A/n: Post CoS. Slightly AU. In the movie, Alfons reveals his illness during an argument. I have written differently. Also, this is not slash.

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA.

In Dreams

"Edward? Are you up? I've fixed breakfast."

He was at the kitchen-table, a half-finished, congealed cup of brown coffee in front of him. A folded newspaper was in his hands, but he made no attempt to read it. Pale, dusty sunlight filtered through the deep windows, yellowing the carpet on the floor.

"Turn on the radio, Edward. I want to know what's happening."

"Why are you so morbidly obsessed with the war going on? Shouldn't you be fixing your rockets or something?"

A hectic flutter startled him out of his reverie; a pair of birds were frolicking happily by the window. He could see the sun-baked rooftops stretching into the horizon, could hear the hustle of the city and the sharp calls and abrupt laughs of passers-by. People haggling in the streets, children crying, vagabonds arguing over cigarettes.

"Edward? Edward? Are you all right? I thought I heard you scream; were you having a nightmare?"

"Hey, Ed! I forgot my towel – pass it to me?" his brother called from the bathroom. Edward sighed heavily and got up as if it was a struggle. After rummaging about, he found Alphonse's lime-green towel on the sofa in the living-room. "Ed!"

"I'm coming!" he hollered back. As he neared the bathroom its door cracked open and Alphonse's wet, round face appeared, his mustard hair plastered onto his flushed cheeks. "Thanks," he muttered, grabbing the towel and quickly shutting the door. Edward sighed again, deciding he needed a walk; fresh air would do him good. "Al, I'm going out for a bit, okay? I'll be back for lunch, so entertain yourself till then."

"It's fine, Edward, no need to pay rent. You're my friend."

"Ha! Say that after a month when you're sick of me."

"I rarely get sick of people."

A few minutes later, he found a small flower-shop, where a middle-aged, strangely attractive woman was arranging roses and little white flowers he could not name. She smiled and him and said he could look around. Edward shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way to a posy of blushing peonies, strung with a lilac ribbon. He bit his lip so it nearly bled.

"What the – ? Are you out of your mind? Peonies?"

"I like them! Nothing wrong with them, is there?"

"Are you sure you're not a girl?"

"...You're welcome to live on the streets, Edward."

Laughs. Sunny grins. Eyes kinder than most and blue, blue, bluer than the sea. Baggy, brown trousers, stained with grease. Callused hands, deceptively gentle.

"Would you like some?" asked the woman, giving a wide, red smile. Edward laughed nervously and said, "No, thank you," and went on his way. The sky was starting to turn grey; dark, vapour-filled clouds loomed ahead, waiting to burst.

A small cough, gradually getting worse. A thinning face. Hacking. Blood. An embroidered, delicate bowl of dried figs shattering to pieces as he slips to the floor.

It started to rain, cold, thin drops that pounded like tiny needles onto his skin, and he ran for shelter to a nearby café.

"Alfons? Alfons! Goddamnit, answer me! Alfons!"

A cradled head. Trembling, shallow breaths. Fluttering eyelids. More coughs, more blood. "Alfons!"

Alarmed amber eyes, a panicked mind. Shaking hands reaching for the telephone.

Now that he was inside, he'd have to buy something. He settled for a cup of sweetened coffee, forgetting he'd already had one back in his apartment. He would be a bit late now. Not that Alphonse would mind.

A wheezing voice. "No."

"Alfons – ? Why?!"

"Don't...useless...can't afford it, anyway."

He finished his coffee. It was still raining, but he swung his hood over his head and decided to walk back home anyway. The rain had gotten heavier, fatter, greedily sucking water from the clouds.

An open Gate. A smiling face. Tired, determined eyes. "Don't forget me."

"Alfons!"

An engine booming. A silent gunshot. A shattered, arched back. A gasp that sounds like ecstasy.

He was soaked to the skin by the time he got back. Alphonse was scuttling about the kitchen, turning down the heat on the stove and checking the oven with too-big gloves. He stopped short when he saw his brother. "Ed!" he exclaimed. "You're late, but I'll excuse you." He wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve. "I made baked potatoes and vegetables. Hope that suffices!" He flung his arm out excitedly and accidentally knocked over a cup of grated cheese into the soapy sink. Edward said, "Moron! That was expensive cheese!" But he was smiling helplessly.

Parted lips, an ashen brow. Thick lashes resting on cold cheeks. A mocking, crimson-stained shirt.

They sat down to lunch, one wet with rain and the other huffed with perspiration. They talked, they laughed.

A square stone grave, a sepia photograph. Cyan eyes turned honey-coloured.

"Alfons..."

An argument over some silly thing broke out, and the two didn't mangle the table only because it was expensive.

Wind. Ruffled hair.

"We'll meet in dreams."