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It was days since it happened.
Edward had seen that look before. He’d seen and dealt plenty of tragic fake smiles in his time, but this one was different, and very specific. Its purpose wasn’t really to hide anything. It wasn't masking; it was empty. The obvious tell was in the way Alfons’ eyes stayed wide, hardly daring to blink. He looked…hollow.
It was two weeks since it happened.
Alfons still froze at every sudden noise, recoiled violently at every unexpected touch. He apologized every time. His favorite type of physical affection became hand holding. It was the only way they touched as they fell asleep each night, but Alfons wouldn’t sleep without their fingers laced.
It was four weeks since it happened.
Alfons had tried to say the words, but he couldn’t get them out. Edward had long since put two and two together already. Edward wasn’t sure whose hands trembled more, or who squeezed harder. Alfons still couldn’t cry. When Alfons wasn't around, Edward broke two prosthetic hands.
It was a month and a half since it happened.
Alfons was functioning better most of the time. Some time ago they had progressed back to comfortably cuddling again, and he didn’t flinch as hard at Edward’s touch, and his smiles slowly became more real, if at times heartbreakingly pained--but the softness in his voice wasn’t only from kindness now, and occasionally Edward had to teach him how to breathe again.
“I’ll only be a minute. If I come back to see you working on some diagram, I’m gonna kick your rockethead ass.” Edward left to brush his teeth in the bathroom.
Alfons gave a tiny chuckle as he stood to close his book and tidy the desk, calling back, “Looking forward to it.” Despite joking threats, Edward would never hurt him. He’d been so kind, so patient in the last month and a half. Even if he moved too fast by accident, he never crossed a boundary twice. Edward would never hurt him.
But there were other people who would, gladly.
Alfons’ brow furrowed and his shoulders cringed up defensively. There were people who would—no, who wanted to hurt him. Or rather, there were people who wanted to have their way with him and wouldn’t give two shits what it did to him. He was utterly worthless to them in those moments, just a thing to be used and broken and tossed, he was less than nothing to them, they’d do it again if they had the chance and oh god, his thoughts were heading south quickly. Worthless. Used. Broken. Nothing.
His breathing was starting to grow uneven. Worthless. Thing. Used.
He swallowed hard as the room began to spin. Broken. Nothing. Stop. He couldn’t stop.
Then there was a hand on his body. There was no one else in the room but there was a hand on his body, two hands, he felt it, he felt them touching him, they were right there touching his body. His stomach turned and his shoulder hit the wall. There were hands on his body. He slid down the wall into a sitting position, eyes wide open, breath fast and ragged, wrapping his arms around himself. There were hands on his body. Then more than just hands. And then he saw it, too. He was there. His eyes were open but it was all he could see. He went numb, and it was all he could feel. He clenched his fists in the sleeves of each opposite arm, and that wasn’t enough, then he moved them to hold his sides, rocking, and that wasn’t enough, then he clawed at the skin of his neck, leaving red marks, and that just wasn’t enough. He distantly heard breathing and couldn’t tell if it was them or if it was his own shuddering gasps. He was on the floor now, curled up on himself, barely feeling the cool wood flooring against his cheek. His fists clenched in his hair, pulling hard against his scalp. Get off. Please get off. Go away. Stop touching me. Stop touching me. Stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please.
“Alfons?!”
They knew his name? How did they know his name? Oh god. It was someone he knew. Oh god. They knew him and they did this. They knew him and they were here. It was happening again. Please stop. Please. Please.
“Alfons. Alfons, snap out of it, listen to me. It’s not happening. It’s over. You’re safe.”
Then there were more hands on him but these ones were gentle. One was warm. One was rubbery and a bit clumsy. They were on his own hands, trying to pry open his fingers to release them from his hair. His muscles numbly obliged and unclenched, and he saw his trembling hands pulled away and set on the floor. The one warm hand and one rubbery hand placed themselves on Alfons’ cheeks and turned his head. Terror-stricken eyes met fierce gold.
Edward was kneeling over him. “Alfons. Can you hear me? You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe. Can you speak? What’s my name? Can you say my name?” Edward was speaking to him, his face hovering above Alfons’ own. Edward was there and his hands were soft and careful. They didn’t touch him anywhere but his hands and his face. There were no hands on his body.
“E-Ed,” he managed. It was choked, and between uncontrolled gasps, but it was progress.
Edward nodded. His expression was hard, eyes piercing. “Good. You’re with me, Alfons. Where are we? ...Alfons, I want you to say it. Where are we?”
“Th…The apart…apartment.”
“Breathe. That’s right. You’re home with me. You’re safe, with me. It’s just us here. Who wrote ‘A Method of Reaching Extreme Altitudes’?”
What? “…Go…Goddard.”
“Breathe. What’s his full name and when did he publish it?”
“R-Robert Hutchings Goddard. 19…19.”
“Breathe. You’re safe, Alfons. Full sentences.” It was working. To form a sentence, he had to think. To speak, he had to breathe. “Say it again.”
“His name is Robert Hutchings Goddard, he published it in 1919.”
“Published what in 1919?”
They went on like this for another few minutes and slowly, slowly, Alfons was back in control of his lungs, coughing hard now and then, and far less lightheaded. Edward’s human hand had moved to stroking Alfons’ hair, but his eyes hadn’t budged since they locked with Alfons’. His own heart was breaking and twisting, but he willed it to stay strong for now.
Eventually, when Alfons seemed grounded enough, breathing at an almost regular pace, Edward’s shoulders relaxed somewhat and he let out a tiny sigh. With a soft smile he beckoned, “C’mon, Fons, let’s get you up.” He rose to his knees and lifted Alfons to sitting up, then stood and pulled him to his feet as well. Edward led him by a still trembling hand to the bed, wrapped his arms around Alfons and pulled him down, holding Alfons’ head against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Alfons said weakly.
“Don’t you dare be.”
Alfons felt small, so very small, like he might just disappear, but Edward held him so tight, his embrace saying I won’t let you. He clung to Edward’s shirt. After a month and a half the tears came at last, and he tried to fight them, worried he might drown them both, but Edward just held him tighter.
Edward pressed slow, gentle kisses to the top of Alfons’ head, each one saying I love you, I’m here. “You can cry. Please don’t keep it in anymore.” Edward kept a firm grip on his own composure. He could go punch a brick wall and break a few more prosthetic arms if need be when Alfons was stable. He'd been through enough trauma himself--there was no way in hell he wasn't going to be there for Alfons. His hand carded through Alfons’ hair, and the other rubbed Alfons’ back, stroking slowly, soothingly, but firmly, as if trying to replace the memory of the hands that had hurt his love.
And maybe the whole world felt like it was shattering around Alfons, but Edward was there and wouldn’t let go.
He sobbed into Edward’s chest.