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Another false lead.
Edward didn't know how much longer he could take it. They were sent on countless leads, which all lead to dead ends, to failures. He hated watching Alphonse light up at the idea of getting his body back and finding the philosopher's stone, only to get his hopes repeatedly crushed.
He hated watching his brother get disappointed, time after time. It was all his fault. It was always his fault.
Edward sighed as he leaned against the wall. He was sitting on his dorm room bed with his back against the wall. He was sitting on top of his blankets, and slightly shivering because of the cold. It wasn't the most comfortable, but his thoughts were gnawing at his mind so much that he couldn't bring himself to care.
“Brother?” Al's innocent, high pitched voice squeaked. It rang in Ed's ears, mocking him. Yet, Edward could never be mad at Alphonse, no matter how terrible he was feeling.
Ed's face morphed into a smile that didn't feel genuine. A smile that was too teethy, too stretched, too wide. It was fake, like plastic. “Yeah, Al?”
“Is it… well – Is it selfish of me to just want my body back?”
Ed's heart was stabbed into a million pieces. Ripped out, stomped on, and shredded until there was nothing left. Al was just a kid – his kid brother – and all he really wanted was to be normal again. He just wanted to eat and sleep, and Ed robbed him of that. It was all his fault, a guilt he wore like the clothes on his back. His guilt was as regular as a blue sky.
Yet all he can do is continue to smile. Smile and lie.
He really was worthless.
“Of course not Al! Wanting your body could never be selfish.” He attempted to reassure. Though he doubted Al believed it, because he couldn't even believe himself. His skin started to itch, a small burning sensation that was all too familiar. “We’re going to get your body back soon, ‘Kay?”
Al, who was sitting on the floor across from him, brought his knees towards his chest just like a crying child. His brother, who really was just a thirteen year old boy who had dealt with too much too soon. His brother – who he killed, who he trapped in a suit of armor that can only be described as a personal hell – had dealt with way too much. He had let Al deal with too much.
Then there was Ed, who was responsible for everything. He was a burden, a screwup of the worst sort.
“I know..” Al's response is quiet, his thoughts clearly plaguing his mind (much like Ed's own). “But Ed… how long is ‘soon’? Just when am I going to get my body back?”
“I…” Ed's voice was lost in his throat. He really didn't know, and he didn't want to give Al more false hope. Again. He didn't want to be the reason his brother is disappointed yet again, but then again, wasn't he already?
In Ed's mind, he didn't even know if Al was going to get his body back. He wasn't being pessimistic – it was realistic. How were two kids going to accomplish something that thousands of older, more accomplished people tried? It just wasn't going to happen.
But Al didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know that his older brother didn't believe that he could once again be human.
His skin continued to itch, to burn. The sensation hurt, a pain similar to an uncomfortable silence.
“I'm not sure Al. But it'll happen. One day.”
Those words are all he can manage before a silence consumes the Elric dorms.
***
Eventually, Ed shifts. Fingers dig into the palm of his hand, to get him to feel something other than emptiness. His skin no longer itches, it aches. He needs a release, something to make his mind numb and the pain go away.
“Hey Al, I'm gonna take a shower,” Ed says easily. The words come out quick, impulsively, like the sudden urge to shower (to bleed).
Al nods in response as Ed gathers his toiletries and clothes. He slowly walks into the bathroom, locking it behind him with a sigh.
The weight pressuring his chest – the constant lead in his limbs – is heavier than ever, as he slides onto the floor, back to the door.
His clothes fall beside him, toiletry bag in hand. He fumbles through the bag, before finding his box. He carefully sets it beside him, as if a small shake of the box will make its contents disappear.
Ed straps down into his underwear, not daring to look at his own body. He doesn't take note of the scars that litter his body – self inflicted or not.
He's such a freak. He's the one stuck with a body when Alphonse is suffering – and he can't even care for it properly?
Pathetic.
Al's biggest dream is to have a body like his, and here he is, ruining it with his own hand. He's such a waste of space. Everyone who knew him would be so disappointed, so disgusted.
He's mutilated himself.
Ed's thighs are littered with scars, some old, thin white lines, and other scabs, angry red slashes in his skin. All of them done by his hand.
His arms are better in the terms of scars he's inflicted on himself, but sometimes cutting his thighs doesn't hurt enough. It doesn't bring him the same thrill as cutting his arms does. It stings so, so much.
The pain helps him remember his wrongdoings. It etched his mistakes in his skin, proof of the suffering he inflicts on others. He does it to himself as punishment.
He's done staring at his box. He's sick of staring at his body.
He's disgusting. Everything is his fault. Al hates him, he thinks it's Ed's fault.
And could he really blame him?
His skin starts to burn. Prickling with anticipation, of desire to hurt, to bleed, to suffer. A dreadful sensation washes over his entire body. It stings and it's uncomfortable, and the worst part is that he's used to it. He hates it, but it brings an odd sense of comfort.
It's an urge, a craving, an addiction.
Ed is ashamed, but his eyes are dry.
That doesn't stop him getting up and turning on the shower, before returning to his original position. The sound of the water rushing from the tap drowns out any possible sound of him opening his box.
He grabs his razor blade, unwrapping it from the tissues he'd stuffed in his box as a method of hiding it. One last layer of defense.
The metal blade hits the tile floor, ringing with a small echo Ed is terrified Al would somehow hear.
He doesn't.
Ed is so undeniably afraid of anyone finding out. He is scared of their calculated judgements, of their disgusted looks, yet for some reason he hopes someday that Al will catch him and tell him everything will be alright.
But that fear drives him – it makes him feel more ashamed. He's already destroyed himself and that made him pathetic. He deserved this.
He picks up the blade – it's small, and he can't feel it in his automail hand – and drags it against his left arm. Again, and again. Small cuts are engraved in his skin, with blood slowly oozing from the wounds. It pools on his arms, droplets bubbling into lines that paint a pathway as evidence of what he's just done.
The pain is an instant relief. His thoughts which were once screams silence into murmurs, and his skin no longer itches with cravings. He can relax. There's no more pressure in his joints or sensations consuming his very being with the urge to cut.
His body feels lighter, though now there is a new weight to carry.
He exhales a breath he didn't know that he was holding, and watches how the blood gradually leaves his wounds. It was quite fascinating, once he forgot he was actually cutting marks into his skin.
Ed cuts the blade into his arm one last time – he drags it across his skin in fascination with a much harder pressure – and watches the blade separate his skin, the blood pooling around it.
Then he realizes he's gone deeper than before, and a new sense of panic forms.
He's gone deeper than ever before.
His hand instantly covers the slit he's just made in his arm, pressing down on the wound in an attempt to stop spit from bleeding.
It didn't hurt – not as much as he was expecting – but he was still bleeding a shit ton and that scared him. What if he needed stitches?
What if Al found out? Or Mustang? Or anyone in the military?
He couldn't risk it. He would have to hide it. And probably stop cutting, even though the thought pained him. Since when did he actively want to hurt himself?
Ed put his blade back in the box, and the tissue overtop of it. The lid went on before he shoved it back in his bag.
He feels so, so stupid. He could mess everything up.
He quickly washed himself in the shower, cleaning his wounds – most of which stopped bleeding. He washed his hair and stood underneath the running water for a while before turning the shower off. It was relaxing, calming his nerves after the storm of emotions just washed over him minutes beforehand.
He dried himself off, wrapping his arm in bandages before putting his pajamas on. They were long sleeved – just like the rest of his clothes. Everyone who knew Ed knew he never wore short sleeves, and that was a fact known about him long before he started cutting.
Ed strolled out of the bathroom, before flopping on his bed.
“That was a long shower, brother, how was it?” Al asked, seeming to be happier than before.
“Eh, it was alright,” Ed said, voice muffled by his pillow. “I'm exhausted.”
“Why don't you get some sleep brother?” Al suggested, watching him as he was face down on his bed, head shoved in his pillow.
“Alright… good night, Al.”
Ed shut his eyes, but all that he could focus on is that Al was spending another night alone, again.
And once again, it was all his fault.
***
With great force, Ed kicked down the door to Mustang's office.
“Hey, Colonel Bastard! Miss me?”
“I wish I could say that I missed your destructive tendencies, but unfortunately I did not, Fullmetal.” Mustang said, leaning back in his chair smugly. “And…you’re twenty minutes late. Are you trying to set a record?”
“Whatever, who the hell cares if I’m late? I’ve got your report here, bastard,” he said while tossing the report all over Mustang’s desk. The papers weren’t stapled and scattered all across the desk. His superior sorted through the mess on his desk and quickly started to skim through it. His eyes flicked across the pages as Ed watched him boredly.
“Not half bad… in terms of your reports, it’s one of the better ones,” Mustang commented while reading. “Where’s your brother, anyway? He makes you much more tolerable.”
Ed huffed, and crossed his arms. He tried not to recoil from the stinging of the fabric rubbing against his bandaged wounds. He was sweating and it only made it worse. He stood in front of the Colonel’s desk, slightly moving back and forth, trying to mask his discomfort.
“Whatever, can I just go?”
Colonel Mustang shook his head, eyes not leaving the report. Ed could think of a million things he’s rather be doing instead of standing here while Mustang took an insane amount of fucking time to read his report.
Ed’s head hurt like a bitch – he’d taken medicine and drank water before coming into the office, but nothing stopped the throbbing headache and heaviness in his body. He was unusually tired, and he just wanted to lay down and read with Al. Sleep off whatever sickness he was feeling.
“Wait…” Mustang paused, appearing to find a specific section in the report. “You said that… “the bad guy escaped because the townsfolk protected him”? Can you elaborate?”
“What is there to say?” Ed grumbled, fidgeting with his sleeve.
“The guy… he was fighting us and then the townsfolk came in or whatever…” Ed started pacing around the office – a quick movement that made him lightheaded. His arms hurt and he wanted to go home, but Mustang was being a dick as usual.
“And?”
“They scolded us for fighting, and he ran…” he trailed off, stopping in his tracks to sway on his feet. He could feel Mustang’s eyes burning through him.
Ed’s vision was blurred; a foggy array of dots swarmed around his eyes, dancing in their black and white colours around the rest of his sight. He didn’t feel right, his body was hot and fatigued beyond imagination. He was swaying and couldn’t balance properly. This wasn’t any sickness he’s had before. Something was wrong.
“Fullmetal?” Mustang’s concerned voice was a faraway echo, muffled behind the sound of static in his ears.
He had to sit down. Standing was clearly making his condition (whatever it was) worse. He took a step towards the couch, stumbling in an unbalanced – almost drunken – way.
Ed took another step before his vision completely blacked out.
***
Edward was warm, the kind of warm you only feel when under a really fluffy blanket or on a hot sunny day. It was a type of warmth that reminded him of Mom leaving the oven open during cold winters, or the warm blankets that he and Al would cuddle underneath as Mom would tuck them into bed.
He could still feel her kiss lingering on his forehead.
“Mom?” Edward said – or at least he thought he did. His body was heavy, the blanket was weighing him down, and he was warm.
His head hurt, a bruise forming from when he would always fight for the last cookie from Al.
Except Al couldn’t eat, and Ed wasn’t five anymore.
Ed tried to open his eyes but they were heavy, as if someone took glue and spread it all over his eyes. He couldn’t see, though he didn’t need to because he was just sleeping in his bed. Al was watching over him.
“Edward?”
Al’s voice was deeper and Ed almost rolled over on instinct, until he realized that his bed was hard.
This wasn’t his dorm room.
Ed’s eyes peeled open and his vision was dotted with numerous black dots of varying sizes. He was on the floor, but how exactly did he get there?
He craned his neck, just to see Colonel Mustang leaning over him, eyebrows furrowed and eyes widened. It was unusual to see the man with so much emotion evident on his face.
Ed tried to get up, propping himself on his elbows. His body was fatigued and his limbs felt like jello, so it took him a couple tries until he was sitting upward, facing the Colonel.
“What happened?” he asked the older man, who just appeared to have seen a ghost.
“Er…” Mustang trailed off, his eyes drifting off to Edwards arm.
His eyes were on Edwards arm.
Edwards arm, whose sleeve was covered in blood.
He yanked it behind his body, but the damage was already done.
“You didn’t tell me you were injured, Fullmetal.”
“I’m not…” he said defensively. “You never told me what happened.”
“You fainted. Hit your head pretty hard,” Mustang replied, “so, what happened to your arm?”
Ed never fainted before, hadn’t seen anyone faint except for Mom. He felt weird, not being able to know what happened and having to trust Mustang’s word. Worse, his head was still pounding as if a drill was hammering into his skull.
Unfortunately, Ed now has worse problems than his headache. Mustang wasn’t going to let him go back to the dorms with blood all over his arm.
Which means he needed an excuse, and fast.
“Nothing happened, bastard! It’s from the fight,” he lied, keeping his hand behind his back.
“Somehow, I doubt that, kid,” Mustang sighed, plopping down on the floor beside him. “So I’ll ask again, what happened?”
Ed did not want the Colonel finding out about his… habits. Their entire conversation had put him on edge, to the point he just craved a blade in his hands to stop the tingling of his skin. But some microscopic part of him wanted to tell Mustang.
The thought of the man scolding him, yelling at him, or even just silently judging him quickly squashed those thoughts.
He’d be kicked out for sure. The man would scream at him, telling him he was ruining his body.
Edward already knew the damage he was doing, that he’s continued to do, yet it didn’t stop him.
He wanted to stop, but the thought of actually quitting made his skin itch.
He’d make sure Mustang wouldn’t find out, even if he’d have to kick and scream at the man.
“I told you, it’s nothing. Drop it,” Ed hissed, venom oozing out of his voice.
“Edward,” Mustang warned, “you’re my subordinate, I need to know.”
Ed decided he didn’t want to continue this conversation so he hastily stood up to leave, and fell down just as fast.
He wouldn’t be able to get out of this.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he confessed.
“Understand what, exactly?” Mustang asked, not because he didn’t know, but because he didn’t want to believe it.
Ed hung his head in response, finally bringing his arm out for Mustang to inspect. The man rolled up Ed’s sleeve, and exhaled at the sight of his mutilated arm. The fabric stuck to his arms as his sleeve was rolled up further and further, the bleeding sluggishly painting his arms red.
“...how long?” Mustang’s voice was low, rumbling with a soft essence that Ed has never heard from the man.
“Three years,” Ed replied, his response barely a whisper.
Mustang frowned, and instructed Edward to hold his arm. Mustang stood up and ruffled around his office, searching for the first aid kit. The Colonel remained silent as he grabbed the kit and brought it back to Ed.
“Aren’t you mad?” he asked, looking up through his hair to see his superior.
Mustang grabbed disinfectant from the kit. “This will sting.”
Ed winced as Mustang applied the disinfectant. His arms and legs itched with a growing desire to slice and mutilate his skin.
“For the record,” Mustang paused, stopping his care for the wounds to look at Edward, “I'm not mad, Ed.”
Ed didn’t reply, and chose to stare down at his mutilated skin. The wounds were still fresh and only slightly scabbed over, yet there was purple surrounding them in lines that threatened to scar worse than the white covering his thighs.
All he could feel is ashamed of himself.
Ed was supposed to be strong, he was supposed to be reliable. Ed was supposed to be taking care of his brother – not having his superior officer bandage wounds that he created.
It was pathetic.
“I’m not mad,” Mustang repeated, carefully wrapping the white bandages around Ed’s wounds.
“Why?” he questioned, his volume barely above a whisper. Ed wanted to trust Mustang despite his grievances with the man, because at the end of the day, he’d been someone the Elric’s could rely on. He never once told anyone of their secrets, and always gave the brothers leads regarding the philosophers stone.
It was too good to be true.
“Because,” Mustang said slowly, “I know what you’re feeling, kiddo.”
“How could you know that?” His tone was harsher than expected. Ed felt bad – the man was trying to be nice – but how could he know? He never had to experience his mother dying, his father leaving. He didn’t kill his mother a second time, nor did he trap his brother in a state of agony.
What could Mustang know?
“I know that you’re feeling an immense amount of guilt, and you think this,” Mustang gestured to Ed’s arm, “is going to get rid of that guilt.”
“It helps,” he lied. Originally, it did help with the guilt, silencing the neverending torrent of his thoughts.
“Do you really believe that?”
“No.” He didn’t. Cutting himself made him feel weak and ashamed. He felt terrible for relying on a stupid blade to feel good again, which ultimately just made him feel worse.
He hated the feeling of the blade across his skin, blood bubbling around the wounds that he inflicted. He hated hearing the sound of his skin opening, and hated how he’d still wince like a little kid every single time.
Most of all, Ed hated hiding his habits from everyone. He was ashamed. Disgusted.
Ed felt like a freak, and everyone would agree with him.
“It’s not going to ‘help’ anything. Hurting yourself doesn’t make you feel any better. Maybe it will for a little while, but it’s more trouble than it's worth.” Mustang’s eyes look sad; they shared a thousand stories that have never been told.
Those words made him feel hurt. Guilt. He’s been accusing himself, and everyone around him, problems because he couldn’t deal with his own pain. Still, he found some comfort in them, despite everything.
“Your guilt won’t stop because you hurt yourself, Edward. I can tell you that from experience.”
Ed shared a long, understanding look with Mustang. The man had struggled too, on some level. Ed didn’t know when, how, or why, but Mustang had hurt himself.
Mustang wasn’t the same, he’d never feel the same as Ed does, but he knew how Ed was feeling, theoretically.
That doesn’t mean Mustang understood, though he was willing to try. Ed knew he would try.
Maybe, just maybe, that’d be enough.