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Alphonse is still awake. This is not news.
It's 2 a.m., and the hospital room is too cold. He's propped up on a few pillows just enough to still be in a comfortable sleeping position. Right now, the door to the room is closed. a strip of light from the hall slipping in. The hospital beyond the door has gone that soft, quiet. He's slowly getting used to the feeling of hospital sheets against his chest, despite the itching and scratching of the cotton. There’s the IV dangling from a metal pole at the right side of the bed, its slow drip, and the ticking clock on the wall across from him. The sheets chafe the skin of his left arm in a way that he’s embarrassed to admit feels…nice.
Though if he were being honest, there was something mildly ironic about the situation, or maybe ironic was the wrong word. Alphonse doesn’t know, but he’s too tired, and the bed is too stiff. Most importantly, he can’t fall asleep. He’d groan at himself, but his mouth—
his mouth, here, teeth and all.
It's far too dry.
The two visitors’ chairs beneath the window to his left are empty. If Edward had had his way, his brother would be slumped in the closest chair, fighting sleep. he could still hear his brother’s voice from earlier. He’d argued with the nurses, for even the fullmetal alchemist had to abide by accursed visiting hour regulations.
It's different now, of course. He looks down at his gaunt forearm, impossibly tiny against the white sheets. The skin around the IV had turned red. skin stretched taut over his bones, keeping him awake. It's supposed to be different now. He’s got his body back. He’s back.
When exactly did he leave again?
Not that. Not now. That thought could have its moment tomorrow, in proper daylight. right now, and for the last 2 years or so, he just wants to sleep. The clock on the opposite wall ticks in time with the drip irritating his arm. It feels nice to watch his pale skin grow an angry red. He adjusts his position in the bed. he would roll onto his side, but he's learned that lying on top of the madness of cords would just make them press further into his sensitive skin.
Yes, yes…trying to keep me alive, he thinks. This body is still far too frail for him to sustain it without support. malnourished, flesh and frail bones.
So instead, he shuts his eyes and pretends to be a corpse, at least until the rest of his body can take the hint. He tries not to think about the nightmares he’s been having. or the shadows he keeps seeing in the corner of the room, curling and twisting together against the fading mural of some happy forest critters on the wall. He absolutely does not think about the tearing and shredding of his body. nor how even without nerves, pride's shadows had still felt like something entirely wrong, squirming inside him. With a stiff shake of his head and strain in his neck, he tries his best to sink into his fatigue. But he can still sense the shadows. They’re probably creeping up the side of the bed now, crawling their way under the covers. The minute they touch him, he knows he’ll vanish into pieces again.
His eyes snap open.
His face tightens. He glares up at the hospital ceiling in silent frustration. Giving himself up to his fatigue has proved to be one of the hardest challenges of his recovery. It always gets worse at night, though, in the dark. He considers asking to leave the lamp on in the morning. Though that would only lead to more nurses and doctors and faces begging him to manage the insomnia for a little longer.
Because he has to be okay. How bad would it be for everyone else if he couldn’t at least get any sleep? How would they feel if he never got any better?
Stop, he tells himself. We’ve done enough wallowing for today.
He should focus on something else, lest his mind wander too far into the unfairness of it all. God forbid he dip anywhere near anger; all that assigned "emotional maturity" would go out the window. Something, anything else.
The hospital gown is bunched awkwardly against his leg. Between the IV and the sheets, he feels trapped. He can feel his heart beating against his ribcage. Getting a good night’s sleep shouldn’t be this difficult.
Especially not for a body that hasn’t slept in years, he thinks.
He wants to laugh. It doesn’t come. A breeze moves against his face.
His eyes wander up towards the window to his left. Someone had left the window open just a crack. probably from Edward's complaint earlier in the day about fresh air. The moon, his old friend, is still there. Tonight, it is a somber crescent amongst the stars.
He struggles to take a breath. The brisk air gets trapped in his fragile chest, and he can feel it strain against his lungs before he manages an exhale. It hurts, but it’s a lot easier compared to the first few days he was here. He's lost that godforsaken breathing apparatus previously strapped to his mouth. Earlier, he would have relished in this long-forgotten feeling, but right now, he would rather find a way to actually get some rest.
It was the kind of thing Edward would have joked about. Addressing it directly would only make their eyes glassy. Still, he is hung up on Alphonse being placed in the children's wing, purely because he is 15. The promised day unfairly flooded hospitals with wounded, and boys newly returned from places few understand. He should feel safe here—under these sheets, with smiling faces painted on the walls.
There has to be some trick to this, no? He recalls the nurse's words from the night before; something about counting sheep, something about deep breathing. Slowly, his breathing steadies; his eyelids fall, and he feels that sweet, forgotten embrace of—
The bed creaks when he shifts a leg. It sounds like his bones clattering against one another, or the clanging of metal joints hitting each other. He's not proud of it, but he huffs.
Thud.
His gaze falls to the windowsill, meeting the crisp blue eyes of a black cat staring at him. He blinks at it, it tilts its head at him, flicking its ears in presumed curiosity, as if he’s the one that’s not supposed to be here. Alphonse tries to sit up. It mewls at him.
“Hello there…,” his voice is a raspy whisper free of reverb. “How’d you manage to get up there…?”
He doesn’t get a reply. It leaps in from the window, feet hitting the floor. It pads around the cords and chairs. The tension in his muscles relaxes. The cat meows again and jumps onto the bed, avoiding his legs. It sniffs at the sheets before slowly approaching his upper body, as if “hey, maybe don’t invade the space of hospital patients” was just a meaningless suggestion from the universe. Alphonse tentatively lifts his left arm toward the cat's head. His atrophied muscle takes a moment to respond.
The cat hesitantly sniffs his hand. The tiny puffs of breath pull hot against his skin.
It gently bumps its head against his fingers after a beat. A warmth spreads through his chest. He'd forgotten how soft cats are. It's purring now; the vibrations radiate up his arm. The cat is squinting at him now, scrutinizing his feeble form. After a moment, it laps at his fingers. Its sandpaper tongue running over his fingertips makes him chuckle.
The cat doesn’t ask him if it can get him anything. The cat does not tell him how bad it feels. Its eyes are free of guilt and pity.
“It's alright,” he imagines it says instead. “You're here, you’re safe.”
It curls beside him and rests its head on his bony hip. Alphonse begins silently stroking its back. It wastes no time, falling asleep at his side with all the regal authority a cat could afford. He watches, counting each of its breaths like he used to watch his brother.
Maybe there is a trick to it after all. Maybe there isn’t.
The hardest part is trying.
But his breathing has matched in time with the cat’s, and he just might be able to sleep.
Maybe.
For now, that’ll be enough.
(It has to be).