Unspoken Agreement

"Shut up."

Alphonse knew he shouldn't have asked.

"Shut up, shut up."

This was only getting worse.

"Argh, be quiet!"

"But I didn't say anything!" Al exclaimed, leaning forwards in his seat.

Ed sat opposite, arms folded and stubbornly refusing to meet his little brother's gaze. Weary and sore, he had kicked off his boots immediately after he sat down. He was now regretting it, as he felt a strong urge to get up and walk away; but he couldn't do so barefooted, and as stopping to put his shoes on would spoil the defiance of the gesture, he was stuck. Instead he turned to the side, propped his chin on a battered automail hand and glared at the sunset as if its golden light was in some way insulting to him.

Al was by now heartily wishing he had remained silent.

The problem, Ed thought restlessly, was that everyone tended to forget how young Alphonse was. Upon meeting him, with his burly, hulking exterior, everyone tended to assume that he also contained a burly, hulking interior, with a burly, hulking personality to boot. Even Ed was sometimes caught off guard by the sudden immenseness of his brother. And with strangers constantly judging him by his menacing appearance, it was vitally important for Al's sake that his friends continue to treat him the same as they always had.

Not that they didn't try; it was just that it was so hard to treat a seven-foot suit of armour as the stumbling, bashful nine-year-old, who got stuck up trees and wet the bed and cried over kittens, that he really still was.

And because of it, Al suffered.

Ed couldn't deny it. Al's new body earned him respect, of course, but it also earned him consternation, and alertness, and fear. It had happened before and it would happen again, but this time it had been worse than normal. Al had thought he was used to it- it was understandable, after all- but just because he knew that it happened didn't make it any less painful.

He hadn't meant to start a fight. Normally it was Ed that began that sort of thing, but the man had been drunk, and the bar had been crowded and noisy, and Al had been large, and had had spikes on his shoulders.

Al had at first tried merely to defend himself. But he wasn't used to his new strength and inability to feel pain, and the man had been sent flying. People had turned their heads, men had leaped upon this impudent newcomer in the armour, the innkeeper had threatened him with the police, and then Ed had waded into the fray and all hell had broken well and truly loose.

Later Ed sat, bruised and resentful, on the train, cursing the fate that forced him to fight people he was uninterested in tackling, yet prevented him from landing one on the face of those he would relish the opportunity to punch. Al sat opposite, upright and tall with his hands on his knees, not a scratch on him, yet his mind whirling with confusion and regret.

This regret it was that had provoked the question.

Should they have burned their home? Should they, no matter how many people they met and friends they made and opportunities for a new home opened up in front of them, reject it all for the sake of this journey?

It was a heavy, uncomfortable question.

They sat staring at each other for a long time. Then-

"Shut up," Ed had said.

Moody, they called him. Grouchy and grumpy and always in a sulk. But that wasn't always the only factor. Certainly Ed was volatile; certainly he sulked. But Al understood that it wasn't quite as simple as that.

Ed was the older brother. He had always tended to make the decisions for the two of them, and Al had always trusted him to do so. But he had invented, induced and carried out the plan to transmute their mother. His mistake had cost not only himself, but also Winry and Pinako and, most of all, Al. Of course, Ed refused to admit that his brother had contributed to the decision, with the same pig-headedness with which he did everything. If he was the older brother, he thought, and even said aloud sometimes, when he was feeling especially convinced, or outspoken, or in need of assurance, he would have to be responsible for both of them.

It was not that he couldn't handle the knowledge that he had been wrong: he had freely and heartbreakingly faced up to the consequences of his own actions. It was simply that they could afford to lose no more. Mistakes were no longer permitted. He would not allow his stupidity to cost them any further.

This in turn meant that utter blind confidence was necessary at all times, both to help with their focus and to ensure himself that he had been right, that this would work, that they would not suffer any more because of it. Total belief and hope was the front he displayed, even though at times Ed was certain that he was wrong once again and that his bad decisions would crush them both eventually. He did it to convince Al, and in the vain hope that if he acted it well enough, he would come to believe it himself in the end.

After all, there was no room for doubt in a determination like his.

So Ed had told Al to be quiet, and Al had done so. They were alone in the carriage. A small something rattled in the tracks as the heavy train passed over it. Somewhere in the next car, there was a dull, clattering thump as a man slid the window closed. Silence reigned throughout the countryside.

"Idiot," Ed said.

"Takes one to know one," Al replied.