i. Ice

In recent years, Rizenbul has become something of a tourist attraction. It's not much of a town still, and it refuses to quite give into the urge to cater to big city folks with their big city ways, but visitors pass through the town proper regularly and ask to see the Fullmetal Alchemist's house. You can't, people say. It burned down some fifteen years ago. Some tourists think this is a lie and poke around the city longer, unable to understand why there is nothing there. They don't even think that the Fullmetal Alchemist's house might have not even been in town, had been a little house out among the farms, not far from Rockbell Automail. If they come out that far it's for picnics, nothing else.

By the time cooler weather rolls around they're gone. There's nothing in Rizenbul, nothing at all, and the warm weather and a promise of touching fame is the only thing that keeps people there as long as they stay. Farmers sigh with a bit of relief and take the harvest in. It's a bit of a relief; these city folk seem to think that the winters are mild, as mild as they must be in the city with all the electricity, all that body heat, all the industry melting the snow before it can become a nuisance.

It's not like that in Rizenbul. These tourists have never had to endure a winter where a storm coats the doors and windows with ice so thick that the tenants are locked in or out for weeks or until they can scrape enough of it away to jimmy a door open. The back doors get jimmied first; they're usually raised on a back porch so they're less likely to open against the weight of three feet of snow, and country folk are well used to shovelling their way to the outhouse, leaving a path behind like a maze cut through walls of snow and ice. The tourists have never seen what it's like when the local generator fails and most of the time is bed under three comforters to stay warm, because it saves on fuel. Who really wants to go out in that (A storm is always called "that" with the emphasis flattening the word) to chop more wood, assuming you can even find your chopping block. Everyone stocks up in the fall, of course, but when you can't be sure how long a storm will last, it's best to conserve fuel.

"He's not coming home this winter either, is he?" Winry asks.

Al is used to the question; it's an old one and it crops up a lot. Sometimes he asks it as well. "I don't think so," he says, slowly, and puts another log on the fire. The room is still a little smoky from having forgotten to open the flue until a few minutes after the fire started. "He would have called ahead."

"The lines're down," Winry says. She's wearing three sweaters and a hat indoors and her nose is red. "I heard it from Maggie when I went out to get the mail."

"I can't believe you did that," Al says, voice warm. "I thought I'd lose you out there."

"Hey, I'm strong." She smiles a half-smile. "And I thought, if he was coming home, he might have mailed."

Al is silent a long moment, then rises from his crouch before the fire, brushing his knees off, and goes to hold Winry. She leans, and he can almost feel her through his sweaters and her sweaters. "I know," he says. "I miss him too."

"It's all the damn tourists' fault," Winry says, abruptly. "He's just too recognizable, I know he can't come in summer but he can't come in winter either and at this rate, we'll never see him."

Tugging her a little closer, Al shakes his head into her hair. "Winry, it's just because of how recently he helped Fuhrer Mustang become, well, Fuhrer. In two years, nobody will even remember his name."

"That's worse, Al." She presses a cold nose into his neck. "...sometimes I hate people."

"But not me?" His voice comes out smaller than he'd intended to and he tries to laugh it off, right away. He's always played second fiddle to his brother. He loves his brother, but it's the younger brother's role to take hand-me-downs.

Winry pulls back abruptly and looks at him, then walks off. Al reels, puts one hand on the mantle to try to catch himself, but she's back before he has time to decide what to do, back carrying a comforter she's taken from the bed.

"No, not you," she says, voice soft. "Let's curl up in front of the fire?"

"Yes," he agrees, trying to hide the scratchiness of his voice as he reaches to take the other edge. "I want, I don't want, I- I don't want to be alone."

"Me too," Winry agrees, and wraps him close to her, tying them up in it, leaning her warm cheek against his warm cheek. "I know. I love you."

***

ii. Fire

Ed tastes blood in the kiss, blood from Roy's split lip. It had been an accident, really, he hadn't meant to hit Roy that hard and for a moment he'd thought Roy would retaliate in truth, strike out at him. He had touched a finger to his lip, held it out red, and laughed, ruefully. "At least you didn't take any teeth."

At least he hadn't taken any teeth, Ed had agreed, and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him to make up for it, kissed him with teeth and without. It wasn't to make it better, the magical formula his mother had taught him over twenty years earlier. It doesn't take the sting away, he's found. But it makes you feel other things more.

Roy is clearly feeling other things now, hands roaming, helping Ed out of heavy winter clothes. Ed doesn't know how Roy wears the same clothes all year round, the same heavy uniform, only sometimes adding a light jacket to keep the wet out. He knows why; Central gets sludge rather than snow, and it's more important to have a good pair of boots and something to cut the wind than it is to have anything to actually keep you warm. After all, you're only outside when you're going someplace, and Central has heating in every house, gas or electric, with enough backup generators that it'd take a catastrophy to knock the city out in cold weather. Ed dresses with years of country habit and at least he's warm in the streets, though he's got no way of knowing if other people are, as well.

He's warm when naked, too, hot with Roy's hands all over him and he snarls, tears at the elegant straps of Roy's elegant uniform until they're both equal and naked and he bites marks into Roy's skin, bites him like he could tattoo him with his teeth and Roy's lip's stopped bleeding.

There's a brief struggle over who tops today, who tops now, and he lets Roy win, lets Roy press his arms against the bed, arches. Roy has something to prove and Ed lets him prove it, Ed throws legs over his shoulders and closes his eyes on sparking patterns as he holds Roy's shoulders, squeezes tight enough to bruise. It's all right to bruise a little, to have something to look at later, to kiss.

Roy makes little noises in his throat, small pleas and Ed answers them, Ed groans and moves and shoves at Roy's shoulders, encourages him. He's hot, hot, too hot to breathe, sticky, sweaty, hot. His skin hurts where Roy presses against him and pulls away again; it wants to stick like flesh on leather and it stings. Hot, burning; he remembers the heat on his back as he set his house on fire and walked away, walked away from the past, he remembers the burning sting of it, he remembers the choking taste of ash, he remembers how thick the air was and how he couldn't look back. He remembers the scream of wood and the collapse of everything, back then. He remembers that his brother hadn't been able to feel it, not the way he had, and it had kept him walking away. He's hot, burning, and he claws hands up Roy's back, groans and comes, falling up to bask in the warmth.

After, he repeats, "Come with me to Rizenbul this year," the same thing he'd said earlier, that Roy had answered and Ed had been forced to hit him.

Roy doesn't answer this time, presses his face against Ed's neck. "I wonder how they're dealing with the winter," he murmurs. "I remember the country as getting so cold."

"Come with me to Rizenbul this year."

"Edward, I can't." Roy strokes a hand down one muscled arm, almost an apology, almost not. "I can't face her."

Ed sighs. "You won't face her. She knows, you know. She doesn't hate you."

Roy doesn't answer.

"She doesn't hate you, Mustang."

"I do," Roy murmurs. "What could I do there, staying in her house where her parents raised her, sleeping with a man her parents raised as a second son? What could I do?"

Ed doesn't answer.

"She should hate me. Besides, I run this country. That's a commitment - I can't just take a vacation."

"Bullshit," Ed snaps. "You know First Aide Hawkeye could take care of things just fine, and it wouldn't be long. You could claim some hokey shit about needing to see the countryside of the country you run firsthand, not just the city."

Roy opens his eyes, strokes Ed's bangs back away from his face. "Edward..."

"I'm going back to Rizenbul for a visit," Ed said, flatly. "And I want you to come with me. You never have before - don't you think they've noticed that? I'm not going alone this year."

The look in Roy's eyes changes rapidly; Ed watches it. Grief, pain, anger, and he's remembering fire, Ed knows Roy is remembering fire. He doesn't say anything; he watches. Acceptance, relief.

"All right," Roy says, and while he tries to keep his voice mild, Ed knows the sound of support beams collapsing, of the past burying itself and burning itself away. "I'll go with you to Rizenbul."