Al watched the rays of street-light peek it's away beneath the curtain. Sometimes the light was feeble and sickly, clinging to the walls of the hotel room with desperate fingers. But sometimes the curtains cracked open, fuelled by a fickle summer wind, and the light split apart the dark walls, forming oceans of light and small pools of cowering shadow. He watched this dance, watched the light yielding and heaving, watched the light scuttle and swim across his armoured body. Above him the ceiling fan beat the heat into submission in constant circular swipes, and he wished the cool air could seep through the cracks in his metal shell and he wished that the sticky air slinking outside the window would send beads of sweat slipping down the armour so that he could dab at it with the back of his hand, so that at least he could feel what summer felt like. Because for Al, summer held no meaning. Summer was not a ray of hope in a crevasse of icy wind and damp pavement. Al couldn't stick an arm outside one day and turn to his brother to exclaim that, "Yes the weather is warm enough to wear a t-shirt!" because to Al the only sign that merited a change of season was the layer of clothing his brother donned each morning.
At the thought of his brother Al's helmet jerked with guilt. Really, he ought not to pine over such trivial things as temperature, because if it weren't for Ed he wouldn't be able to pine at all. So even though Al couldn't feel, or taste, or let his nose twitch at the smell of Granny's cooking, he leant back against the wall and focused on the things he could do. He listened to the drip of the bathroom sink, the rumble of passing car's on the street, the snuffles of Ed's snores. He watched the light dance across the room and he watched his brother tangle himself up in the bed sheets with his mouth hanging open, and his hair pooling around his shoulders.
He watched, he listened and he existed.