Baptism - Chapter II

[taranoire]

Baptism

Pairings: None
Characters: Roy, Ed, Maes
Rating: M
Warnings: Character death, implied rape, gore.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, nor do I make any money from the following post.



Sometimes he imagined he was lying down in a field of weeds. They weren't uncomfortable; didn't stick him in the back, were a soft green in color that danced in a bleached-out haze of sun. He just laid there, listening to the sounds of his own determined breath, air (life) in his lungs as he tried to sink into the soil, become one with the living things surrounding him. It couldn't happen. Once he touched them, they turned brittle, like straw.

He smelled dirty rubber, burnt hair, a whiff of blood on the air. If he trusted himself he could find his way back to the bed of weeds, but he didn't trust himself. He trusted his body, not his mind. Snapped his fingers and walked through the flames, charcoal diffusing the deadly scent of scarlet boil. You think you know how the game is played, but you're called from the bench and suddenly realize you wish you'd never dreamed of heroes.

Children were such fools.

He opened his eyes, cheek pressed against dark polished wood. Amber flames danced on the desk, skewered by slivers of sunlight that crowded between the cracks in drawn velvet curtains. The place was empty and mostly dark, if not for the scent of burning wood and the embers that accompanied it.

He didn't ever want to leave this place. Paper, cologne, scraping chairs, boredom, polished shoes, a cigarette, a sip of brandy, a photograph or two, simmering in the heat without the comfort of air conditioning (those cheap bastards). This was who he was: a soldier behind a desk, fearing the moment, whenever and if ever, he would be called back to the rain of ashes and brown flaking corpses. He had discovered a way to branch out: make it to the top through politics, not victories.

If one could call them 'victories.'

He sighed, feeling out of touch with the paperwork on his desk. His private office was small. Although he could have joined the others in the adjoining room, he had been keeping to himself lately; he felt chilled, and spent long hours staring into his fire grate, trying to make sense of the pattern of orange flame. It was telling him a story only he could decipher.

Sometimes he tried to control it. Bend it to his will from the plush seat he frequently occupied. Created shapes, concentrated the energy, watched mesmerized as it changed colors. Blue to red to orange to pink and back again, until the base of the flame shined a brilliant platinum, and the crest glared a vibrant gold. Then he let go of the reins, closing his eyes, letting darkness overcome him again; dark shadows on the carpet.

He pressed his face into his hands, fingers at the temple. There were many things he was not proud of. Genocide, for one. Alcoholism, for another. Coercing a child into joining the military shouldn't have shocked his conscience. When the letter-if a death notice could be a pleasantry-arrived, he had first considered burning it, pretending it was lost. Sending Edward out of the country, safe from things he couldn't possibly understand yet.

The key word was 'yet.' He had hoped that the boy would have some proper training before he was cast into the fray of bullets; had always been under the impression that the Fuhrer would refrain from putting him out in the field until he was at least eighteen. Legal but still tender. He was a fool to have believed such a thing. Edward was a weapon, nothing more. If the Drachman border wars were threatening Amestris so very badly, Fullmetal was meant for one purpose: to distract the opponent.

It had to be the truth. Even the brass knew the boy hadn't received the proper instruction or discipline to meet the requirements of wartime. They expected him to die-hoped for it, so that they might have an excuse to properly execute an actual invasion. They wanted a corpse; at this point, six months since the boy had been officially declared missing in action, Roy doubted they would find one. But that was enough.

Already the Fuhrer had announced an ambitious plan to take back the borders, perhaps carve territory out of Drachma itself. Exact revenge for an innocent twelve-year-old child murdered by the heathens-never mind that it was Amestrians who put him in combat.

Yes, Roy had considered many things before finally handing the envelope to the little blond with muddy boots and eyes too alive to see lifelessness. Ed had read it slowly. Tasted the words on his lips as if to make sure he comprehended them. Looked up with this godawful look, as if he had been betrayed or hurt and couldn't speak for it. And then Edward asked him why-why he was being sent away to a battlefield when the colonel had specifically promised him that wouldn't happen.

"I never said it wouldn't happen. I only said that it will be some time before you're expected to fulfill your duties. The State does not exist to suit your purposes, Fullmetal. It's equivalent exchange, is it not?"

He hated those words. Careless, thrown about, meaningless and above all lies. His present self looked toward the dark wooden chair in front of his desk. It remained silent, occupied by shapes and memories his eyes could no longer detect. He winced as his fingers went limp, dropping the ball-point pen on the floor with a sharp clatter. The fire hushed and moved gracelessly, disturbed by the movement, and then went back to burning.

They never did find out what happened to the boy, out there; that's not to say there weren't hypotheses. Men cluttered the hallways, the mess hall, whispering loudly, coarse words without emotion. Perhaps Fullmetal had turned traitor to the state. Been captured by the enemy (a fate Roy wouldn't wish on anyone), or been shot and dragged to the beasts that occupied the swamps surrounding.

Then, too, Roy's own team had contributed their own theories, in private, when they thought the colonel wasn't listening.

"Bet he drowned in a bog," Lieutenant Havoc had said morosely, flicking his prized lighter on and off, on and off. "I mean, I don't wanna think that, and you probably shouldn't tell the colonel, but it'd explain why no one's found a body. Metal limbs can weight a body down." He then had shut the lighter with a snap, closing his eyes, filtering his thoughts so that he could one day forget all about Elric for good.

That would never happen. Regardless of military discipline, Ed wasn't someone you could just forget about. Sure, it might numb the heart for a while, as Roy had a lot of experience with, but in the end you'd sit in bed with a bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes and you'd look at the sky and the moonlight would become a putrid white glow on your skin and your flesh would turn to stone and the whiskey would turn to blood and you'd have no choice but to recollect why you're killing yourself in the first place.

A hollow rap on the door pulled him from the hum of melancholic thoughts. He sat up, straightening his uniform where he'd slept and wrinkled it. Dark hair, glasses, blue uniform. He went back to his regular sorry state of posterity, frowning at his desk.

"Brought you lunch," Hughes said, spectacle lenses a glaring red in the light of flames. There was something ominous about the way firelight could do that to glass. The man held up a small white box, smiling a bit. "Actually, it's more like dessert, but from the looks of you a little sugar wouldn't kill you."

Roy watched him take a seat in the wooden chair opposite the desk. At first, irritation brimmed like broiling water in his stomach; Edward had an appointment at three and it was two-fifty-five. It was the boy's chair to fill. His place to converse and scream and yell and taunt and smile like the brat he was. Insolent shit.

But he said nothing, other than, "Thanks. I suppose I should send my regards to your wife?"

Maes handed him the package, and the dark-haired colonel took it appreciatively, the smell of cold apple pie heaven for the feverish sludge of blood-tide that constantly swept his mind. He slid his pinkie underneath the package's flaps, and picked up the small metal fork tucked alongside the pie.

For a moment he could only look at it like it had started quoting Socrates.

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad," Maes said at once, reading his expression carefully. He took off his glasses, as he always did when feeling perceptive or empathetic, and allowed a wan smile to cross his lips as he stared at a scuff on the front of the desk. "You're looking paler than usual. Your first lieutenant specifically asked me to come in here and cheer you up under threat of a bullet in my ass, so whatever you want to say, you can say."

Roy looked up at him, slightly annoyed at the prospect of being probed like a psychiatric patient, and then back down at the pie. He sighed, and then cut a small piece with the fork, putting it in his mouth if only to satisfy the man. It was good. Despite the temperature, the flavor of spice warmed him. Still. It couldn't wash away the tasteless feeling behind his lips. "She doesn't disappoint," he commented around the mouthful.

"Of course she doesn't," Maes snickered. "This is my wife we're talking about here."

Roy took another bite, apathetic about whether or not he was neat about it. Flaky crumbs sprinkled his blue military jacket. "She's something else." Sometimes, when he was alone in here, he almost envied his comrade. He had someone to love and love him back. Someone to protect; he'd take a bullet for Gracia and he'd kill for his daughter. Roy had promised himself he wouldn't burden other lives with his existence.

"Once again, my advice persists."

"I don't have any plans to bring an innocent woman into my lifestyle. I know Gracia is more than willing to follow you no matter what it might cost her, but women of my type typically don't want to mess with the dangers of politics." He stared again into the fire grate; it was true. The women he allowed himself to have relations with were of little intelligence. Dark-haired, voluptuous, sometimes foreign. There was no risk that he'd fall in love; no risk that he'd miss them if he ever lost them.

"I'm sure that if you really looked hard enough, you'd find somebody," Hughes argued plainly. He inclined his head toward the door, illustrating a path with his eyes. "They could be right under your nose, and you'll never realize it because you're constantly tormenting yourself. Don't you want something other than brainless sex every weekend?"

"Relationships have consequences. Military protocol dictates this. If I ever initiated in anything with Riza, it would never be the same. We're too alike and altogether different. If she wanted something more, I wouldn't refuse her, but I would not selfishly break the careful ties we've established." He looked down for a moment, cutting another piece of pie and hesitating before putting it in his mouth. "And with marriage comes children."

He stopped chewing, thoughts lingering on that word for a long while. He counted his heartbeats, one after the other, thinking of that goddamn word and all of its implications. The apple pie turned to sticky, cinnamon flavored glue in his mouth. He swallowed something salty, eyes misting over though he hadn't a fathomable idea why.

"Breathe, Roy," Maes said in a calm tone.

"I am. I just bit off more than I could chew," Roy lied. The fire grate cackled and fizzed. The flames encountered a bit of water within a log, and the water popped into gas form. "But my point stands. Children are vulnerable. And my track record isn't so good." He paused, swallowing again, swathing his mouth with his tongue to get rid of the taste of sweet apple stickiness. "Have you ever had a pet?"

Maes frowned, folding one leg across the other in a casual, but defensive, position. "When I was younger."

"Children are like pets. Goldfish, to be specific. If you neglect them, they die."

"If you neglect anything it dies, grown men included," Maes said shortly. He pushed his glasses back on his nose, until he could press them up the bridge no longer. "I know what you're trying to say. But you don't have to say it. Don't force yourself to do something if it causes you pain; I'll listen, but you need to be ready to speak."

The colonel scraped the flaking crust remains of the pie, until they powdered the white box like a backwards snow drift: light brown on white. The two men drank silence together, listening to the whisper of flames as they embraced each piece of wood in the grate, romantic, platonic thoughts flowering and dying in the brain like lilies in the desert.

He felt that odd, detached feeling again; like he was drifting away, slowly away, from a place he didn't recognize to a place he would never reach. He turned around in his plush chair, much too nice for his rank, and fingered open the blinds so that he could see the court yard in its bleached white militarism. Toy soldiers saluted their commanders against a backdrop of decorative honeydew and rose.

They were going to the border in three days. Some, going to their deaths. All because he went to Resembool. All because he symbolically led a child down a ruinous path full of contagion, debris, maladies even he could not understand. (Grown-ups are such fools.) Shou Tucker would not have felt pressured to commit a heinous crime against his daughter; the people would have no hero to divide them. Edward would not be gone, Alphonse would not be miserable and alone in Resembool, Amestris would be spared a 'revolution.'

"There's a reason you came here today," Roy said quietly, closing his eyes. He could see his reflection in the windowpane, and it disturbed him greatly. "What is it, and why aren't you telling me?"

Maes cleared his throat. "Just wanting to keep you alive." His voice was hoarse, raw; emotional, and Roy knew that the simpler facade of business they had thus far acted out was nothing more than a distraction. A way to keep the peace. Hughes was battling with himself, and simultaneously trying to keep the fragile binding of Roy's spirit attached to the leaves of his consciousness.

"No, it's not," Roy demanded more insistently. "What is it you've come here for?" Knew, wouldn't say. Knew, wouldn't say. Knew love, loss, life. The lieutenant, Fullmetal, an apple too sweet and too evil. The serpent only wanted to free the mind from chains of ignorance.

Maes fixed him with a long, hard look. Took off his glasses again. Wiped them dry of nonexistent dust. Breathed. "Edward's remains were found yesterday." Roy saw mist overtake the man's green eyes, like ashen smoke in the hills, though perhaps it was only imagination. Both settled further back in their seats, not daring to draw air; cold, clenching gloves tore at his chest, stomach shifting up until he felt it might escape his mouth.

"Nomads found his skeleton in a trench about three kilometers south of the mountain range. It's normally damn wet out there, and the authorities think he drowned. It's the dry season, so the wind..." Hughes stopped himself, looking ill; quiet, somber melodies started up in his head, memories of lullaby he would sing to Elysia. "They identified him by the automail. It was warped, so they couldn't tell for sure, and...he drowned."

"In mud."

Hughes covered his mouth with his fist, elbow on the little wooden chair's arm rest. He forced himself to look away. "Yes." In darkness.

Roy leaned across his desk, placing his head in his hands. His flesh turned scarlet; he felt a pressure build inside of him, intense and warm and enduring. He wouldn't let it out. Never. He could not afford to love, or lose, or live again. A man was not a child and a child was not a man.

He was in a field of weeds, absent of color. The sky: steel-gray. The sun: platinum, with a fringe of invisible gold. He let go of the reins; could not control the fire, let it burn him slowly, joined himself. He was alone. Tears, and then the vague, vague thought that he couldn't hold it in anymore. He felt cold; awake; uncomfortable; deafened; nightmares. He was made of soil.