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The alchemist catches Al first.
They’re both running for their lives, trying to escape the man who set his sights on exploding Ed’s head. Both boys are panting, exhausted. Ed claps and transmutes frantically, but the man breaks down every barrier they erect in his way.
Maybe if they can make it to headquarters, find another safehouse—something—anything—to escape the man in glasses, who, like Ed, apparently doesn’t need to draw a circle to transmute.
Al trips.
The man gets a firm grip around his knee, and—
Al’s leg explodes.
He screams, but it’s at Ed—to run.
Ed has no intention of running. Al is bleeding out, and though his leg looks horrific, beyond saving, Ed’s seen him come back from worse.
He just needs more blood. Ed can give that to him.
His momentary preoccupation with Al is all the alchemist needs to shatter his arm.
Al’s scream is somehow louder this time.
The man offers him a moment to pray.
Al screams in panic. This time, he’s cut off by a sick-sounding cough.
He won’t last much longer.
Ed stares past the man in the long coat and dark glasses. “Can you give me a minute with my brother instead?”
“I will not.”
“Will you hurt him if you kill me?”
“I will not. Your sins are not his.”
“Okay, then, go ahead.”
“Brother!”
Ed closes his eyes, so the sound of the gunshot surprises him.
The military clashes with the would-be killer, and he flees. It’s over in less than a minute, then the soldiers have two injured boys to deal with.
One is hardly hurt, his automail the worst part of him. The other…well, at the very least his leg is gone. He might not even make it off the street, given all the blood he’s lost.
That is, that’s what the soldiers think until he sits up and slugs his brother in the face.
“You idiot!”
“Ow! Al—”
“What were you thinking? You absolute dumbass, were you going to let him kill you?”
“He promised not to hurt you. I had to—”
“You had to what— cause the least possible collateral damage? News flash, brother—if you die, I’m not far behind! What were you expecting, for me to lick your blood off the streets?”
“Al, just take my blood—”
“Fine.” Al pounces on his arm and bites.
“Ow! Son of a—”
“You deserve more than that, but right now I’m going to pass the fuck out unless I drink.”
He’s bitten hard enough to draw blood, so Ed guides him close under the guise of a hug so he can press his lips to the cut and suck. Ed winces but accepts the burning pain as his punishment.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t want to leave you, but—”
Al squeezes his arm, casting an icy glare up without breaking his hold on Ed. Somehow, as always, Ed knows what he means. Just because you’re sorry doesn’t make this go away. You’ll still hear plenty about this.
Honestly, Ed wouldn’t have it any other way. Al wouldn’t be Al otherwise.
He presses his lips to Al’s forehead anyway, marveling at his brother’s resilience. Anyone else would’ve never walked again, but not Al. Al is still alive, and strong, and in a few weeks he’ll be up and about like this never happened.
God, he’s beautiful.
And then Lieutenant Hawkeye is there, draping her jacket over Al’s shoulders and retrieving the tattered remains of Ed’s coat to wrap him up in. “Just stay here,” she warns in a low voice. “We’ll get an ambulance. Triage his leg. Is he okay?”
Ed allows her a weary smile of thanks as Al drinks his fill, replenishing his body of the blood he lost. “He will be.”