The Last Dream of my Soul: What Dreams May Come

It was always the same dream. Not every night. But often enough that Ed had come to recognize it. It was brief, just a flash relaying that moment when they'd parted on the sidewalk, when Mustang had extended his hand and Ed, in a final burst of juvenile attitude, had tapped it instead of taking it.

That moment when he'd felt like his skin was on fire.

He'd hid it. Stuffed it down and put a lid over it, and ran off because there were things he needed to fix, goddamnit.

But he'd known. He hadn't even believed the stories, had thought all that soul mate bullshit was just romantic garbage. Few people ever claimed to have the experience, and those who did were generally laughed off. But the moment their hands had touched, he'd known.

He was certain Mustang had known, as well.

But what did that matter, when you had lives to save and mistakes to set right. What did it matter when you had invasions to stop. The moment he'd seen Mustang in that stupid balloon he'd felt like his entire being had been lit on fire, but once again circumstances were against them. His heart had stopped and his stomach had bottomed out at the thought of leaving everyone and everything behind once again and returning to that alchemy-less other world, but the alternative would have been leaving the Gate open for any other maniacal asshole with delusions of power, and that was no alternative at all.

About a month later the dreams had started.

It was both balm and torture, seeing Mustang again for that brief moment, only wake a universe away. To see that moment when all his tumultuous feelings for the man had finally fallen into place. He always woke reaching out into empty space, fingers tingling where their skin had made contact.

This night the dream started like all the others, but this time, instead of letting history play out yet again the pain and frustration and longing finally broke through and Ed's hand darted out, grabbing his wrist instead of tapping his palm.

Mustang gasped. Ed stared up at him, seeing him now as he had been during that battle over Central, eye patch and stress lines and not enough stripes on his shoulders. He was gripping Ed's wrist in return, squeezing every bit as hard. Their eyes locked, and Ed's voice stopped up in his throat. He forced through it, needing to say something, anything—

Ed cried out into the dark, kicking at the blankets and grasping empty air.

On the other side of the room, Al sat up and flicked on a reading lamp. "Brother?" he said in a sleepy mumble. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing Al. It's nothing." Ed hugged his knees to his chest, folding his hand with its tingling skin against his heart. "Just a dream."