At twenty-three, Major Roy Mustang found himself informed that he would be departing for Ishbar the next day. He should pack, but he couldn't bring himself to; he'd avoided warfare that long and he hadn't wanted to go in, to kill or die. His friends were staying here, had taken desk jobs or were unable to be shipped out.

But an order from the Fuhrer was an order from the Fuhrer.

He should pack; he knew he should pack, but he couldn't bring himself to. To pack would make it real, would take his last night away from him.

Roy headed out to a bar instead. There was an age old tradition of drink to steel one's courage, and he knew that if he failed to pack, Hawkeye would shoulder that duty for him. It was wrong of him to ask her, and so he didn't ask; he just left.

The bar was mostly empty; there was a funeral for a general in Central Graveyard and many soldiers were attending. Roy had not known the general, and he did not want to think about funerals.

He had a glass of screech, and another, and was nursing his third, bent low over the counter, when a man in the corner caught his eye.

The man was large, dwarfing the chair he sat in, and had buried his face in his arms, shoulders heaving. Roy looked at his drink, looked at the man, and felt old, tired.

He rose, pulled out the spare chair at the table, sat down.

The man raised his head. Despite his baldness, he wasn't as old as he first appeared - maybe thirty, no more, though his face was faintly creased. His eyes were a soft shade of blue and puffy; he'd been crying a while then.

"Here," Roy said, and held the drink out. "Have a sip of this. You'll feel better."

The other man - also a major, he saw - took the glass, dwarfed in a strong hand, and sipped. He coughed, then drank the whole thing, and sank down again.

"I go to war tomorrow," the other man said. His voice was deep, and thick with recent tears. "My family has had generations of men who keep the peace, and that is what I wish to do at Ishbar."

Roy's lips twisted. "Do you believe we'll be doing that?"

The Major's eyes flicked to him at the 'we', and Roy knew he knew. "I don't know what to believe," the man said. "I hope it will have honour."

"It might," Roy said, but he had seen the men coming home injured, and seen the looks in their eyes.

"I feel so tired," the Major said. "So very tired."

"I've a room," Roy said.

The Major looked at him. "As do I."

"Let's go to yours," Roy said. He offered a hand. "Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist."

Slowly, the other soldier took it in a firm, almost painful grip. "Alex Louis Armstrong," he said. "Strongarm Alchemist."

They went. The night was chill and Roy tugged his uniform jacket more snugly about his shoulders. He followed Alex to the townhouses officers had, replacing the dorms they'd lived in as enlisted. Alex's wasn't all that far away, and he wondered why they'd never met before.

Alex did not ask if he wanted to come in but simply held the door open. Roy stepped in, saw a room not unlike his own, and a packed bag at the end of the bed.

"Is this wise?" Alex asked.

Roy walked over to the bed, hefted Alex's bag, put it down. He thought of Liza in his own room, opening every drawer, finding every secret he never had, filing them away in case he needed them at war. He looked back at Alex, who was frowning fiercely but whose eyes were uncertain.

He knew what loneliness looked like.

"No," he said. "It never is."

Roy Mustang undressed, and Alex Louis Armstrong undressed, and neither of them slept, but then, neither would sleep on a night like that.

The next night, they left tired, carrying packed bags as they approached the train, and they did not head to war alone.