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Once he’s discharged from the hospital’s care, Ed hardly leaves Al’s room. He glues himself to the stiff, uncomfortable visitor’s chair, unable to take his eyes off his brother who is really here, in the flesh, he still can’t believe—
It’s an adjustment, for both of them. Al has been an unfeeling suit of armor for so long—he has to readapt and relearn, like a newborn.
Ed tries not to be unsettled by his newness.
He forgets to emote—he stares into space with unnerving intensity, his expression blank and unyielding. He blinks so little his eyes fill with tears before he remembers the motion.
He’s sensitive to pain, although he tries to hide his reaction to every pinch, every flare. He’s shaky, tiring easily after small actions. He’s bedridden most days, only able to walk short distances.
He’s still the same Al, though. Same sense of self-deprecating humor, same demure poses he adopted as a giant suit of armor.
Same need for Ed. If anything, that need has amplified tenfold.
Ed isn’t complaining, though. There’s nothing in the world he would rather do than spend time with his little brother. (That and harass the doctors about when they can leave.)
He spends his days watching Al, talking to him, helping him eat, sit up, stand, walk, whatever he feels like doing. After so long separated by metal, each time he touches Al feels like a kiss from God.
At night he falls asleep to the music of Al’s breathing.
“Brother.” Al’s voice is thin and uncertain.
Ed’s reply is grudging and petulant, almost a whine. (No matter how good a brother he is, he still hates being jerked from the edge of sleep.) “What.”
“I can’t sleep.”
Ed runs a hand (his flesh-and-blood hand, he can hardly believe that either) over his face. He rolls his head from side to side, cracking out the stiffness from his crumpled sleeping position.
The staff keeps offering him a makeshift bed in one of the waiting rooms, but he refuses to be so far from Al—for moments just like this one.
“You didn’t sleep for five years, Al. You’ve got lots of catching up to do.”
“I can’t. I haven’t slept in days.”
His plaintive, almost apprehensive confession has Ed shooting upright.
Al’s bed is bathed in moonlight. He lies on his back, the covers drawn childishly to his chin. His expression is muted, but something shines in his eyes—something haunted.
Ed is at his side in seconds. “What do you mean you can’t? ”
Sleep isn’t a learned behavior like walking or talking. Al’s had to relearn plenty of things in the time since his restoration. (There was a terrifying realization toward the beginning, when he began to eat and drink again, that he’d nearly forgotten how to swallow.)
Sleep is instinctual. A biological imperative that, if held off long enough, will come involuntarily.
He sits on the bed beside Al, careful not to disturb any part of his fragile form, shrouded in itchy hospital blankets. “If you’re tired enough, doesn't it just…happen?”
“I’ve tried.” Al’s voice is paper thin. Now that he’s closer, Ed can see his brother’s eyes are worryingly bloodshot, almost desperate in their exhaustion. “It just won’t come.”
Dread crackles its way up Ed’s spine.
Not for the first time, the fear that something has gone wrong whips against him, leaving a lingering sting to worry on.
There are too many possibilities—that Al is really somehow a homunculus, still unable to experience true humanity. That the body he was forced to abandon for so long is defective and won’t last him a lifetime.
This is yet another worry for him to chew, stuck between his teeth like a stubborn bit of food. How can Al’s body forget something as natural as sleep?
“I don’t know what it means.” Al’s voice, still high and unbroken, trembles like he’s on the verge of tears. “It could be nothing, but…”
“S’okay,” Ed forces himself to say. He tries to mask his worry by smoothing Al’s hair off his forehead (with his left hand, on instinct). “S’okay, Al.” He resists the urge to panic and shout for help (He’s done that plenty in the past few weeks, raising several false alarms.) “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
(His confident caretaker act shouldn’t work on Al anymore, as Al knows firsthand that his big brother can’t fix everything. Yet Al still blinks trustingly up at him, eyes shining just a shade darker than Ed’s own.)
“I close my eyes and lay still, and…nothing. Nothing happens.” His lips disappear into his mouth as he chews on them.
He seems to have picked up a lot of nervous tics since he’s been restored, Ed notices. He doesn’t know if they’re a result of his extended stay in the Gate, or if they’re just another exemplification of how delicate he is.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Like I’m not glad to be back. But I—” Frustration scratches his voice, coloring it with the threat of tears—a novelty, given his previous lack of tear ducts. “I didn’t expect it to be this hard .”
Ed’s throat swells. “I know.” (He doesn’t know. There’s no way he can know exactly how Al has suffered. There’s no way he can pinch off his guilt and forgive himself for putting Al through—whatever he’s been through.)
But he’s resolved to not let his guilt stain these moments. Like in their years of searching, he can’t let it bleed through his every thought and action. Al doesn’t need anguished contrition plaguing his convalescence—he needs his big brother to be there for him.
“I guess you’re just out of practice. But hey,” Ed gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “We took down the military, the homunculi, and their evil dad. Sleep? After all that, you’ll kick its butt.”
Al laughs once—a short, tired sound that does nothing to lift his lips into a smile, or chase that dead, haunted look from his eyes.
(He’s too fragile for any fighting analogy to work on him right now. He’s recounted to Ed the decision he made, just before the sacrifice, to leave his body behind so he could continue the fight without breaking.)
Ed shifts his weight, settling more firmly on the bed beside Al. “I’ll stay right here until you fall asleep. ‘Kay?”
Al nods jerkily. “O...okay.” He takes a deep breath, as if getting ready to plunge into dark, dangerous waters. (In a way, Ed supposes, he is.)
He closes his eyes, letting his bated breath spill over his still-pale lips in a shaky sigh.
This close, Ed can see the tightness in his neck, the way his fists clench, the set of his shoulders and spine. If Ed were to pick him up, he’d remain as stiff and unpliant as a wooden board.
Ed continues to stroke his little brother’s forehead. Setting a calming rhythm. “Relax, Al. Let go. It’s okay.”
I’ll be right here.
He gasps softly when Al’s skeletal, feather-light fingers wind around his free hand. They’re cold, but the contact fills Ed with an indescribable warmth.
His little brother is back .
True, Al’s been beside him for years. Ed’s already had to stop himself listening for the clank of the armor, following along behind him. And Al’s voice, beautiful as it is, rings quieter without the hollow, metallic resonance Ed’s gotten used to. It’s not like he hasn’t had parts of Al with him all along.
But nothing can compare to this . Flesh on flesh as he holds his brother’s hand. The flow of blood beneath Al’s skin, proof of his heartbeat, his restored humanity. The smooth curve of his cheek, broken by the sharper-than-usual bones underneath. The soft, involuntary noises escaping him as he breathes in and out, in and out, slower and slower. His silky golden hair sliding through Ed’s fingers. The slow pull of his muscles as he relaxes, melting into his pillow.
He’s human and he’s here and Ed couldn’t be happier.
Well, he’d be happier if he could get some sleep of his own. He starts to plot how to work his hand out of Al’s and get back to his chair so he can—
Al spasms without warning, muscles seizing up into stiffness once again. His hand clenches around Ed’s. He gasps, a fragile, frightened whimper falling from his lips. His eyes shoot open, pupils dilated to pinpoints.
Ed jumps, frantically back to his state of alarm. “Hey,” he exclaims, louder than he should. He quiets his voice into a gentler murmur when he repeats himself. “Hey, Al. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”
Al finds him quickly in the dimly lit room. His eyes, dull and shuttered from lack of sleep, glisten in the moonlight. “Brother…” His arms twitch underneath the blankets, reaching upward.
Ed can’t believe he has to be reminded that his brother can feel now, likes to feel. He pulls Al into a half sitting position, so he can cradle his head to his chest. As his arms snake around Al’s bony torso, he can feel every tremble, every flinch, betraying his brother’s distress.
“S’okay. I’m here.”
I’m never leaving again.
Al buries his face in Ed’s shirt, muffling his already tremulous voice. “I’m sorry. I feel like a baby.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Words can’t describe how glad Ed is to be able to hold his flesh-and-blood little brother again, baby or no. (Given that Al’s lost time was all his fault anyway, really Ed should be the one apologizing to him .) “You’re doing your best.”
“It was working,” Al whispers brokenly. “I was dropping off—almost there. And then…” He gathers fistfuls of Ed’s shirt. “It felt—I was frozen. And falling. And I was back in that—” He hiccups and draws himself tighter into Ed’s chest.
He doesn’t have to elaborate further, as both of them shudder at the memory of that blank, endless void. Blindingly bright and frighteningly other . The prickling feeling of being watched, at war with the prospect of being completely alone and abandoned in that white limbo…
Ed squeezes himself out of the memory before his own heart starts pounding. He buries his hand in Al’s overlong hair, hoping Al’s trembling will hide his own.
“S’not real. You’re here, and you’re safe. I won’t let you go back there.”
His words are as much for himself as they are for Al.
“I know. I know . It just felt so…so…” Al pulls away from their embrace, bleary golden eyes meeting attentive and worried ones.
Exhaustion has wilted his face into a mask of defeat. The shadows under his eyes pronounce the emaciation, the edges carved by years of neglect. If not for his sharp breaths, the fear brimming hot in his glazed eyes, he could be mistaken for a corpse.
Ed makes a decision. “Move over.”
“Why?”
“You need sleep. Move over so there’s room for me.”
Understanding lights in Al’s eyes, and the tightness in his mouth softens ever so slightly. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I was tired of that chair, anyway. It’s only fair you share this bed with me.”
(It’s only fair he gets to hold his little brother. It’s only fair, seeing how they ignite sweet warmth in each other like no one else can.)
Al scoots to the far side of the bed, lifting the covers so Ed can climb under.
Whatever patterns they have to relearn, whatever familiarities have slid minutely out of place, this is not one of them. In their childhood they shared a bed more often than not. Al would curl up against Ed after a nightmare, and though he would never admit it, Ed slept better in a thunderstorm with Al at his back.
In the rare but bitter cold months they would huddle together under a combined mountain of blankets— just for a minute, they’d always agree, but fall asleep in each others’ arms nevertheless.
And the years after Mom—long after the tears had dried and the grave had greened over, Ed would wake to a warm body beside him.
Now they settle on their sides in the narrow hospital bed, with Al tucked firmly into Ed’s chest. Ed’s arms wind around his little brother, hands clasped together over Al’s prominent ribs. Al’s delicate fingers wrap around his, holding them close to his heart.
Ed leans forward, pressing his lips to the crown of Al’s head. Breathes in his scent, his beautiful soft hair that shines like the sun and smells like it too.
Al sighs, a little hum of pleasure escaping his lips. The rigid lines of his body have already begun to loosen, relaxing into Ed’s embrace.
“Love you, brother.”
Ed smiles against his hair. “Love you too, Al.”
The next time Al jolts awake, shaken by some dream or involuntary bodily reaction, Ed’s arms are already locked around him. He holds his brother as tight as he dares, breathing murmurs of reassurance into his ear and soothing him back to sleep.
Waking up is disorienting.
As lonely and long as his sleepless nights were, Alphonse was used to them. There was something purposeful about letting everyone around him get their rest, while he, with none of those pesky human needs, could watch over them. He liked being the dutiful presence—the first thing his friends saw in the morning.
He knows Ed found it reassuring, under his guilt from the armor and its inability to sleep.
When he blinks awake who-knows-where at who-knows-what time, his first instinct is panic . He’s been gone , floating asleep somewhere in the ether. Returning to the world is harsh and jolting and he wants to cry out.
The warm breath on his neck quashes that instinct.
Ed has held him through the night. Even now as he breathes deep and slow and messy, resolutely asleep, brother’s arms are fastened around Al, keeping him captive in the most comforting way possible.
It’s Al’s turn to sleep, and brother’s turn to be the watchful presence.
He rearranges his stiff lips into a contented smile. If he knows anything as he returns to consciousness, he knows he doesn’t want Ed to let him go.