He is reaching for Al again. A wooden floor glinting under the unnatural light, the alchemical lightning crackling around him like a terrible halo, his brother's scream: it is all the same, that familiar moment when everything came apart. Ed screams himself, stretching out his right arm. But no, that's not right – where skin should be steel and chrome wink up at him and a dull pain burns in the port in his shoulder. Automail? Already?

Ed strains against the agony eating up his right leg and for a wild instant, he thinks he might just grab Al this time. His brother's eyes flash, he screams his name above the crackling energy, but even as he reaches for Al's hand, the automail explodes. An Ishvalan face, contorted by rage and a terrible scar – Ed hears himself scream, scrambles backward, but now Scar is between himself and Al and Ed is still too far away. Another flash of light and this time it's his brother's iron body which shatters across the bloody array.

That isn't right, it isn't!

One of Al's pauldrons catches him across the chest and he staggers backward. The wind leaves him and he gags and wretches. Pulling himself to his knees, Ed looks wildly around the room for Scar, Al, anyone – because now he is face to face with Truth and his shoulder and thigh are on fire and shadowy hands claw at him and it's far too late for Mother this time and what was I thinking?

"Pay," Truth says, "pay for your transgression."

Ed wants to scream that he has, they've both paid up for years, and isn't that enough? But the words stick in his throat and he coughs again and the room is too bright and he screws up his face and – and –

And when Al's voice wakes him, Ed's hands shake and he wants to scream at something and maybe hide his face in the thin, scratchy blanket. Yellow as a cat's eye, lamplight streams through a narrow window to illuminate a shabby inn room. It glints on Al's helmet and his own metal arm, still shaking.

Al does not ask and Ed says nothing, only pausing to scrub his flesh hand across his eyes. Outside, a clock sounds somewhere far away. It's still so early yet and the world outside their window is fast asleep. _ He can wait a few more hours to drag himself out of bed in search of a new lead, likely as counterfeit as the last.

What else am I supposed to do?

"Brother," Al says, "Brother, are you alright?"

Ed wants to say that he is, that he has to be, because if it isn't what in the heck are they going to do? But his throat feels dry and scratchy and all he can see is Al's body flying into a hundred pieces and his shoulder hurts again and – and –

And the bed creaks where Al sits down next to him. His metal and leather joints creaking, he settles heavily, like an old man.

But Al's voice is terribly young when he asks, "What's wrong, Brother?"

And Ed doesn't know what to tell him, because they both know it was that dream and what good will all the gory details do his little brother? But Ed can't leave Al waiting and when he tries to speak his voice cracks horribly.

"I'm ok." Ed is blinking furiously by now, while his eyes shine and burn. All this and he can't cry, because Al couldn't cry even if he wanted to. And he has, Ed has heard it in his voice.

"You don't sound ok."

Al shakes his great head and a heavy arm falls on Ed's shoulders. Ed is suddenly very tired and so he lets Al arrange him against a cold metal shoulder and tuck the abominably thin blanket around him. The clock chimes again, sounding so distant that it might have come from another world. For a moment, Ed is content to think in the back of his mind that this narrow room in a rundown inn is its own tiny world where nothing can trouble them for a few more hours.

The lumpy mattress squeaking under him, Ed turns his face into his brother's chest. Al is a solid presence behind him and his shoulder aches terribly. The morning will be bad as anything, Ed knows that, but he closes his eyes and drifts and he could swear he can feel Al's fingers running through his hair. Ed is not a baby and he will not permit himself to be held and comforted like one, but maybe this is alright. Just for a little bit.

When morning comes, Al lets him sleep past dawn. The light of the morning paints the walls a different shade of yellow entirely, and if Ed's eyes are sticky with salt, Al says nothing about it.

"Brother. Brother, you have to get up now."

He groans, but doesn't move. Ed's shoulder aches cruelly and he has to pry his eyes open. Ed finds that he is laying down again and Al is sitting across from him…. Which means his brother moved him in the night. Like a child that has fallen asleep in some odd place. A crease appears between Ed's brows and his breakdown hangs in the air between them. Neither speaks of it.

When Ed finally stands, the room tilts around him for a second, but he stays upright. It's going to be a long day; he knows this. Shadows circle his eyes like bruises, almost accusing him in the dirty mirror. It's already a be-grateful-you're-staying-on-you-feet-day. Splashing icy water on his face, Ed tries to wake up. But he can't shake the tired and he can't hide his exhaustion from the lemon-yellow light of morning.

As he rebraids his hair, Ed does his best to ignore the ominous way ihs automail clicks and whirs. Nothing sounds more comforting than Granny's dry chuckle and Winry's smile – flying wrenches and all – but how can he come back to them in such a state, and no further toward their goal?

Behind him, Al finishes retying his apron and curls up in a patch of sunlight. Ed thinks of cats almost in spite of himself – but no cat bears as many pits and scratches as mark Al's steel body. No, don't think of what Al would look like now in his right body. No, don't try to calculate the lifespan of an old armor suit. This day is not going to be one in which Ed is strong enough for those thoughts, he can already tell.

"Brother, are you finished?"

Ed jerks a little and he wrenches too hard on the faucet of the sink, almost like he had back when the automail was new and painful all the time and he didn't know his own strength. The floor groans underneath Al's iron feet, just like the sink shivers when Ed slams down the measly bar of soap.

"Yeah, Al," he says, "let's go."

What he thinks is, this room is fragile. Just like us.

The blanket from last night looks even more threadbare now and though Ed hadn't bothered to fold it, it lies in a neat heap atop the bed. Honestly, Al is like a fussy housewife sometimes. Ed walks over the threshold without looking back, because he knows Al is right behind him. The brothers Elric are far from whole, but they will have to be enough. Al's armor shines dully in the sunlight, as if painted a pale yellow. Like his hair should be. The clear, unhurried light of morning floods Ed's senses as they leave the inn and his eyes sting again. The automail arm hangs solid at his side and the dregs of last night's dream are all but gone. Until tomorrow, and the next night, and the one after that.

"Brother," Al says, pointing to the eastern horizon, "isn't it beautiful?"

Ed grunts. The sun hurts his eyes and his throat is suddenly so thick that he can't force out a proper response. Fragile, that's what you are, he hears in his head. And he feels fragile because part of him wants to give up this (hopeless) quest and go home to Resembool. But Ed knows that without his own forced determination, Al would give up on his body and spend the rest of his unnatural lifespan a walking pile of empty steel.

And.

And Ed remembers Mother saying that to love someone was to give up yourself for them.

But if he has to fall down again every night and get up again every morning, it's what Ed will do, until he can make things right for Al.

If he has to be so fragile that he wants to scream and break things and curl up into a little lump and never move, he'll bear it.

Til he sees the yellow morning light shine on eyes and hair instead of steel.

Hello friends! It's been a couple of years, but for some reason FMA shook loose some plot bunnies. This story will more or less follow Manga/Brotherhood canon. I have another chapter and a half written after this, so updates may be semi-regular. This will be a series of non-chronological one-shots, but some overarching themes should connect them. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts on my first Fullmetal Alchemist fic. :)

-Celt