Roy decides he has priorities. Most of them ending at the bottom of a bottle.
Heiderich’s steady hands grip his forearms, bringing Roy to his feet. He offers a smile at Roy’s uncharacteristic countenance of uncertainty. His royal blue uniform is grey, his insignia striped in soot; his diplomacy, morals, and freedom are shattered glass beneath his feet. So right now, Roy decides he is not an officer of the military, but just another man.
He grounds himself in the cut of Heiderich’s smile and the life in his gold eyes and gives a tentative smile back.
————
It is a while before he sees Heiderich again.
When he does it is in a medi tent. Heiderich looks the same as he did that day he played angel; that same long coat and worn pair of boots. He still has his hair in a braid — if slightly more windswept, and gloves on his hands.
What is different is the scowl on his face. And the bloody cut on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles at the fair-haired medic plastering him with butterfly stitches. She gives him a nurse’s smile, that is: of course you are, you dear sweet boy, but you’re also concussed and stupid. It’s a gentle and indulgent thing.
Heiderich sees right through it grouses something about blondes and wrenches under his breath.
The medic laughs. “That’s Sarah to you, Mr. Heiderich,” she tells him before she is called off to another patient.
Heiderich watches her go, a sad sort-of smile on his face. Roy doesn’t analyse it. Doesn’t feel he needs to when it is just another man watching a pretty girl walk away.
But Heiderich doesn’t linger on her long. When Roy turns back those golden eyes are blinking at him in surprise.
“R— Mustang,” he greets.
“Heiderich,” Roy returns. “What happened?”
“I… well, I suppose you could say someone got a bit envious of me,” he chuffs like there is an inside joke Roy’s not getting. “I did what I had to.”
“Of course,” Roy says diplomatically and doesn’t press.
“What are you doing here?” Heiderich asks.
Roy gestures to a dark-haired man being bandaged up by the same medic, a smile on his face that’s just a touch too giddy. “My friend, Maes, is here.”
“Oh,” Heiderich says, his tone unreadable. “Right. Well, he’s in good hands. That’s Mrs. Rockbell,” he nods in her direction, “attending to your friend. She and her husband are good people; good at what they do. He’ll be fine.”
Roy doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods.
“They’ve got a daughter, you know,” Heiderich says after a minute. “She’s gonna be a great automail mechanic someday.”
“You know much about automail?” Roy asks. He’s surprisingly unsure whether this is small talk or not.
“I know it’s a bloody pain in my ass,” Heiderich smiles, tapping a finger on his left knee. And oh. Oh — he hadn’t realised. It feels like a peace offering, but for what, Roy’s not sure.
“I’m… sorry,” he says. At least he knows it can’t have been a war casualty, or at least not this war. Heiderich moves too fluidly — too smoothly. His control must be exemplary.
“Childhood injury,” Heiderich explains, “my fault for being a dumbass.”
Roy doesn’t ask further. He recognises the tightness around the other man’s eyes. Losing a limb is a big price to pay for ‘being a dumbass’.
“Roy? Roy!” Maes sings, high as a kite from across the room. “Roooyyyy, light of my life! Is that you?”
“Coming, Maes,” Roy says. He doesn’t quite want to leave yet but he can’t seem to find a reason to stay. “Take care, Heiderich.”
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes big and fathomless. “See you around.”
Roy joins Maes who starts gushing about the pretty nurse, but Roy, she’s marrieddd. What do I doooo?
When he looks back, Heiderich is gone.
————
Roy tries not to get attached.
He tries.
(It doesn’t work).
Heiderich comes and goes like an impossible tide; he’s there one moment and gone the next. But he’s started greeting Roy with a genuine, unbidden smile, and perhaps even a note of relief in his eyes whenever they bump into each other.
The war hasn’t stopped yet. They still send Roy out. It still tears a piece out of him every time. Sometimes Heiderich appears. Sometimes he doesn't.
Sometimes when Roy sees him, he is in worse shape than most. Blood mats his hair, pools from his nose, a hole in his shoulder, a score of wounds down his back like he’s been attacked by a bear. At these times he often mutters something along the lines of: “three down; five to go.”
Roy hasn’t built up the nerve yet to ask him about it.
They’ve built a companionable relationship in the past months, different from what Roy has with Maes or Riza. Odd circumstances have brought them together, and Heiderich never shied from it. Even as Roy's notoriety grows.
They sit around a small fire. It’s one of Roy’s rare nights off. He’s got a flask in hand, reeking of some ungodly brew he’s nicked off Maes. Firelight dances off the curved metal. Roy has been talking about his childhood.
“The Madame would always laugh at me, whenever I brought someone home. Told me I was faking it for my own sake.”
“And were you?” Heiderich asks with a small knowing grin. He is sitting close, leaning into Roy’s space, their knees touch.
“Of course,” Roy snorts, letting the warm burn of alcohol charge his words. “But I was never going to admit that. The Madame is always right, you know.”
Heiderich laughs. “Yeah, I know a thing or two about that. She sounds like my teacher and my best friend all in one. They were always right too…”
Were, Heiderich said. Roy sobers slightly.
“My brother was always the smarter one of the two of us,” he continues, “he listened when I was too stubborn or bull-headed. God, I would have died years ago if not for him.” He chuckles dryly.
Roy passes him the flask, Heiderich takes a big swill and meets Roy’s eye. “My… Boss too. Mad bastard that one. But clever, oh so clever. But he always faked it, ya know? He’ll run the country someday. Not that I’d ever tell him that; egotistical asshole would take it straight to his head. It’s big enough as it is.”
Roy laughs, watching the light twist through Heiderichs hair. “He won’t hear it from me.”
He gets a secret smile for that.
“Tell me more about your brother?”
“Well he had a scary fucking obsession with cats…”
If, as the night goes on and the flask is steadily emptied, they move closer together… neither one of them mentions it. The fire burns to embers and they sit and talk until there is nothing left. But still, they stay. And it’s the most content Roy has felt in years.
————
The war ends. At last.
Roy is promoted. He is lieutenant colonel now, steadily rising to colonel.
It’s been a month since Heiderich last blazed through his life, all wicked smile and gleaming eyes. Maes teases him. Says he has a… crush. Roy doesn’t know how to respond to that, but he has yet to deny it.
Things are… not great. But they’re better. Roy’s bought a small townhouse in Central; it’s got a garden and a tree, a tasteful kitchen, a creamy lounge with shelves for his books, and four secure walls that while they might rattle and threaten to collapse in his dreams — have yet to actually fall on his head.
His nightmares are bad, and he often wakes up choking on his own spit and desperately trying to pat out a non-existent fire. His guilt will never go away. But on trembling legs he will make his way to the kitchen and boil a teapot. Going through the motions is soothing and he will sit in silence at his little dining table breathing in the aroma of whatever flavour his fumbling fingers had found. Whether he actually drinks the tea doesn’t matter. He waits until he can breathe again.
So, things are going alright.
And then Heiderich kills the Fuhrer.
Bradly seems just as surprised as the rest of the room as Heiderich claps his hands together, moving almost too quick to see, and unravels his very being.
“But— I…I—” Bradly chokes, “—didn’t see… you.”
Roy hadn’t seen him either. Heiderich had appeared through the crowd with single-minded focus, a harbinger of chaos and death gilded in human form. No one had realised a thing.
“Truth says hi,” is all he says. For some reason Roy can hear the words he’s left unsaid: seven down; one to go.
The room is full of military officials and none of them can move. Everyone is shocked still. Roy can barely think, he doesn’t see as Heiderich makes his escape using ‘highly unstable, very dangerous’ and ‘unheard of feats of alchemic prowess and power’. All he can see is the pile of Bradly-dust, the stripped-down carbon of all that remains of the great Fuhrer’s body, whipping up in the alchemic discharge like it’s been caught in a breeze and scattering away.
And he’s… relieved.
Someone starts screaming.
————
Roy goes home.
He’s just been promoted to colonel.
(“We need more level-headed thinkers like you, Mustang. Staying calm in such a trying time,” some faceless authority had said, clapping Roy on the shoulder.
“Thank you, sir,” Roy had replied, numbly.)
He hasn’t told anybody what he knows. Hasn’t breathed a word of his connection to Heiderich. That would implicate himself and… and he doesn’t want to give Heiderich up. Because Roy cares. A lot.
The man that ordered him to war is dead. Roy does not grieve. Instead, he sits at his dining room table until it is well past midnight. A cold cup of tea in hand. Peppermint, he notes.
There is a thud at his door. Like someone is trying and failing to knock.
Roy gets up slowly, warily. But he thinks he knows who it is.
When he opens the door Heiderich is leaning heavily on the wall for support. He’s in the worst shape that Roy has ever seen him. There is blood everywhere, his right arm is missing, and his left is pushed tightly to his chest. His hair is loose around his shoulders and his face is scraped and bruised, his one un-swollen eye eerie in the porch light where Heiderich watches him.
“Hey Roy,” he manages, strained. “How’s it hanging?”
“Oh my God… What—”
Heiderich’s right knee gives out, sending him plunging. Roy lunges forward to catch him.
“Fuck,” he groans, “thanks.”
“Shit! Your arm!” His missing arm seems to be one of the only places Heiderich isn’t bleeding.
“What, this old thing?” He mumbles into Roy’s chest. “Automail.”
“What happened? We need— I need to find some bandages— “
“No. Don’t.”
“You’re going to die!” Roy has never felt as much panic as he does then. Holding the man he may or may not love as he bleeds out in Roy’s own doorway.
“Roy… I know. I just need to you listen, bastard, okay?” He pleads, “I made a deal. With... Truth. I did it, I got number one. Father, the homunculi… they’re gone. I did it, Roy. I changed it.”
Roy shook his head. “I—”
“I’m going to die, Roy. Truth always said it would be this way. I need you to promise me you’ll do something for me.”
“You’re not going to die, you can’t,” Roy doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear lands on Heidrich’s cheek and he smiles up at him sadly.
“I need you to promise me you’ll go to Resembool. Find the Elric’s for me and make sure they don’t do anything stupid.” His bloodied left-hand touches Roy’s cheek. “I never thought this would happen.”
Roy touches his forehead to Heiderich, but it’s the dying man who makes the move and kisses him.
“I’ll see you later, bastard,” Heiderich gives him one last watery smile. And then his body crumbles in Roy’s arms. Just like Bradly’s.
Roy wishes it was a nightmare. His hands clutch at empty air.
“Wake up! Fucking wake up!”
But it’s not. And he doesn’t
And Roy is left sobbing alone on his porch calling into the night.
“Come back…”
————
It is a month before Roy even thinks about making good on Heiderich’s request.
Resembool is a sleepy little farm town full of rolling hills and pastures. Roy arrives by morning train, he’s dressed plainclothes, his insignia nowhere in sight. This is personal business after all.
Asking after the Elric’s gets him directions to Rockbell’s Automail. It’s a decently sized country house with a pleasantly worded sign outside proclaiming business hours. A black and white dog barks as he approaches but makes no move to stand from where it’s resting in the shade.
A woman opens the door. Roy is surprised to realise he recognises her.
“Sarah? Sarah Rockbell?” He asks. She’s the medic.
“Oh,” she says with a pleasant smile. “You’re Russel’s friend, right?”
Russel. Russel Heiderich. Right. He had never looked much like a Russel.
“Yes, I’m Roy,” he offers her a hand. “Nice to meet you properly.”
“You as well. Would you like to come in? Yuriy and Pinako are inside, Winry and the boys should be playing out the back. I can offer you some tea?”
“I would love that. But first… I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Sarah takes a long look at Roy’s face. She seems to see what is written there. “You’d best come in then,” she says.
————
The news of Heiderich’s passing goes down wetly. Sarah sobs into her husband’s shirt. Apparently, the other man was close to the family and had often come for visits.
“The boys will be wrecked,” Yuriy says. The boys were the Elric brothers, Edward and Alphonse. The Rockbell’s had been looking after them ever since their mother died and father left. “He was so close with them, like a brother. Hell, Ed's his spitting image.”
In the end Roy’s invited to stay for dinner which he accepts, as it would be easier to catch the late train than rush for an afternoon one.
The adults are still talking when a little blonde-haired girl with big blue eyes rushes into the room squealing. She ducks behind her mother’s skirts, peaking out to watch the doorway.
Seconds later a child’s cry of “Al! No fair!” sounds beyond the hall. Two boys run into the room, the first one, taller with golden brown colouring stops. The second crashes into him.
“Ow! Ed! What was that for?”
“You’re the one who stopped!”
Roy has to catch his breath at how similar the second boy looks to Heiderich’s memory. Yuriy wasn’t joking when he said they looked like brothers.
Ed looks around the room and narrows his eyes at Roy. “Who are you?” he asks with suspicion.
Roy can’t help it when he laughs. “I’m Roy. It’s nice to meet you boys.”
————
Roy is sitting at his desk when he gets the call from his secretary.
“Fuhrer? There’s a Sarah Rockbell on the line for you.”
Roy blinks, he hasn’t seen the Rockbells for a while. His free time is not as flexible as it once was. “Put her through.”
“Roy?” Sarah asks through the phone, “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Of course not, Sarah. It’s always a pleasure.”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t usually call about this kind of thing, but we were wondering if you’d heard from Ed?”
“Ed?” Roy frowns. He hasn’t heard from Ed. He hasn’t spoken to him in months and hasn’t seen the boy in person in two years. Not since he’d been titled Fuhrer and the Rockbell’s and Elric brothers had joined him, his team, and the Hughes’s for the celebration. Ed has always been hard to pin down, often traveling and doing all manner of who knows what. He only ever comes on his own time. “No, I haven’t heard from him in a long while. What’s wrong?” Roy asks.
“Al’s just worried. Said Ed woke up one morning last week and has been acting weird ever since. Winry noticed it too. I wasn’t going to say anything but Ed up and vanished the morning before last and left a note saying he was heading to Central. Said something about you.” Sarah says.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Roy promises. If Ed wants to be found he will.
“Thanks, Roy. I hope to see you for dinner again sometime? Yuriy is trying his hand at strudel and wants to try it out on the best.”
“I would love to,” Roy smiles. “Until then.”
“Bye Roy!” Sarah calls just as Roy hears Yuriy on the other end. “Is that Roy? Tell him about—”
————
It’s evening and Roy is settled on a plush couch in his study when someone knocks on the door.
When Roy checks the peephole he swears he is seeing a ghost. Until the ghost speaks.
“Roy? Mustang? For fucks sake will you open up? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“Ed?” Roy says, unlocking the many locks on his front door. “What are you doing here?”
Looking at Ed in the porchlight is playing all kinds of hell with Roy’s sense of déjà vu. His face has changed from two years ago, the angles have filled out and yet sharpened. His eyes are that much more striking. He must be twenty-two now.
He’s wearing that goddamned coat.
And then it’s not Ed at all. But Heiderich, Fuhrer Bradly’s murderer and Roy’s… Roy’s something.
For what is likely the first time in Ed’s life, he looks lost for words.
Until he shrugs. “I told you I’d see you later.”