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Edward has a distinct memory of the searing pain that came with automail surgery. He remembers the fever that came afterward. He remembers the nightmares that plagued him, only for Alphonse to hear, and in futility, try to comfort him. The first days after the surgery are the worst. Pinako keeps him on bedrest and tells him not to move his arm or leg until the ports heal.
She knows Edward, she knows his attempts to run from pain. Which is why it comes as a shock to her that he barely tries to run this time. It’s shocking and horrifying to her, because if Edward has finally decided not to fight back, then he has to be in such pain that she can barely stand to imagine.
A month past his automail surgery is when the ports finally begins to heal.
Winry does her best to comfort him in nagging him with updates on his automail, lovingly crafted for the boy she grew up with. Her attempts at comforting him work, to some extent. Edward’s happy that he has something to look forward to. But even then, he fears that something will go wrong. That his automail wont work well, that he won't be able to move, that he won’t be able to help his little brother. Until then, he spends his days researching and reading until his eyes won’t stay open and his body begs for rest. He crowds his days with enough alchemy books that he doesn’t worry about the automail. It doesn’t work so well though, because Winry and Pinako still get woken up when he has nightmares, and he still spends his days thinking of everything that could go wrong.
Two months pass before Pinako clears him to attach his automail.
“Excited, aren’t you Ed?” She asks. Her and Winry seat him down upright and begin to put the automail in place. Edward can’t help but show his enthusiasm.
“That’s barely even a question, I'll be able to spar with Al and work on getting his body back. Not to mention practicing alchemy.” Edward replies. Winry fiddles with a few screws and latches before they're ready to attach the nerves.
“None of that for you Edward, not until you’re fully healed.”
“Oh come on, It’s already been two months, how much longer do I have to wait?”
“Don’t you complain boy, you should be happy it only took two months to get your automail on. You’ll wait as long as I tell you to.” Pinako says. Winry gives her a thumbs up and they both prepare to attach the nerves.
“You ready Ed?” Winry asks.
“Ready.”
Edward isn’t prepared for the white flash of pain that shoots up from both ports. His vision swims and Winry supports him from behind as she lowers him onto the pristine white sheets. His face contorts in pain until it releases calmly, and he’s left unconscious. He doesn’t stay so for long, but when he wakes, he realizes why there’s no practicing alchemy yet.
He wasn’t prepared for the way the automail drained his energy, his strength, his balance.
“You with us Ed?” Edward does the best he can to nod. He doesn’t pay much attention to the voice, or who it belongs to. He only allows himself to fall back asleep.
A week later is when he starts to get used to the fatigue that comes with automail. He still hasn’t moved his arm or leg much, but he’s able to leave the bed. Winry helps him downstairs for meals daily, and that's about the extent to which he uses his leg. His arm remains unused. He hates that his body is so drained just from hobbling to and from the dining room that he barely has the strength to use his arm. Pinako offers him a solution of sorts.
“You only need practice, Ed. Automail takes time to get used to. Try doing something with your hand. Writing, drawing-”
“Knitting.”
“I can arrange that.”
⋆---––——––---⋆
“Ed, you need to count by fours.” His mother says.
“Count by fours?” He gazes up at her from her side and watches as she gently takes hold of his knitting needles and demonstrates her intricate craft.
“Like this, Ed.” She pushes aside four stitches at a time, counting as she goes along.
“Four, eight, twelve, sixteen.”
“Four, eight, twelve, sixteen.” Edward repeats her words, mimicking her like a mockingbird’s song. He looks to her work, how it’s nearly done. He wonders if he’ll ever finish his, if it’ll ever become something beautiful.
⋆---––——––---⋆
His dream fades before he gets the chance to see her face.
He hates that his subconscious doesn’t seem to understand that she’s gone. He hates that he keeps getting reminders of her. That the closest thing he’ll ever get to seeing her again is the half image of her in his dream, or the disfigured body buried beside their home.
The same morning, Winry wakes him as usual with herbal tea and painkillers before she helps him downstairs for breakfast. He eats, but instead of escorting him back to bed, Winry escorts him to the living room. She sets him on the couch and turns on the radio. The music gives their house a kind of warmth that hadn’t been present since before they’d been plagued by the consequences of their sin. Alphonse follows the two in, sitting on the floor beside Edward. Winry opens the top drawer on the side table beside the couch, and from it she takes a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn for her and Edward.
“I picked out the colors myself!” Alphonse says. Winry smiles as she hands him the yarn and needles. Edward never admits it, but just the effort everyone puts into making him happy puts a smile on his face. Though it brings guilt too. Alphonse can’t smile. Alphonse can’t cry, Alphonse doesn’t feel pain like he does. Alphonse would likely swap places with him if given the opportunity, even if it means enduring the searing pain in his shoulder and leg daily. Alphonse can't hold knitting needles anymore, they keep slipping out of the gentle grasp of his mechanical hands. He’s resorted to choosing the colors of yarn and music just to feel involved. Edward hates that. Edward hates that he has to leave his brother out of something they used to love.
⋆---––——––---⋆
Edward unravels his piece again and again. It’s frustrating. He puts down the yarn and needles and looks to Alphonse, who manages the stockinette stitch just fine as he knits a scarf. Edward wishes he could do it as effortlessly as Alphonse does.
“Woah! You did all that?” Edward’s eyes widen at the sight of his brother’s work. It’s mesmerizing how his hands move, how with such ease his wrists know where and what to do.
It’s like Mom’s. It’s actually something, rather than a few messy stitches that he keeps unraveling over and over again. Unlike Edward’s work, Alphonse’s looks like actual fabric, it’s soft and warm, and he can tell how much work and effort and love was put into it.
“Mhm!” Alphonse glances at Edward's unraveled pile of yarn. “Do you want me to teach you?”
“It’s alright, I’ll figure it out on my own.”
⋆---––——––---⋆
Edward is slow casting on the first stitches. His automail moves slowly, oddly, but at least it’s not only his fault. Winry says the joints need to be lubricated, she says that may be why it's so difficult to move. But he still needs practice. It’s a new arm. It’s just like learning how to hold a pencil for the first time, how to write or draw. How to cast on, to knit, to purl, but it doesn't matter, he always ends up unraveling it anyways.
He gets to the third stitch before they all slip off of the needle. He doesn’t have the precision, nor the spirit to try and slip them back on the needle. His automail arm shakes all over the place. It’s strange, how it’s not his flesh and blood, but he can move it like his own. At least he’ll be able to at some point. Maybe if he actually accomplishes something, if he can even cast on without slipping, he’ll make progress.
He starts again. He concentrates as much as he can on steadying his right hand, though it’s very difficult. He drops the needles again and again, and each time it makes a horrible clattering sound that echoes through the house. It’s frustrating. Every time, Winry or Alphonse is there to pick them up for him. His eyes are tired, his left wrist hurts, he just wants to be able to move his hand like Alphonse used to, like their mother used to.
He finally breaks when the yarn gets caught in his joint. This time, he drops the needles on purpose.
“Oh Ed- Here, I’ll get them for you.” Winry’s quick to say. She crouches to the ground and picks up the needles. She offers them to Edward, but he doesn’t take them.
“Ed?”
“I’ll never be able to move like I used to again, will I?”
“Ed… Automail is hard, but you do get used to it. You will be able to move like you used to again, it just takes practice.”
It just takes practice.
⋆---––——––---⋆
“Mom-! I can’t get the pattern you taught me right!” Edward calls to his mother. It doesn’t take long for her to peek over his shoulder at his unraveled work, to ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead before sitting beside him.
“Calm down Ed,” She says. He’s unraveled all of his work and she can see the frustration in his eyes. She knows it well, after all, she’d also learned to knit from her mother.
“It’s only yarn, there’s really no need to get frustrated. We learn from our mistakes, don’t we?” She looks to her son, who’s reply is a defeated nod.
She picks up her son’s needles and yarn and begins to cast on.
“Right, for a double rib stitch, what do we count by Edward?” She asks him.
“By fours.”
“That’s right, we count by fours.”
“But I did, I did count by fours-”
“No need to get frustrated darling, we all learn somehow. Let's do sixteen, alright?” Edward nods. She finishes casting on and picks up the other needle.
“You remember how to knit and purl, just like I taught you Eddie?” She asks. Her son nods.
“We start by knitting two stitches, and before we purl two, we need to move the yarn to the other side.” She displays her craft at his height so he can see how she does it. He’s absolutely and utterly mesmerized at how she knits with such ease.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know I had to move the yarn.”
“There we go, remember what I said, we learn from our mistakes?”
“We learn from our mistakes”
“Now, to knit like me or Al, all you need's a little practice. It just takes practice.”
“It Just takes practice.”
⋆---––——––---⋆
Winry spends the next fifteen minutes picking out the woolen fibers from his automail. It’s tedious and bothersome for both of them, Winry has to pick out individual strands with tweezers until there’s nothing left, and each time she does so it sends shivers up his arm and throughout his body. But he prefers that over having to remove and reattach the automail again. He doesn’t want to pass out like before. He doesn’t want to be still and unmoving and unproductive again. He wants to try.
He wants to try because if Winry is right, if all he really needs is practice, then he’ll get there eventually. He knows he won’t get there in one day. He knows that whatever he finishes today won’t be anything sufficient or functional, he knows that in the end he’ll just unravel it and restart because of a small mistake. It doesn’t matter to him though, because if he does want to make something beautiful, if he wants to live like he used to, he has to stand up when he falls, and he has to try and walk, even if he stumbles and falls a thousand times more.
So he tries to walk. And of course, he falls. He drops the needles, misses a stitch, unravels, casts on, repeats and repeats. He fails, again and again. He drops the needles, but after a while, he stops letting Win and Al pick them up for him. He bends to the ground and picks them up himself. Starts over himself.
He manages . Which isn’t a lot, but it’s all he can do. And Alphonse thinks it’s beautiful.
Alphonse thinks it’s beautiful, the way he keeps trying again and again, how he never stops. How he’s barely getting any better, but he’ll continue to pick up the needles until he doesn’t have to anymore. He continues to pick up the needles until he can finally hold them in steady hands, no longer as frail and unstable. He continues to miss stitches, to allow them to fall off and unravel, because he knows that someday he won’t miss them anymore. Someday his hands will be steady enough that he can fix mistakes, or maybe he won’t make them in the first place.
⋆---––——––---⋆
“Brother! You’re doing it!” Alphonse looks at his older brother’s work. It’s by no means neat or perfect, it’s lumpy and inconsistent, but he’s learning. He can tell by the way the stitches gradually get less uneven that he’s getting better. That he’s finding his rhythm. His mother peeks over his shoulder too. She smiles and ruffles her son’s hair.
“It’s beautiful Edward, I’m very proud of you.” Her voice sounds like a lullaby.
And Edward misses it so much.
⋆---––——––---⋆
“Ed?” Alphonse tugs on the fabric of his brother’s shirt like a child trying to get his mother attention. Just like a cub bites and claws at his mother for her attention.
“Yeah Al?” Edward turns his head to his little brother. His brother who watches him, mesmerized. Just like how Edward used to watch Alphonse when they were younger. Like how they both used to watch mom. Even when his stitches are uneven, when his fickle trust in his metal arm leaves him gripping onto the right needle with all he has so that the stitches don't slip. Even when he’s tired of trying and exhausted from living, he still tries. And that's enough.
“Mom would be very proud of you.”
Edward nearly cries. Instead, he turns to his brother and smiles.
“She’d be proud of both of us.”
“I love you brother.”
“Love you too, Al.”