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Ed still can’t believe he’s allowed this. Can’t believe he’s sitting on a bed with his brother—his sweet, lovely little brother—with long golden locks between his fingers. He has to be careful; Al’s hair is brittle with years of starvation (your fault, all your fault) but it flows through his hands like finest silk.
It takes Al effort to sit up, but he still does so Ed can comb out his hair. He’s taken the frustrations of his recovery in stride—of course he has, he always does, the placid pool to Ed’s raging inferno. He doesn’t complain when Ed catches a tangle in his finger combing, even though the tug rocks his head back on his skinny neck.
(all your fault, all your fault)
Ed apologizes anyway, is more careful as he works the last of the knots out. There aren’t many, and for a while he just runs his fingers through it. Mystified as he is by the fact that he can twine his hands into Al’s hair—both living, feeling, tingling hands—he’s not so selfless that he’ll give up the opportunity.
He gently divides the spun-gold cascade into three parts, starts to weave it into a loose braid like his own. It’s surprisingly hard to do on someone other than himself; well, it’s not like he’s had much practice, since Al always kept his hair short, and then—
(all your fault, all your fault—)
“Nii-san.”
He jumps, startled, not realizing he’d stalled out halfway down the braid. Al has his head tilted back so he can look over his shoulder with one wide, golden eye.
Ed’s heart seems to invade his throat, choking, thudding painfully. He’d done his best to keep Al out of it, hadn’t wanted his little brother soiled and broken and bloody. No, the blood is all on Ed’s hands, the hands now twisting (tainting) Al’s hair—
Al leans back, weight suddenly descending on Ed’s crossed legs and pressing on his chest. His head rests on Ed’s left shoulder, turned so his nose brushes the skin just under Ed’s ear. “Nii-san, thank you.”
He shakes for a moment, hands still fisted against Al’s back. He’s done nothing worth thanks. Just fixed his own stupid mistake, the one Al had to suffer for for years—
“Thank you.” It’s whispered against his skin, like a breath, like a prayer. “Stop taking it all on yourself.”
That makes him flinch, and he abruptly realizes there’s the warm drip of tears under Al’s face. It shakes him from his paralysis at last. His breath escapes in a long, shuddering exhale as he shifts to wrap his arms around Al, bury his own face in the back of one bony shoulder.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he mutters into the scratchy hospital gown.
Al lets out a disbelieving snort. “I don’t have to, but I want to,” he retorts, hands clasping lightly around Ed’s wrists. “Nii-san. Thank you.”
Ed doesn’t try to respond. He’s sure Al can feel the hitch in his breathing, the tears soaking through fabric to delicate skin. Al holds him, anchored and steady, and that’s enough.