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It’s truly a curse, what has happened to him.
He remembers little of the first night, what happened after he and Ed placed their hands on the circle and light flooded the basement. Thinking they’d see Mom again soon.
He remembers being torn apart, screaming in agony…then nothing.
Vague flashes, sensations, run through his mind. The feeling of falling endlessly, of being very tired, of feeling something warm and delicious on his tongue.
The next concrete memory he has is of Edward, lying prone with a bloody leg stump and a mangled arm.
Brother? Brother!
Crying, screaming for him to wake. Running to Granny Pinako for help.
He knows his mouth was dripping blood. Winry has never let him forget.
The curse made itself known days later, after the amputation, after Ed recounted what Al did in his near-mindless state.
He’d been bloodless. A corpse, drained of life.
He had fed . And he’d need to do so again.
He cried. Resisted the urge, even as his body weakened. Fought against them when they pinned him down and forced him to drink.
The only thing that anchored him was Ed, sitting in a wheelchair holding his head with his one remaining arm. Murmuring in his ear. You are not leaving me, Alphonse. Do you hear me? I will not lose you.
I’m going to fix you. But for now you’re going to drink up, because I can’t go on without you.
Al drank.
And so it began. A year of surgeries for Ed as his automail was installed, assessed, and adjusted. A year of blood donations—as much as his body could handle, every few weeks. The Rockbells’ icebox is full of blood bags.
Which Al drinks .
He drinks his brother’s blood .
The curse has turned him into a predator. One with a savage, detestable palate. (He’s pretty sure blood didn’t taste like that to him before. It shouldn’t taste like that.)
He craves it. Every minute he isn’t drinking Ed’s blood, he hungers for its sweet metallic tang—only Ed’s, though. Any other blood he drinks tastes like hot garbage.
(The fact that he’s tasted other blood is an entirely different can of shame.)
He swears he can smell it on his brother, a delicate scent somewhere between flowers and fruit.
Al has to resist burying his face in Ed’s neck and inhaling the sweetness. (He only succeeds in resisting sometimes .)
His nerves are awake in a whole new way, too.
When he touches brother’s skin, holds his remaining hand, he can feel his pulse. Blood rushing beneath the skin, through fragile veins he knows firsthand are easily broken.
He can easily pinpoint where Ed’s skin is thinnest, where it would most easily bleed. His fingertips skate over the skin, reveling in the softness—and the delicious life flowing beneath.
It’s all he can do not to sink his teeth in—break, tear his brother’s skin open—and feast.
The urge is constant. His own veins scream, burning as they slowly, slowly dry out. His teeth pulse with wanting, with aching, with cursed thirst. He is a vessel of pain, hungering for the only thing that will bring him relief.
On bad days he runs a constant mantra through his mind. Don’t bite him, don’t hurt him, don’t you dare, don’t do it, don’t bite—
But on good days, when he’s fed and his skin is warm with life, he can trust himself around brother. He can hug him, braid his hair, cuddle up to him in bed, help him with his automail therapy. He feels everything he should, his sick cravings satiated.
(There are other things he feels, things he can’t blame on the curse. They curdle in his stomach, squeeze his navel, tickle at his lips.)
A year living like this. A year since Ed made the promise to restore him to life, true life.
Ed’s comfortable in his automail now, comfortable enough to spar. He leaps and lunges, kicks and dodges with the agility he had with all four limbs, when they trained with Teacher.
Al loves seeing him come alive like this, seeing the gleam in his eye as he fights. The flash of his braid as he darts back and forth.
His shirt is sleeveless and short, so Al can see the sweat on his skin, the hardness of his muscles.
It feels good to fight, Al admits. To let out his frustrations, his pent-up energy. To let those cursed instincts out to play—
He gasps, hands shooting up to cover his mouth. The roundhouse kick he delivered has just slammed Ed to the ground, where his face—
Oh…his face is bleeding.
Al knows this without needing to see—he can smell it. Taste it, almost.
Ed groans as he sits up, fingers brushing the small cut across his cheekbone.
“Brother, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry—I’m okay.” He grins at Al, before the realization dawns on him.
The open wound, however small, has awakened every predatory instinct Al tries to suppress. He nearly bares his teeth and makes a grab for Ed.
Al takes refuge in the shadow of the big tree in the yard. “You should go.”
Instead of backing away from the hunger in Al’s eyes, Ed takes a step forward. “No, I’m not going anywhere, Al.”
“I could hurt you,” Al says, so softly it’s almost a whimper. “Like last time.”
He stares at Ed’s metal arm, tongues of shame searing through him like fire. Brother had pleaded with him to stop, but he hadn’t listened. He couldn’t stop.
Ed takes his hand. His golden eyes blaze with certainty. “I trust you. I’m not afraid.”
He’s so close now Al is trapped between brother and the tree. His back presses against the wood. Ed presses against his front.
Oh god, his blood is singing . Like a siren call, inviting him in.
Al turns his head away, but Ed catches his cheek. Tilts it toward the wound with his metal hand. “S’okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay. You won’t hurt me.”
Al really does whimper this time. His heart is pounding, aching, longing to be filled with more blood, more life. He wants to. More than anything in this moment.
He takes Ed’s chin and turns it. Leans forward and captures the oozing blood with his tongue.
It comes to life at once, starbursts shattering on the roof of his mouth and drawing a moan of satisfaction from his lips. He runs his tongue along the thin red line, soaking up the taste.
Ed’s breath quivers, his eyes closed as if reveling in the sensation. Color rises in his cheeks. Blood pulses wildly under thin skin. Al runs his fingers over the warmth, heart racing.
He goes in for a second taste, but Ed’s cut is little more than a scratch. No more blood has escaped.
He can’t stop himself from whining in disappointment.
Ed opens his eyes. “Al.” He tilts his head further, exposing his neck and shoulder. “More?”
“Oh.” Al’s already shaking his head, though his heart leaps in his chest. “I…”
Ed’s voice is gentle, but his eyes are steely. He answers the question Al is too afraid to ask. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”
Al’s breath hitches. Fear and excitement mingle together on his lips. “Are you sure?”
Ed holds his gaze. Though his heart pounds loud and distinct, he doesn’t blink. “I’m not afraid,” he repeats.
A lump rises in Al’s throat. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve brother’s trust, his gentle touch. He doesn’t deserve to be so near to him, to take—what he has to.
The instinct, the need to bite, tear, feast , is overwhelming. It crashes over Al like a wave, enveloping him, drowning him.
He shouldn’t enjoy consuming his brother. He shouldn’t .
He spins them both, turning Ed so his back is pinned against the tree.
He lunges forward, teeth bared, at the place on Ed’s neck where his skin is thinnest, and bites .
Brother, forgive me.
Ed holds him tight with shaking arms.
.
There’s no denying the pain. It hurts. Stings. Burns.
But Ed’s no stranger to pain. He grits his teeth and takes deep, steady breaths. It’s not unbearable.
More than anything, he’s focused on Al.
Al, who has been so careful around him. He never gets too close unless he’s well-fed, always leaves the room when Ed’s blood makes an appearance (on bad days, automail therapy has him hacking up bloody vomit). Perpetually scared of hurting Ed.
All that caution is gone. This is Al at his most instinctive and uncontrolled. Where the curse has changed him the most. Ed should be terrified, as terrified as that first night when Al tore into him with empty eyes and heartless teeth.
He’s not.
This isn’t the heedless predator from that night. This is Al, Ed’s little brother, who curls up like a kitten to sleep, who teases Ed mercilessly in his gentle voice, who strokes his hair soothingly when the pain from the automail keeps him awake at night.
They’re closer than they’ve ever been. He’s warm against Ed’s torso, fingers clutching and clawing at his shoulders, his back. Noises of satisfaction escape his bloody lips as he laps from the wound he’s made.
This is Al, but he still has that predator’s appetite.
Ed loves him more than life itself. He’ll give him all the life he needs.
.
Winry nearly hyperventilates when she gets close enough to see what they’re doing.
“You idiots! You could’ve hurt him, Al. He’s bleeding!”
“I’m fine,” Ed says grumpily. He only sways on his feet a little.
Al breaks away, his brows knitting in a worried expression. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, brother.”
“Don’t be,” Ed murmurs. He’s a little dizzy—sparring time is definitely over—but he’s more satisfied with himself than he’s been in months.
Al’s lips are stained, dripping red.
Ed can’t stop staring, enthralled.
He did it. He did it.
He fed Al, straight from the vein (artery, whatever). He’s still standing, and Al is sated. Panting, bloody, but alive .
He looks amazing.
Al blinks up at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Blood flashes on Al’s teeth when he speaks. Ed hopes he won’t lick it away.
Color blooms in Al’s cheeks. Color—from Ed’s blood. Ed did that. Pride swells in him.
“Brother, what are you looking at?”
You. Just you.
Ed brushes Al’s bangs out of his eyes, off his forehead. “Told you I wasn’t afraid.”
Al leans forward again, more hesitant this time, less animal. He rests his head on Ed’s shoulder, next to the bloody wound he’s made. “You…thank you, brother.”
Ed holds him there, basking in their shared warmth as their breaths synchronize.
Winry watches them with round, frightened eyes. “Ed, come back to the house so I can bandage your neck. You’re going to get an infection.”
Ed snorts, never taking his eyes off Al. His little brother’s eyes are closed, his bloody lips curving into a peaceful smile. For the first time in a long time, he looks completely… content .
(He hopes Al attributes his racing heart to adrenaline and blood loss—and nothing more.)
Although—Ed can’t deny his pain much longer. Coming down off their shared high, his neck throbs and aches, still trickling blood.
“And what did you do to my automail? Did you do alchemy on it? Put it back—you’re going to cut yourself, and I won’t fix you this time.”
Ed glances at his automail, the metal forearm plate still jutting outward as a wicked, sharp blade. He smiles, an idea forming in his mind.
Next time, Al won’t have to bite.