Alphonse Elric did not know the exact date that Roy Mustang died. He had heard about it, of course – it made the newspapers, he was lauded as a hero for bringing about an end to the conflict – but that was after the fact. He knew about it before Edward returned, certainly, and he thought he was prepared to deal with the fallout.
He had received the letter not long after the the brigadier general's death made the papers. It had to have been written prior to Mustang's death, because Edward was himself. The letter was short – he'd been injured, a broken leg and not shot and no, his automail was fine, there was no need to let Winry know – and that he was coming home soon. It was written in Edward's breathy, uneven handwriting – still atrocious despite now having written with his left hand far longer than he ever wrote with his right.
When they had met the train at the station in Resembool that was bringing wounded soldiers back from the front lines, Alphonse wasn't sure what to expect. There was a medical officer helping the wounded soldiers off the train – far too many people that Alphonse knew from the thriving village and the outlying area, and some new clients for the Rockbells. Edward was wheeled off the train carriage in a wheelchair, his leg still in a straight cast. Winry had sucked in her breath at the sight of the expression on Edward's face, her tightening on Alphonse's. Edward's eyes were blank.
It was the same lifeless expression he'd worn almost nine years ago, in the aftermath of the transmutation that took his limbs and Alphonse's body. The difference was, when Alphonse pushed his brother's wheelchair (so tiny in his gauntlets, his brother was so small then), he could sense Edward's spirit there. Even if the outward signs were quiet, Edward was still there.
This didn't feel like his brother. Alphonse's hands were tight on the grips of the wheelchair, and Winry, bless her, tried to get a rise out of him, some kind of response to show that Edward was still in there. His eyes, a dull color so unlike their usual vibrant amber, would flick to her occasionally but he gave no other response.
They didn't know how to deal with this. Nine years ago Alphonse knew that Edward was in there, just biding his time even if everyone else thought he was a vegetable. Now, Edward gave him nothing. Edward enraged was a force of nature, Edward an emotional wreck was a handful, but like this, he just didn't seem like Edward. There was nothing but an empty shell. It was horrifying.
Alphonse wanted an emotional outburst from Edward. He wanted something, anything. His brother didn't speak. He barely ate. He would move, upon occasion, of his own free will – usually to a window, to stare out at the sky. It physically hurt Alphonse to see his brother like this, and Winry could barely take it.
When she went to market and was out of the house Alphonse yelled himself hoarse at Edward, picked him up by the front of his shirt and shook him and all the while Edward would just stare at Alphonse like he was looking past him. His expression did not change. He was always looking at something that only he could see.
He was not religious. Alphonse had never once believed in a higher power; they were raised as alchemists and gods and devils did not fit well into the grand scheme of things. As he stood outside and stared at the dark night sky Alphonse couldn't help but pray that something would change soon. His shirt was still wet from Winry sobbing into it, and as much as they both loved Edward this was spiraling far out of their ability to cope with it.
Alphonse lit the cigarette he had borrowed from box of things customers of Winry's had let behind. If she caught him smoking it would be a wrench for him, but anymore, this was the only thing that could calm him. As he exhaled, smoke curling up into the night sky, he spotted a similar ember making its way up the path at a slow tread. Alphonse moved to the edge of the porch, ready to defend his home, but the porch light revealed a friendly face.
Jean Havoc tried to smile at Alphonse, but he was clearly exhausted. "Hey, Al," he said, the fatigue in his voice. "Is the boss here? I need to talk with him."