Chapter Text
It was three days before the trial and Mustang had noticed a change in Edward.
He supposed it had started a few days ago, after the kid had gone down to his room to lay down for a bit. That in itself was certainly odd, considering he never admitted to needing to rest or take time to himself, so it only left Mustang to wonder what had happened while he had been alone.
The urge to call Vanessa was becoming stronger with every passing day as Edward became more and more withdrawn. Or Hawkeye.
God, he could really use Riza right now. But with the investigation and everything going on at the office, he hadn’t seen her for weeks, and he felt bad enough that she was picking up the slack from him not physically being in the office. He was tempted to call her, he had been tempted to call her since it all happened, but he couldn’t risk anyone hearing what he said or allow for any chance to be heard being so close to this. It could put Edward at risk.
But the kid was just acting so unlike himself.
Right now, for instance.
Roy was in his usual spot at the kitchen table while Edward and Alphonse were reading in the living room. At least, that was what they had been doing, but now Edward was laying (rather uncomfortably, it seemed) in the armchair nearly upside-down with his left arm fiddling with the rug and his hair half covering his eyes. At some point, he had gone from sitting and reading to slouching and staring vacantly to laying with the book discarded on the floor.
It was unnerving.
Things had seemed to be going better, too. But ever since he’d brought up testifying to the kid, he’d been more and more reserved, and Edward was anything but that.
Alphonse had tried – with no luck – to get his brother to open up some, and Roy had oscillated between giving him space and occasionally prying. His questions were met without resistance necessarily, but instead with dull, monotone responses.
He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened, what the kid was thinking when he seemed to always be stuck in his own head.
Which brought Roy back to Vanessa. He wouldn’t tell her any details about anything, or even breathe a word about Ed, he just needed some kind of reassurance that he wasn’t going to sit by and watch the kid slip away.
He was inching closer and closer to just giving in and calling. She had said he could, that she’d be glad if he did. But whether it was his own pride and unwavering resolve or fear of upsetting Ed further, he hadn’t done it.
He sighed, and noticed how Edward didn’t look up from where his eyes were blankly boring holes into the rug.
Okay. That was enough.
Whatever funk the kid had fallen into, he wasn’t going to sit around complacently anymore and watch him suffer or whatever it was he was doing. Because from what Roy could see, Edward wasn’t necessarily aware he was alive. And Roy knew that feeling.
He stood up slowly and Ed finally looked sluggishly at him, but otherwise didn’t move.
“I need to make a quick phone call. I trust you two will be okay for a few minutes?” he asked, eyeing Ed critically and feeling his heart sink when he just looked back down at the floor.
“We’ll be fine, Colonel Mustang!” Alphonse said and Roy could hear in his voice past the forced cheerfulness that he was at a loss, as well.
Yeah, he definitely needed to call.
----
After the two spoke, Roy started to mentally tally up what he had noticed about Edward over the last few days.
There were the staring spells, his monotone speech, and – even more bizarre – his sudden seeming aversion to his own automail.
Clearly it wasn’t something Roy was supposed to notice, Edward was obviously trying to be nonchalant and natural about the whole thing, but it hadn’t escaped Mustang’s notice that the kid hardly ever used his automail anymore if he could.
For example, the other afternoon: Roy had been handing Ed a steaming bowl of soup. Initially, Edward had reached out with his automail hand before quickly pulling back and grabbing the bowl with his left hand instead. Okay, fine. Maybe it was too hot to hold with his flesh hand.
But then again, just earlier today: Roy knew Edward was right-handed. He had seen him write with his automail (no matter how much he struggled to do so) before, but earlier he had been writing (terribly, if he was being honest) with his left hand while he practically sat on his automail arm.
He flinched when his leg clunked on the hardwood, he huddled in on himself when the joints in his arm whirred and clicked, and Roy for the life of him couldn’t figure out why.
He knew he needed to talk to the kid at some point – preferably soon – and figure out what the hell was going on – but he wasn’t going to pretend that he knew what missing limbs and having automail was like, because he didn’t.
Luckily (or perhaps, unluckily) for him, an opportunity presented itself rather quickly.
Alphonse was fetching a book from the other room when Roy noticed that Edward was trembling.
Not trembling to a noticeable degree, but enough that Roy had picked up on it while he was studying the boy on the couch from where he sat in his armchair. He was holding a book with both hands and his left arm was shaking. It didn’t escape Roy that his automail was completely still.
Edward licked his lips and continued to read – or rather, stare holes into the page in front of him – and he continued to shake.
Alphonse’s thundering footsteps suddenly began to approach and Ed continued to shake. Al sat down next to him and it didn’t cease. Alphonse asked him if he was okay and it didn’t stop.
His brother gently reached out to touch his shoulder and it finally stopped, because he screamed.
Mustang couldn’t help but flinch at the abrupt noise, and Al instantly jerked back. Edward seemed to be on his feet before he even realized he’d moved. He was panting and his eyes darted wildly around the room.
When they landed on Roy, he stilled.
They stared at each other for several beats before Roy spoke.
“Why don’t we get some fresh air,” he said calmly, standing – very, very slowly and deliberately – and putting down his mug on the end table.
“I don’t- I-” Ed stammered before he snapped his mouth shut. Mustang stayed silent. “Fine,” he said sourly.
“I’ll get your coat, brother,” Alphonse said quietly before he hurried into the next room.
The tension was horribly thick while Alphonse was rummaging around in their room searching for Edward’s coat. Roy bitterly wished he could be the one getting the coat while Alphonse had the heart-to-heart with the traumatized child.
But that wasn’t fair to anyone, was it?
“Here you go, brother,” he said gently and it didn’t go unnoticed to Roy how Ed’s jaw tensed at those words. He guessed it had something to do with the soft, almost sympathetic tone Alphonse had used.
Edward still didn’t speak as he pulled on his coat and stood at the door while Roy slipped on his own jacket.
Alphonse stood by the couch and worried his gauntlets but Roy noticed he made no move to join them at the door. Maybe this was something he – the adult – needed to handle. That was fair, Roy supposed. He was the adult here, after all. Edward was in his care, not Alphonse’s.
Fuck.
He barely suppressed a groan before he opened the door and held it open. Edward walked through without a word or a glance in his direction. Alphonse stayed behind.
----
It’s cold.
That’s the first thing Ed notices.
Then come the other sensations.
Dead weight hanging off his right shoulder. His automail leg pinching his thigh. It’s heavy. It’s cold.
His face is cold but his neck is hot.
He’s tired.
He’s always tired.
It’s cold.
(You thought about killing someone,)
He can feel himself starting to come back to his body. He feels something in the back of his throat.
Irritation. Or frustration, maybe.
Whether it’s with himself, the Colonel, or the general situation, he isn’t sure. He just knows he’s frustrated. Maybe even angry.
But more than that low thrum of anger is the overwhelming loneliness and numbness that had been growing ever since he thought about killing Leicht. Now, he was more than just weak. He was actively dangerous.
Hateful.
Harmful.
He hadn’t said anything to Mustang for a while, probably a few hours. Now he just wants to scream.
But he’d already done that, hadn’t he?
And fuck, how did things always go so wrong?
(How could they not? You are wrong, everything you do is a fuck-up. You deserve it.)
Somehow, that didn’t even make him feel any worse. His mind had been tormenting itself for the last few days anyway, but it felt good to know that he was the one who was the problem. Of course he already knew that, but know he himself was just fundamentally wrong helped in a fucked-up way. The issue in all of these situations was him.
If he hadn’t suggested the transmutation to Al, if he hadn’t left Nina alone with Tucker, if he hadn’t let a random stranger break into his dorm room, if he hadn’t, hadn’t, hadn’t…
It’s cold.
He thought about killing Leicht.
People keep telling him it wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t know how he could convince them that it was. That if he wasn’t so selfish and weak and pathetically worthless that none of this would have happened at all.
He and Mustang had been walking for about thirty seconds before he realized what was happening and mentally kicked himself. He’d been in a dreamlike state lately, but willingly going outside with Mustang was almost certainly a huge mistake.
He didn't want to talk, he didn’t want to feel, and he didn’t want to be alone with Mustang.
With every step Edward was in pain. Whether it was actual pain or just the manifestation of emotional turmoil he wasn’t sure, but his back hurt, his automail ports hurt, and his heart hurt.
He was tired of feeling so sick, so foul, such a fucking waste of space.
But that was what he deserved.
If he’d just lay back and take it, accept that his was what he had to endure for being who he was, maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult. It was like he wanted to be miserable- he welcomed it, because it was what he was supposed to endure.
“Edward?”
What. Just what? He was so fucking tired of thinking about this, of reliving it every waking moment and reminding himself that he had thought thought about killing another person.
You swore you’d never kill anyone under any circumstances. Now here you are, thinking so casually about killing a man. You’re pathetic. What he did wasn’t even that bad. You deserved it.
God, if he could just get his brain to shut up for ten seconds maybe then he’d be able to breathe.
You don’t deserve to breathe. You stole if from your brother. You should have died during that transmutation.
His thoughts were so toxic, so suffocating lately, but he couldn’t find the will to fight them. And now he was here with Mustang and it felt like it was overpowering again.
“Edward?”
Oh, Mustang had stopped walking.
Edward guessed he should stop walking then, too.
He did.
It’s cold.
He had wanted to kill Leicht.
“Why don’t we sit down?” the Colonel asked, gesturing to a bench a few feet away.
Ed did.
Edward was floating, his mind was miles away. If the Colonel was speaking, he couldn’t hear him over the roaring hatred of his own thoughts.
You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it.
“You know,” the Colonel started, and Ed couldn’t even find it in himself to roll his eyes, “I was like this too. After Ishval.”
Ed didn’t react.
You weren’t even in combat. You’re just overreacting, like you always do. Mustang was in a war zone, of course he was like this. You’re just upset about something inconsequential and stupid. Like always.
“I didn’t do much of anything. And anything I wanted to do I lost interest in quickly.”
This isn’t the same. You were at war. I deserved it.
“I didn’t really experience much of anything. I just existed.”
The Colonel was starting to sound farther away.
“Hawkeye and Hughes were concerned. They’re the ones who ended up pulling me out of my funk.”
I don’t deserve to be helped. I deserve to suffer.
Ed thought about asking how, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of opening his mouth and forming words.
“You can get through this, Ed.”
I don’t want to.
“There’s nothing you’ve done or anything you could have done to deserve this.”
Ed felt himself tense at those words. Of course the Colonel didn’t get it. Nobody did. He was a fool to even entertain the idea that someone would be able to truly understand what he was feeling.
“Ed.”
Mustang was turning on the bench to face him, Ed could hear the wood groaning under his weight.
“I know you’re listening.”
Edward, with sudden renewed energy, turned to Mustang and just stared. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what look was on his face at that moment, nor did he care.
He wanted to say a lot of things. What he ended up saying wasn’t what he would have chosen, necessarily, but they got the point across.
“You don’t understand,” he muttered, and he would have gotten up and stalked off if he didn’t hurt so badly.
And it was cold. And he had thought about killing Leicht. And he deserved it.
Mustang didn’t say anything, and Ed saw that same confusing flicker of something flit across his face, but he stayed silent.
“What?” Ed asked, “You’re not going to convince me that you get it?”
“I never claimed I understood,” the Colonel said carefully, looking intensely into his eyes. It was uncomfortable. Ed barely restrained himself from looking away. “I just noticed some similarities in our behavior.”
“Yeah,” Edward said as he exhaled with a puff, “well, this isn’t the same.”
“I know it isn’t.”
“Then stop acting like it is! It isn’t! Okay?”
He could feel himself getting more and more riled up for the first time in days, but why didn’t anyone understand? Was he truly so cripplingly alone that not a single person could conceptualize what he was feeling? Why did no one get it?
The Colonel didn’t speak. Edward found himself doing it for both of them.
“It’s not. It’s not. You didn’t want to go to war. You didn’t want to kill people, Mustang. It’s not the same.”
Mustang looked like he wanted to say something, but he stayed quiet.
“You know, I thought about killing Leicht,” Ed whispered, “it was such a casual thought, too. I could kill him. I could-” his breath caught in his throat but he forced himself not to stop, “I could just kill him and be done with it.”
Mustang’s facial expression didn’t change.
“Did you not hear what I said, Mustang? I thought about killing someone! Taking someone’s life- someone who has hopes and dreams and family that cares about them! I swore- I swore I wouldn’t kill anyone. That I wouldn’t even think about it! But it was so natural, it was-” he was shaking a bit, now. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently.
“I have killed people,” Mustang said suddenly, his voice hard. “You thinking about it is not the same, Edward.”
“But you were ordered to do it, you bastard! Why doesn’t anyone get it?” Ed was beginning to feel a little desperate, scrabbling for the words that would explain what he was feeling.
They both sat in silence again, and Ed blinked hard to keep the stupid wetness out of his eyes.
“It isn’t the same,” he said again, hating how his voice broke at the end, “It’s not.”
“Edward,” the Colonel said softly, “you aren’t going to kill anyone.”
Ed sniffed. “You don’t know that,” he muttered.
“I do,” the Colonel sounded so sure of himself, “even if you did think about it, even if you did want to, you wouldn’t. You care too much about other people.”
Care too much…? How did thinking about killing someone mean he cared about them? What the fuck was Mustang trying to pull?
“Leicht did something to you that no one should ever go through,” Mustang said, “thinking about hurting him does not, despite what you might think, make you a bad person.”
Edward tried to digest that.
How did the Colonel not understand that he was a bad person? Not even just because he had thought about killing Leicht, but because he had committed so many horrific things before? He wasn’t a bad person just for thinking about killing Leicht, he was bad because he had put Alphonse in the armor, he had made Winry cry, he had hurt his brother again and again and again and again-
“What are you thinking, kid?” Mustang asked.
It’s cold.
“I- you don’t get it. No one gets it. I’m not a good person, Mustang. Everything I do hurts someone. I’ve hurt Alphonse who knows how many times, I’ve hurt Winry, I’ve hurt mom, I’ve- I’ve hurt a lot of people. And now I want to-” he took a deep breath, “I want to kill someone. With my own automail! I am a bad person. I was probably born a bad person. That’s why I deserve to be hurt. So I know what I’m putting other people through. I deserve it.” He spat out the last words like acid, and they left a bitter taste in his mouth.
There, now Mustang had to understand. He had to get it.
“Edward,” Ed noticed the Colonel sounded somewhat uncomfortable again, a strange thing for someone who hid all of his emotions behind that obnoxious, emotionless mask, “you don’t deserve any of this. I don’t know what to say to get you to believe that.”
Nothing.
“People want you to be happy. People care about you, kid. I care about you.” Mustang stopped and took a breath, “Leicht...Leicht is a sad imitation of a human being. He’s pathetic to hurt someone like he hurt you. And it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to deserve, and you didn’t allow it to happen. And I’ll keep saying that until you believe it.”
You’ll be saying it a lot, then.
Neither of them said anything for a long, long time.
It was still cold, and Ed had still thought about killing Leicht. And he still deserved it.
Even as he limped back to Mustang’s, even after he went inside and sat on the couch next to his brother, even as he crawled into bed and pulled the quilt up to his chin, he was still cold.
You deserve it.