Around this time of year, snow envelops Central. It covers everything, large, small, important, insignificant. Snow does not know what it clings to, nor does it need to know. Simplicity, at its finest. The whiteness blinds the eyes, but the coldness eases pain and aches. It blankets the city, but the people, the buildings, and the streets are still frigid. It obscures the sharp edges of things, but that does not mean they disappear. The ultimate paradox.
Winter is a gentle touch that dusts the roofs of houses and the tongues of children. It is a mild annoyance on the way to work. It is a reminder that not everything is ugly, that not everything is perfect. It is a cold dagger that arrives during the night.
To the brothers, it is everything and nothing. To one, winter brings an uncomfortable, frozen feeling around his shoulder, where flesh and sinews connect to metal, and a memory of those days when a mother would be there to help warm him and his brother by the fire, and tuck them into bed at night. To the other, it is barely noticeable anymore. His skin of steel must be icy to the touch, but he does not know. He can't tell. Does it really matter, if he cannot feel it? The cold air nips at the flesh of others, numbs them; it has been winter within him for a long time.
Some become more charitable now, when the winds sweep through the city, and the shivering bodies slip out of their ramshackle homes to beg for food, money or shelter. The poor are everywhere, knowing that their slim, trembling bodies attract more attention if they wonder aloud how they will survive the winter in this harsh city.
The brothers spare no coin for these drifters. They do not help those who do not help themselves. How can these people expect to rise from poverty if they rely on the generosity of others? There is no equivalency in that.
The steel brother, especially in this mid-winter time, when the snow lies thick on the streets of Central City, sees these poor souls and finds himself grateful for how fortunate he and his brother have been. He doesn't like thinking such thoughts; after all, his body is gone, his brother's incomplete, and yet, somehow, he has so much in this world. For what it's worth, he's alive, and so is his brother. They have the means to continue being alive - at least, for the moment. They are not reduced to lying, moaning with hunger and cold, in the unforgiving snow that drapes the city in a frosty, sympathetic mood.
His brother blames the world for what has been stripped from them.
The boy enveloped by steel finds himself whispering to some unknown force, to Destiny or Fate or to God, words that his brother would condemn if they ever reached his ears.
Alphonse Elric considers what has remained this year, and he whispers, Thank you.
Merry Christmas.
(EDIT: resubmitted 1/14/10 with some minor errors fixed)