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Ed always complains about every room in the hotel being exactly the same, but Al knows he’s wrong. The rooms on the second floor are nine paces across from the door to the window rather than the first floor’s eight, and sometimes the pale green curtains he never closes are patterned with hydrangeas rather than lilies, though there was one room where the fabric was so faded that he couldn’t tell. Often, the wallpaper peels around the doorframe, leaving behind little strips of off-white drywall that can sometimes look like countries if he turns his head just right. He’s found Amestris in four rooms and Creta in two others, but he’s still looking for Xing. The scuff marks on the floorboards by the twin beds are never the same, and there was that one room they stayed in a few months ago that must’ve been renovated recently, since the door was painted a slightly darker shade than all the others. Ed looked at him funny when he pointed it out the next morning, his eyes going wide and then small and then achingly sad, like they always do when Al talks about the armor, even though he was just making an observation.
He’s made a lot of observations these past four years. Sometimes, he thinks he could fill a book with all the things he knows that most people don’t care to notice, like how the sky looks the prettiest exactly an hour and a half past midnight or how a ceiling fan with wooden blades sounds different from one with metal blades.
He knows a lot about Ed, too. He knows that his brother will always fall asleep on his back but eventually migrate to his stomach, that his legs twitch in his sleep like they’re itching to run, that he’s more restless when his stumps are hurting, that his breaths get shorter when he’s close to waking up. This knowledge he treasures, tucks inside his hollow chest like something approximating a heart.
Ed is having a nightmare.
It’s been ongoing for the past thirty minutes, but Al can tell by the way his brother’s hands ball into the sheets and the sudden quickening of his breaths that it’s reaching its peak. When he hears a low moan, half delirious and half desperate, he pushes himself to his feet, making his way over to the occupied bed as quietly as he can. Metal clacks against itself, and Ed whimpers.
It hurts, watching his brother suffer even in sleep, and he can’t quite remember the sting of physical pain, but he thinks it has to feel something like this, like his soul is being twisted inside out, leaving him raw and exposed as Ed’s breathing abruptly crescendos into full-on hyperventilation and he bolts upright with Al’s name tearing from his lips—a breathless gasp, a ragged plea.
Immediately, Al shifts into his brother’s line of sight, leaning forward and reaching out a hand that Ed frantically latches onto. He’s trembling, sweat plastering his hair to his face, his eyes wide and searching as he grasps Al’s hand between both flesh and steel, hard enough that Al can see his knuckles turn white even in the dark room, illuminated only by the fragile moonbeams streaming in through the window.
“It’s okay, brother,” he says softly. “I’m here, I’m okay.” Ed is panting, his breaths tipping over each other as his gaze wavers, cracking, and Al repeats it over and over, watching the tension in his brother’s shoulders loosen just slightly with every iteration. In the corner of his vision, at the very edge of his helmet, he can see the moon slowly arc across the inky sky.
Ed sucks in a sharp breath, his left hand releasing Al’s gauntleted fingers to swipe the hair out of his face, before he pitches forward, pressing the hand against his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck.”
His breathing is slower now, although still ragged, and suddenly, inanely, Al wants nothing more than to break down in tears he can no longer shed.
“Do you want some water?” he asks.
“Please.”
Al stands, the familiar clanking ricocheting off the peeling wallpaper, its volume jarringly out of place in the dark room, and he goes to fill a glass. He doesn’t break them, not anymore—after four years of relearning his own strength, those incidents are a distant memory.
He’s back a moment later, handing the glass to Ed, who uncurls from where he’d been hunched over with his knees drawn to his chest, and then sits himself down at the end of the bed. The mattress dips under the weight of his armor.
“I’m here,” he says again. “You pulled me out.”
Ed drains the glass. “Not enough.”
The words fall to pieces in the space between them, each shard landing loudly and violently, and they’re not new words, not even close, but they cut deep at Al’s soul all the same.
“Brother—” he starts, hesitant and desperate and breaking, but Ed shakes his head, curling back in on himself. Al yields to the unspoken request with a soft hum and reaches out to rest a hand on his brother’s back, gently rubbing idle circles with his thumb. His hands are so big now, just the one nearly covering Ed’s entire upper back, and he pushes through the sudden wave of wrongness with practiced ease, focusing instead on the simultaneous rush of protectiveness that surges through his soul. He knows Ed always wants to look out for him, to carry the lion’s share of the weight on their shoulders, but they’re family, the only family they have left—they take care of each other. They always have.
Al shifts, drawing his legs up onto the mattress and determinedly ignoring the way the bedframe creaks in response.
“Come here,” he says, and Ed goes instantly, crawling into his brother’s waiting arms. Al wraps the blanket from the bed around him as best as he can, not wanting Ed to get cold, and tucks his brother firmly against his chest, and they curl into each other, pressing close.
This, too, is not new, but for just a moment, the familiarity has a serrated edge to it, sending Al hurtling four years back in time, to when he first cradled his brother in these metal arms, disoriented and panicking as blood soaked them both, red-red-red like the tomatoes Mom had been carrying, splattering onto the grass as he ran, staggering and stumbling in this strange new form, and surely it was impossible, surely such a small body couldn’t have that much blood inside, and oh god please stay awake I’m gonna get help—
Shaking away the memories, Al drops his head down to rest it against his brother’s, focusing on the way Ed leans into the touch, the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling, the foggy imprints his breaths leave on Al’s chestplate. His brother is real and solid and alive in his arms, even if he can’t feel it, and slowly, the phantom bloodstains fade from his vision.
The room is quiet, save for the faint rustling of Ed’s periodic fidgeting because his brother seems to be physically incapable of staying still, and all at once, he’s nearly bowled over by the sudden wave of fierce affection that rushes through him, setting his soul alight. It hums like alchemical energy, pulses like the heartbeat of the boy in his arms, and Al hugs his brother even closer, hoping, hoping that Ed can understand:
Not enough? I’m here with you. Of course that’s enough.
“At least I don’t have to deal with nightmares,” he says lightly—another observation, another simple fact of their reality, but he hears Ed’s sharp intake of breath, watches his body tense and his eyes snap open, something just left of grief shining like tears in his gaze.
But his idiot brother still refuses to let himself cry, so Ed squeezes his eyes shut, swallows hard, and just says, “Yeah, they suck ass,” with a voice that’s only a little choked. Al can tell, though—he can hear the broken pieces shifting beneath the words.
A pause.
“But,” Ed continues, this time with a determinedly steady voice and deliberate levity, “when we get your body back, I’ll be there for all your nightmares.” He smiles up at Al, and it’s a little forced, but it’s there and—well.
Al’s not stupid. He knows his brother, and he knows that when Ed says your body instead of our bodies, it isn’t a slip of the tongue. They’ve been through hell together, and as much as he hates it, he knows Ed too well to not see it: his dumbass big brother would give anything, anything, to get Al back to normal. Having two automail limbs is a hell in its own right—the surgery has to be performed without anesthesia to ensure that the nerves connect properly, and the rehab is a brutal, unforgiving process that wears even the strongest men down, and even now, the pain can be debilitating on bad days, but Al knows that Ed would deal with it all for the rest of his life, would do it all over again with his remaining limbs, if it meant keeping Al safe. And he hates it, hates watching his brother run himself ragged, hates that he seems to value himself so little, but whenever he tries to scold him for it, he finds that the words just won’t come.
Because Al would do exactly the same. He would wear this bulky, awkward, unfeeling form without complaint until rust consumed him if that’s what it took to protect Ed.
I’m here with you. Of course that’s enough.
He shifts the hand supporting Ed’s head, moving his fingers to scratch gently at his brother’s scalp. “Yeah? You’ll chase ‘em away like when we were little?”
Ed huffs a laugh, his smile turning a touch more genuine. “I’ll beat the shit outta them, and then we’ll make pillow forts to ward off any more.”
Al snorts. “I don’t think pillow forts are gonna help, brother.”
“Sure they will. I’m the expert on fighting off nightmares, not you, and I say we need pillow forts, so suck it.”
There’s nothing but complete and utter confidence in Ed’s voice, just a hint of mirth twinkling in his eyes, and Al laughs, startling himself, and then Ed chuckles too, and for a brief, beautiful moment, the moon through the window seems to shine as bright as the midday sun.
And for a while, this is how the time passes: shared jokes and unfettered laughter in the dark room, wrapped up in each other’s arms, and when Ed’s eyes start to droop and the banter starts to peter out, Al presses his metal forehead to his brother’s and wonders.
Wonders what the touch of another person used to feel like. Wonders what it’s like to have fingers in his hair and arms around his shoulders. Wonders why this makes him feel so horribly, unbearably lonely, even as it comforts him, so close yet so far away from the person he loves most in the world, unable to smile at him or feel the warmth of his embrace or check his pulse when phantom bloodstains start to drip down the visor of his helmet.
To anyone else, Ed might appear asleep, but Al knows his brother, knows that his breathing is slightly too short and his muscles slightly too tense for that to be true, and when Ed finally speaks, his hoarse whisper breaking several minutes of comfortable silence, Al simply tightens his hold.
“Hey, Al?”
“Yes, brother?”
Ed reaches up, his eyes still closed, and cups the side of Al’s helmet with his left hand. “I love you.”
He says it like a confession, like it’s the most awful thing in the world, like it’s the hanged man’s greatest sin laid bare before God, and if Al had a heart, he thinks it would be breaking, or perhaps stitching itself back together.
“I love you too,” he whispers.
Ed’s hand slips from his face, and finally, an hour after the nightmare that jolted him awake, he falls back into sleep.
Like a holy sentinel, resuming his sacred vigil, Al holds him until morning.