Work Text:
Edward was a firm believer that rain was a damn abomination of nature, and even more so when it decided to start raining in the middle of the freaking afternoon. The afternoon!
The early morning had been splendid, and shown no signs of the awful torrent of water and wind that had sprung forth and poured down from the spotty gray clouds, and Edward had actually been in a rather good mood. Waking up to soft light from the window and a warm bed, a sleep free from nightmares and the smell of breakfast already sizzling on a scuffed stove was a delight to wake up to. Even Alphonse had noted his cheery denomar.
Things had been going well lately, too. Solid leads on the Philosopher's Stone, breakthroughs in research, and little office work to be done. The latter meaning little contact with the stupid Colonel and his stupid face, and a lot of free time to simply do the small things he never had a chance to, like splurging on sugary treats down at the bakery or kicking around a ball with his brother. Mustang had little work for him to do as things slowed down as assessment days came up, and it all meshed together to create the perfect or so week.
Of course, in typical Elric fashion, these things never did last. While Edward had been finishing up a hearty lunch and pushing his luck on his daily check in at the office, Mustang insisted that while he didn’t need him in there, he still had to clock in for the day much to Edward’s annoyance and chagrin. The pattering on his window and the sudden dip of light in the dorm announced the arrival of rain, and Edward was pissed.
Rain sucked . It was cold, windy, and it soaked through his layers of clothes and made him heavy and tired. Rain was distracting and made him sleepy and freaked him out with the loud jolts of thunder that would crash down unannounced, and it made everything gloomy and dark, and the absolute last thing Edward ever wanted to do when it was raining was work or walk through the streets, fighting off cold drops that snaked down his spine and spattered his face.
Then there was his automail to handle.
As a kid, Edward didn’t hate rain. Rain meant easy days snuggled in pajamas with his mom, warm drinks balmy on his hands and crackling firewood while stew simmered in the kitchen, and old cartoons on TV while he read his father’s alchemy books and Alphonse poked and prodded. Rain was warmth and quiet and sleepiness in his eyes, and held some of his fondest memories of his family.
Now, with the steel and iron attached to his nerves, dragging at his skin, rain meant soreness and pain and deep, deep aches that reached down to his bones. The skin underneath his ports would throb with his heartbeat and pulsate with long, drawn out twinges of hot pain, sparks shooting down his leg or arm whenever he flexed his muscles. Occasionally, the muscles would spasm and Edward would grit his teeth and dig his fingers into the twitching skin until it settled to a manageable burn. It was awful and agonizing and Edward wanted to throw up when it happened.
He wished it would have started raining after his check in.
Now, he’s soaked. His red jacket is waterlogged and smeared with muck, the humidity chilled and weighing on his shoulders as he trudges his way up to the command center, shivering and teeth chattering as his shoulder burns with a furious fervor. His boots are sodden with grime and his socks are squelching in his feet, and he can feel his automail fingers and toes twitch as the nerves send off fiery bolts of pain.
He wipes his eyes, raindrops dripping from his eyelashes, with the back of his hand, but it offers nothing as the cold, wet fabric simply smears across his face, and Edward grits his teeth as his automail arm gives a random, quick jerk, and pain blooms across his shoulder at the movement. He stews on it a moment before pushing through the door as a gust of wind swipes by, tossing his sticky mess of hair around with a muted thwump as the soaked clumps smack against his temples.
Edward supposes he could have asked for a ride, but he hates literally everyone and everything right now, and he both thought he could manage the walk down and didn’t want to deal with the potential ridicule he might face if he phoned into the office with such a stupid request. He knows that that's never happened before, but he doesn’t put it past the stupid Colonel to lord it over his head and tease him about it until the day he dies, and he just doesn't want to deal with it.
Plus, it hadn’t been raining this hard when he started his walk down. It had been just a slight drizzle, urged on by lukewarm winds, and Edward wrongly, stupidly assumed that his red overcoat and thick black jacket would have been enough to ward off the impending gripes of pain that had latched onto his skin.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He steps inside the building, boots squishing against the carpet that has seen far too many visitors, and he breathes out a quick sigh of relief as a balmy air hits his wet cheeks, and he blinks out the water in his eyes. It’s noticeably warmer in here than it was outside, and it brings Edward a bit of hope that his automail will settle as he slowly, slowly, makes his way to the stairs to kick in the bastard's door and announce his arrival.
That hope is quickly quashed when he picks up his knee to take the first step.
His muscle convulses tightly, sucking out the air from Edward’s lungs, and the world spins with colors as he stumbles against the wall, suffering unspooling in his nerves, twisting and dancing in a sharp dance of hardly bearable pain as he tries to straighten his leg in an attempt to ease the tension. Edward holds to the stairwell as his stomach clenches, bile tickling the back of his throat, and his head is suddenly heavy as he careens forward and hardly misses stumbling onto the cement steps.
He sucks in a breath, heart beating fast and head throbbing and he screws his eyes shut and tries to breath through the sudden flash of pain, stomach rolling with his breakfast and half eaten lunch. There are hardly any sounds, but everything is suddenly too loud as a ringing picks up in his ears and the whirring of the heating overwhelms him as he thuds his forehead against the wall.
Edward wants to be pissed, and by hell he is pissed, but it's far too overlayed with the trembling of his leg and the screeching of his arm muscles as the skin and fat of his arm shift underneath the port, electricity sparking as the automail tries to communicate with his nerves, and he fights to keep himself upright, hands sweaty and clothes heavy with water. Or, at least, he thinks it's sweat on his palms. Maybe it was just the rain water slipping down his face. But if it is, why does he feel so hot?
The world blurs as he blinks, and it feels like there is static in his ears as the area around him dots with black, and he tries to shuffle up another step. He blanches white and swallows back the sticking, foul bitterness from his stomach as his knee locks in a bent position. A high pitched keening sound slipping from between his teeth as his thigh throbbing and spasming as his nerve endings fight against the onslaught of water and confusing signals.
His grip on the smooth metal stairwell is slipping, as his automail arm twitches uselessly next to him, each movement flooding him with nauseating aches that reach into the center of his bones, and despite his desperation, he sleeps and crashes down onto the steps, knee cocked and arm splayed out besides him, grating against the ground.
He’s too hot.
Edward’s head is swimming and his thoughts are jumbling, and the heat creeping across his face is confusing him. He smacks his lips, stomach tossing and gurgling and saliva drips from his lips and into his lap, blending with the water. The ringing is all encompassing and he feels like he’s been shoved underwater as he tries to shrug off his overcoat, but his flesh hand is too uncoordinated and shaking to peel it off his automail port, and each time the metal is brushed, Edward has to dig his teeth into his tongue and fight back tears.
He can't tell if the water on his face is rain, sweat, or tears as his throat tightens and his eyes warm, and he gurgles out a pained breath. Edward sits for just a moment, trying to steady himself and dissect his thoughts, confusing bubbling in his head as he fumbles his good hand across his face and tries to dry his skin, blood swathing his mouth and a burning warmth enveloping his body as he shakes on the steps.
It’s a minute or two, and in the back of his mind, he knows that he’s late for his check in, or, at least, he thinks he is, his mind is racing and far too jumbled to be sure of the exact time right now, but he honestly couldn't care less about that, because all that matters in the present moment is getting himself under control and up those stairs before anyone comes looking for him, or worse, phones Al at the dorms and asks why Ed hasn’t gotten his sorry ass out of bed.
“Fuckin’ rain.” Ed spits under his breath, voice clipped and edging on tears, and it makes him so angry. He’s the goddamn Fullmetal Alchemist! He’s a child prodigy and the youngest State Alchemist in history! How weak is he that a little bit of rain takes him out? Fucking water?
He sniffs, tilting his head forward and tries to fight back the bitter tears gathering in his eyes. He’s so useless. He’s so damn useless all the damn time and he hates it. He hates it so much.
In the midst of his deprecating thoughts and constant ringing, all sounds blurred like a bad recording, Edward doesn’t hear the steps descending the stairs above him. He doesn’t hear the leather soles padding against the concrete and he doesn’t hear someone say his name once, twice, he doesn’t know, hitched with befuddlement and a bit harsh in tone before it thins out, hinted with worry.
He doesn’t hear feel anyone behind him, feel them move besides him and say his name again, too focused on the blurred world and trying to figure out how he’s going to to drag himself up the stairs, and he doesn’t feel the hand brush his shoulder and tap calloused fingers against the soaked garments as his skin and muscles spasm in a pitiful, painful dance, twisting his skin.
He doesn’t notice anything until something warm, actually warm and not just the fake heat that machines spit out or the unnatural warmth of his face, cups his cheek and moves his head, and he flinches as the world rolls and his head spins with light and color, anxiety sparking in his heart.
“Fullmetal?”
The voice distant and hazy, like his head is underwater, but it's extremely familiar, deep and rumbling, and although in his confused, pain-addled state Edward can’t quite place it, he lets himself relax and lean into the warmth on his cheek, if only to ground himself, and he blinks slowly, sucking in another breath of humid air. He gives a lazy narrow of his eyes as something shifts in his vision, bathing it in blue and black. The voice continues to speak, quiet and saying his title before it slips into his name, and when it does, Edward is able to place the tone.
Sickness and fear bundles together and bleeds off him when he does, stomach giving a gurgle, and he jerks his head away from the warmth, head spinning as he does so, because dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. Why did it have to be him?
This is the last person he would want to find him in this state, except maybe Al, and now he wants to both scream and curl up in a ball, because he’s never going to hear the end of this. He's never going to hear the end of how he was late for check in, and how he collapsed in the stairwell, soaked in rainwater and sweat, tears on his face, unable to walk up the stairs. He’s never going to hear the end of how the stupid Flame Alchemist found him curled against the wall.
“Mustang?” he gets out, hoarse and grating and embarrassingly high, trying to focus on him. Right now, he’s a mess of black shaggy hair and that blue uniform, silver eyes glaring, and he looks away, head against the wall.
“Yes, it’s Mustang.” The man says, hand still hovering where Ed’s cheek was and even through his fuzzy vision, Edward can see that his face is furrowed, worry lines etched near his eyes. “Edward, what the-”
“Stop.” Edward coughs, voice weak as he cuts him off because he really doesn’t need or want a lecture right now, but Mustang grabs his weak waving hand and continues anyway.
“Ed,” he says, voice much softer all of a sudden, and Ed gaps like a dying fish. “What the hell?”
Edward gives a shake of the head, then the winces as his brain rattles around his skull and his stomach heaves. He’s about to insist that he’s fine, push himself up onto stiff, trembling legs and march up the stairs, shame prickling at skin and breathing heavy, but he doesn’t get a chance. He doesn’t get a chance to spit out a snarky remark and turn tail and hike up the stairs, because as he opens his mouth, he can feel his throat burn and his stomach flip, sloshing about and bubbling, and he looks up at Mustang with wide eyes.
They exchange a glance, and Edward’s head tips forward as his abdominal muscles contact and everything he had been trying to keep down spills out in a searing rush.
Mustang’s quick to jump out of the way as the mix of stomach acid and half-digested food streams from Edward's split lips, and Edward gags as another ripple runs across him and his shoulders hunch. His eyes burn with tears, falling freely now and mixing with the sick below now that his body is working against him. He doesn’t know if Mustang got hit with the vile mess, and he’s waiting for Mustang to snap out an expletive and grumble angrily to himself in that typical fashion. Edward screws his lids shut, tears slipping down his fevered cheeks, and curls into himself as another bout of tightness attacks his stomach.
Instead, there is a gentle weight on his flesh shoulder as something settles next to him, a pressure between his shoulder blades, rubbing circles across his skin in a slow, methodical fashion, careful of the curled metal of his automail port.
“Get it out, Ed.” Mustang murmurs, voice congested like he’s trying not to breathe in the smell, working his hand across his back in a soothing manner.
And Ed does. He’s not really sure how long, he’s just hyper aware of the pain in his belly as his muscles twist and the rawness of his throat as acid streams against it, upchucking all remnants of breakfast and lunch, and the nestling, deep aches of his throbbing automail, still bent and twitching as the nerves fire off nonsensical signals. Mustang, surprisingly, says nothing, no unkind words nor side remark, and is instead silent company as Ed’s stomach turns inside out.
By the time he’s done, he’s shaking even worse than before, trembling and flipping between freezing cold and seething heat, and it's hard to breathe. He wheezes out a breath, throat scalded and painful, jaws slacked, still staring at the floor, trying to squash down the embarrassment boiling in his chest, reddening his cheeks, and he hopes Mustang thinks it's part of his sick, feverish state.
He’s never going to live this down.
He braces himself when Mustang speaks again, breathing slow. His hand is still rubbing up and down his spine, the other anchored to his shoulder.
“Are you done?”
He expects judgment, a scathing remark, tone twinged with annoyance and exasperation because Edward is late to his check in, interrupted whatever he’s done, and now just throw up everything in his stomach, but there isn't. He’s not sure what Mustang’s voice is colored with, but it’s not cruelty or malice, and instead, almost seems unsure or awkward. Edward groans and hangs his head, eyelashes fluttering.
“I think so.”
“Why did you walk in the rain?”
Edward blinks. Salvia is hanging from his lips, and he wants to wipe it, but his flesh hand is shaking too much to drag across his face and he feels gross and confused as Mustang's words hang in the air. Why is he asking? It has nothing to do with what has just happened.
Well, it does a little bit, but Mustang wouldn't know that.
“I…it was just a drizzle.” Edward explains lamely, and Mutang’s hands stops for a second, and Edward has to bite him lip to keep himself from making a disappointed sigh. “I didn’t know it was going to pour that hard.”
“That's not the issue.” Mustang gives a shake of his head, and that tiny sliver of annoyance is there, and Edward feels shame blister across him. “You know not to walk in the rain with your automail. I was just coming to pick you up.”
Shock flashes across Edward, and for the first time, he actually picks up his head to look at the Colonel, because what? Mustang was coming to pick him up for his check in? What the hell? Why? He had never picked Edward up for something no simple before, nothing beyond drives to the station or reports to another office, and Mustang only did that because he had too. He didn’t go out of his way to be kind.
Mustang gives him a glance, studying his face as Edward pulls out a barely tangible sentence. “Wha? Why?”
Mustang wrinkles his nose, knitting his eyebrows together in a rather serious expression, and he looks like Edward has just asked him the stupidest question on the planet.
“It’s raining.” He explains, as if its the simplest thing in the world, pretentious, and Edward balks as another wave of pain streaks across his limbs.
“So?” he chokes out.
“Your automail, Edward.”
“Oh.”
Its all that Edward says because, one, its actually hurting a lot to speak right now and his automail hurts, and he doesn't want Mustang to hear the quiver of pain in his voice, and two, because he has no idea why Mustang would know about automail quirks and pains when he has none of his own. They both stare at each other a moment, superior and subordinate, as the words soak in and his limbs twitch.
“How bad are you hurting?”
“I’m not.”
The liar is immediate, slipping out his lips without a second thought because it’s his default answer whenever that question is asked, and Mustang looks at him incredulously as Edward shifts under his gaze because it’s stupidly obvious Edwards is full of shit, and even he knows it. He normally gets away with it, but not after he’s vomited in front of his superior and unable to walk up the stairs.
It’s silent between them as Mustang waits for an answer. His hand is still soft on his shoulder.
“It hurts a bit, but I’ll be fine.” Edward tries again, and Mustang looks even more incredulous at that answer and raises an eyebrow.
“You shouldn’t have walked in the rain.”
Edward, despite it all, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got that. Thanks genius. No wonder you got promoted so fast.”
He’s trying to deflect, turn away from his stupid decision and the insecurity that’s starting to settle in his stomach, but Mustang doesn’t take the bait and instead turns his head over his shoulder to look up the stairs. He gives Ed a side glance, tilting his head, then looks back out towards the hallway. Edward bites the inside of his cheek as Mustang seems to put together the puzzle pieces, giving a final look to his sore, stiff automail. He’s going to make a comment. He knows it. It’s what all this has been building up to.
“Let’s get you up the stairs.” Is all Mustang says, standing up and brushing the edges of his Calvary skirt off his lap, and gives a grimace to the vomit. “And call someone to clean that.”
Sudden fear clutches at Edward when Mustang takes a step down the stairs, seemingly waiting for Ed to stand and Ed is sure as hell that despite his hot headed remark, his attempt to act just fine, he’s not going to get up those stairs. He can’t even twitch what’s left of his leg with unbearable pain, and the muscles are still spasming with each breath, each rapid beat of his heart.
And the world is still spinning.
But Mustang says nothing, and Edward jerks back when he bends down and positions his arms around Edwards torso, incredibly mindful of the automail ports. Edward squawks in shock and tries to wiggle away, but Mustang's tight grip and fiery sparks of pain quickly stop him.
“I ain’t asking for your help!” Edward shrieks as Mustang hoists him upwards, pressed against his chest, and embarrassment stews. Mustang just rolls his eyes and starts to climb up the steps, adjusting Edward when he winces.
“And I’m not asking for your permission. Now shut up.”
Edward huffs, still wanting to fight, but he’s exhausted from the walk and the bout of vomit, still shaking and trembling in the Colonel's steady arms, and the most her can muster without crying out in pain is a shaking, pitiful smack on the chest that Mustang doesn’t even acknowledge.
It’s not worth it, he supposes, if his body will give out and just cause him even more embarrassment if he continues to act a fool. So he grits his teeth and turns his head away from Mustang, who doesn’t give him a passing glance as they slowly make their way up the stairs, grateful no one else seems to be using the stairwell.
And, well, Mustang’s warm, even through his soaked jacket and water logged clothes, and having the weight of his automail is making the pain significantly less.
So he lets himself rest in Mustang's arms, and neither of them say anything about it as the rain drums against the roof of the building and the wind gives a soft howl.