No sign as yet,

november 21, 1922

2 hours

In the middle of the night, Ling tugs on her sleeve.

She hasn't slept; how could she, when his condition worsens and every second she sleeps is a second she loses?

"Hey," he says, like everything is normal, and he's about to beg her to follow him to the kitchen for a late-night snack.

"Hi."

He smiles at her, his goofy Ling smile, and reaches up to brush her bangs out of her face. "It's late. You should sleep."

"I'm alright."

"You have to take better care of yourself." It's a reprimand she's heard a million times before. "Have you been oiling your automail, like Knox told you?"

"When I have the chance."

"Find more. Chances, I mean. That's an order."

"I will, my lord," she says, amused. "Are you feeling better?"

He hesitates before he answers, meeting her with a grin. "Yes," he responds confidently, curling fingers into her loose hair, "much better."

"Good." She imagines him getting out of bed, taking a turn about the room, jumping onto rooftops like he used to. It's wishful thinking, but it's something. "I'm glad to hear it."

"You know what? Me, too."

They sit that way for a while- his hands on her face, hers in her lap, a gap between them that Ling is doing all he can to close- before he lifts the covers. "C'mere," he says. "Sleep."

"That's not-"

"'Fan," he says, and he meets her eyes. There is something within them that she does not like.

She sits on the edge of his bed, and he lays his head in her lap. When she tentatively places a hand on his shoulder, the space beneath the skin feels hollow; empty.

He falls asleep easily, and she feels her eyelids begin to flutter and close; she supports her body on her automail arm, but it's starting to feel like a chore. She wonders who it would hurt if she closed her eyes, just for a moment.

It's not a waste of time to sleep now, because-

Because she loves him, and how is it a waste of time when he is right there?

He's not as warm as he once was, but it's alright; it's still Ling.

Lan Fan flops down onto her back because she cannot help it, and Ling's body weight is heavy on her flesh arm but she's not going to wake him. He hasn't slept this soundly in days; his breathing is steady and consistent and it's there, she thanks God that it's there, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe-

—

The bed is cold when she wakes. There is no hint that he might have been there; no sign of his existence beyond the dog-eared Amestrian book on his bedside table.

May is crying outside.

Gritting her teeth, Lan Fan grabs a fistful of sheets that don't smell like him anymore and wishes that she hadn't been so weak.