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There was something soothing about the idea of a desert, maybe the idea of being isolated speaks to him. It takes him about two days to realize that whatever romantic picture had been painted to him was far from the situation he’s now stuck in. The sand becomes too much and there is sand everywhere, in his clothes, shoes, the food and trying to remove it is a trivial idea at best.
There are expectations and too many “you're too young.” The two statements seems to clash so much that he can barely grasp how people can expect both out of him. The title of being a state alchemist comes with a stamp that says superior and everywhere he turns people expect him to think that he is better than he realistically is. If they don’t overestimate him, roll their eyes and call him a weapon of the state’s, they look to his age instead. He doesn’t have enough experience, how could he expect anyone to trust his decisions? People doesn't tell him that with those exact words. It's the looks and the grins and the way they put him in the lower ranks. He is used to it, has heard it all before. Instead of complaining he rolls up his sleeves and sets fire to the buildings.
It gets the attention of higher ranked officers. It gets the attention of someone. It is not as surprising as it sounds, the fire he produces can be seen from most of the battle field and there is no other fire alchemist. He has always been overachieving and with the push of his superiors eyes on his neck, he takes over in the squad. It gets to the point where they barely has to do anything and he doesn't spend more than two weeks in his first squad.
One in the next and two more in the following one. He keeps burning down buildings. The added heat from his fire gives him more space than he could have hoped for and the higher they put him, the less people they put to guard him. They haven't put him anywhere near the front lines and the squads he is in are just backup. They are there to clean up and he is awfully efficient at that. The buildings are just buildings, with no actual people in them and burning down bricks is something he can do with his eyes closed.
Then the buildings are filed with people and he is still told to burn them down. He grits his teeth and sets them all on fire. He can’t pinpoint the moment the higher ranked officers switch their orders. One day he is told to burn down bricks and the next he is burning people inside said buildings alive. The screams echoes in his nightmares. The standard issue gun they handed him the first day is never used. He doesn't ever need it, fire is more useful and accessible. He is still ordered to keep it around if his gloves happened to break. They don't, but he finds a use for it. Instead of sleeping he spins the gun in his hands. Turns it over and over until he passes out from exhaustion or the heat. He's never sure anymore.
The seventh squad he is put in is on the front lines. He has built whatever respect he has now from the ground up. It’s there in the way they call him the flame alchemist, how they bow their heads ever so slightly. There are no comments behind his back made to be heard by him anymore, now they’re most likely said in the safety of tents too far away from his. There's no denying it anymore, he isn't too young. For the first time in his life, he feels too young.
The faces of the people in his squads seems to fade the higher up on the ladder that he climbs. He pays less and less attention to the introductions, he'll just end up leaving them behind. There’s no use to getting attached to people in a war. He tells himself that over and over so that maybe one day he’ll take his own advice.
In his ninth squad is a familiar face. He stopped looking for familiar faces the further up he got, stopped wishing to meet them the closer he got to the front line. This face in particular he tried not to think about.
"Roy?" His name feels odd. If Maes Hughes wasn't staring right at him, he might have been able to convince himself that it wasn't his name. Here he is simply “state alchemist” or “flame alchemist”. “Mustang” during rare occasions.
"Huges. It's nice to see you" he says. He isn’t quite sure that it is nice to see him, not at the front lines and not in danger. It’s nice to see him alive, that’s for sure. Some nights he worried that he had started to forget how Maes voice sounds. Hearing it now feels just like the last time they met.
"I can't believe it. It's so good to see you alive" Maes leaves the row of soldiers and walks up to him. For a moment he is convinced that Maes is going to hug him. He isn't sure which one of them realizes that they should be more professional than that.
"Let me show you around, or show you around as much as it’s necessary. What are the chances that you'd end up here" Maes lays an arm around his shoulders and guides him away from the officer and the row of soldiers. It’s the first company that doesn't make him uncomfortable in months.
He tells Maes about the chances that he'd end up here. There are no coincidences out here, he knows as much. This isn't his first squad. He tells Maes about the buildings, the fires and the surprised officers who keeps moving him up the ranks.
Maes tells him about his experiences in return and he has never felt this unprepared.
They catch up while Maes shows him around. Maes introduces him to the rest of the members in his new squad. This time he tries to remember the squad members names, but instead he finds himself memorizing the way Maes interacts with them.
The day before they have been told there will be a fight Maes walk in on him spinning the standard issued gun in his hands. He never gets around to asking why Maes had gone to see him this late and he doubts that it was especially important. The second it takes Maes to take in the scene is the shortest in his life. Maes grabs the gun and throws it across the room. It hits the sand softer than should be possible for the item that it is. He expects Maes to start yelling, but he doesn't.
Maes hands him the gun back in the morning, right before they head out. There's something silently decided in that exchange. Maes holds onto the gun a little too long before he lets go. He puts it back in his belt. There is a promise there he thinks, a promise that will never be expressed aloud.
His body count rises faster than his fire does. With the screams in the background he counts the seconds it takes for the fire to get high enough to be put out. It’s hard not to think about a time where fire was exciting and alchemy was excitement itself. There are not enough emotions left in his body to express how much he despises the fact that this war stole that from him. Alchemy has become a chore, a more practical alternative to the gun in his belt.
It’s a interesting experience the first fight in a new squad. People look at him with fear, admiration and jealousy all in one. He isn’t sure which one he hates to see the most. Maes doesn’t look at him like any of the three options. It could be explained as Maes having seen it before, but he doesn’t think that’s it. If he didn’t know better he would say that Maes looks sad. Sad because of what he isn’t quite sure of.
The near death experience isn’t as much of a eye opener as he had expected. It’s neither a rude awakening as to the fact that he’s not invincible nor is it a reminder of how much he wants to stay alive. There is no place for sentiment in a war, not anymore, not on the front lines. He isn’t sure what to do with that information, expect shove his weakness down as far as he can into his stomach. He hasn’t been able to follow his own advice to stay unattached and now he’s suffering the consequences. It’s simple. It’s easy and as black and white as wars get. Sleep isn’t a luxury anymore, it’s a task. He has never been the kind of person to wake up screaming from nightmares, but they do haunt him.
Home. The highest ranked officer tells them one day. The war is officially over and they are being sent home. The word feels too soft to be used here, too soft when they’re standing on top of a graveyard. Maes never shuts up about a girl called Gracia nowadays. Sometimes it’s comforting, that Maes has found a home in a person. There’s no need to worry then. Sometimes it’s like a hammer to his head. It keeps reminding him of how he doesn’t have a home, how he barely has a personality anymore. Whatever duty he had felt when he came here burned to aches along with the buildings.
The last day is spent packing, as if he isn’t going to burn everything that comes from here the second he’s alone. He is called into a tent where he is told to report to a supervisor in the East in a week. That’s not like being hit by a hammer, that’s an order. It doesn’t surprise him so he convinces himself that it doesn’t hurt. They tell him that he’ll get his own team and there’s not much else to do, but accept. It’s not as bad as he’s making it out to be. The war is a too big piece of him now and he’s fooling himself if he ever believed he could do anything else.
At the last train station they arrive at he catches a glimpse of said Gracia. She hugs Maes who lifts her up. He thinks that is what home looks like. There’s no need to hang around, his bag is small enough for him to carry by himself. If Maes wants to get a hold of him he will be able to next week in the office that he’s assigned to.
That night he sits alone in his apartment with the bag still smoking from fire in the bathroom. He is drunk, has been for awhile now. If Maes found a home in Gracia, he can create a home at an office. He may self destruct before he can manage, but he has his sights set higher than a home. He has his sights set on becoming the fuhrer.