Ed was pretty sure he was dying.

Maybe.

It was hard to tell when the world kept going in and out and wouldn't stay still. Especially when his ears felt like they were full of cotton-balls, and there was this pressure in his head as thick as a lullaby, urging him to just close his eyes and sleep. Which, he couldn't do. He knew he couldn't. (Why? Sometimes, when the pressure was the worst, he'd forget for a second.) So he didn't.

But man, were his eyelids heavy.

He sighed, which ached his ribs and stabbed his sliced chest with icy pains—not to mention reminded him of his stinging, screaming back, which had been lashed at least…thirty times? Twenty-five? Thirty-two? Something like that.

He lost count of how many times that whip smacked and tore the skin to ribbons. In fact, he had quite willingly lost count, considering that the larger the number grew, the more dispirited he felt.

Ed couldn't move his flesh wrist anymore.

Couldn't feel it, really.

All the blood had drained from it, it and his automail—while kept "safely" shackled apart—chained above his head.

So easy, his wearied body and mind hummed. So easy to just close your eyes and let go.

…no, not really, the spirit responded—that flickering part of him that still remembered why he needed to live. There's still something I've got to do. So I've got to hang on. Until they get here. Because…because they will…

…how long did it take someone to bleed to death?

He hoped it wasn't something as short as twenty minutes. Because that would really suck.

Not that he'd been here only twenty minutes. No, he'd been here for a few days, but long enough that it felt like years. Long enough that body and mind were beginning to doubt he'd ever leave.

But he'd hang on. He had to. That resilient candle inside burned with the lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd get here. Any second now. At any ticking moment, those whining metal doors would open and it wouldn't be the heavy, leather-booted footfalls of his captors. Instead, it'd be the black rubber soles of his team—his friends—coming to save him.

Maybe it'd even be the armored ones of his brother.

Just thinking of Alphonse made Ed's chest pang—pang with an inward ache that somehow, hurt for just a second worse than any of his physical wounds.

Please be okay, Al.

But nothing happened. Not for a long, silent time. Edward's weight chaffed his already red wrist; rubbed through raw skin, tore open blood.

And if Edward were to be honest, it hurt. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Everything did. His back, his abdomen, his knee, his arm, his ports…

Creak, whine. Clang.

"Hey, Chief! You in her—oh, shit! Boss!"

…was that really Havoc? Or was he hallucinating?

It was hard to tell. He couldn't really see anything through the blood crusted on his face, and what with everything spinning and becoming so heavy, he could hardly notice any change in his surroundings. What he did notice, however, was when his voice and footsteps were joined by several more—including a clanking armor's—and then there was shouting, cries—and then the chains holding him up were snapped off.

And Edward thought he'd die.

Seriously.

For one second in the midst of the chaos, Edward couldn't stop himself from screaming at the sheer agony of life suddenly flooding back into his sleeping limb. The hands grabbing him faltered a second, before they hurried all the more.

If I had twenty minutes before, I may have only three left, now.

But it went away. The hands shifted now that his screaming ceased and was replaced with grunting every time they adjusted him—until finally, he felt something soft wrap around him. Soft and…was that blue? Or purple? He couldn't tell. With his sense of sight depraved for the moment, and touch not so easy with bleeding limbs, chest and a metal arm, he could only rely on smell, which thankfully, was still working.

And good ol' olfaction sure recognized the stench of that particular cloth.

Colonel Mustang's coat.

But the surprise of that was overcome by the feeling of metal encasing him. A metal that was familiar, as sure and strong a memory as his own will—he knew that smell. Would know it anywhere. Knew it as well as he knew how it felt, how it was composed, how it moved and acted and spoke.

Almost unconsciously, Edward tilted his head to the side and pressed his heated cheek to the cool steel inside of Alphonse's armor as hard as he could, and breathed in as deeply as his broken chest would allow. With heavy conscious effort, Edward savored that smell that he hadn't really been completely conscious of before, but now drank in eagerly like wine.

"Its okay, Brother. We've got you. You'll be okay."

Once again, Edward just breathed in deeply. He couldn't trust himself to respond. Not even a cry came from him as Alphonse's chest rattled and jostled a little with each step he took; but honestly, those jerks and pains he could take. As long as he could continue to breathe in what he knew was his brother, Edward knew he'd be all right.

Maybe it only takes twenty minutes to bleed to death, or to start to lose hope.

The important thing is it only takes one second for it all to come back.

Crystal's Notes: I'm not really quite sure what this is. 8D I guess it struck me as I was reading something else that the sense of smell is one of the strongest senses we humans have. That, and people know the smell of their biological siblings—of their family members. So I got to thinking, "I bet Ed still recognizes the smell of Al's armor, even though he's…armor. Wouldn't it be cool if that was how he knew he was safe? By Al's smell?"

…now that I'm thinking of smell, I might do a companion piece about Alphonse being human again, and having regained his sense of smell, is overwhelmed by how much comfort it is to just smell his brother again.

(It sounds weirder when I say it like that. But you guys know what I mean.)

Hope you enjoyed! 8D Thanks for reading!