Sometimes, even when he is sure he is dreaming, Edward doesn't want to wake up.

In his dream, Alphonse is smiling. That is how Edward knows that it is not real.

Alphonse's grey eyes are alight, and his hair is a burning gold in the afternoon sunshine. Alphonse is laughing as he dashes toward him, his tall, lanky frame moving with an easy grace, his stride confident and smooth. "Brother!" he calls out, and there is no hollow echo here, there's just his voice, clear and happy. Edward reaches out for him, and as his hands (one flesh, the other steel) close around Alphonse's wrists, but before he could relish the feel of Alphonse's skin against his own, Alphonse starts to fade away.

The hands in his grasp disappear first. Then the forearms, and then the shoulders, as the emptiness creeps forward to claim his brother. The more he tries to hold on to Alphonse, the faster he ebbs away, and Edward's arms fall limply to his sides in defeat. "I'm sorry," he says to his dream brother, and he watches helplessly as Alphonse blurs into vague outlines, and that too, finally collapses into nothingness.

His brother's smile is the last thing to vanish.

That is how Edward knows that this is not real.

-

---

-

Edward wakes from the dream with a start, but not one, he hopes, that is violent enough for Alphonse to notice. He sits up, trembling, and hugs his right knee (not the left one because that one's cold; cool metal in the chilly night air) and tries to chase away the remnants of the dream
-- oh but to have Al smile at him again Al in flesh and bone and sinew and blood Al smiling at him --
before he suffocates in it.

Alphonse is asleep on the too-small cot at the other end of the room. At least, Edward assumes he is asleep, as he his gaze shifts his brother's way. Alphonse doesn't eat anymore, or breathe, or feel, or cry, so there is no reason why he should sleep either. Yet his brother lies still in the restless shadows of the almost-dawn, and Edward could almost believe if he strained hard enough, he could hear the steady rhythm of sleep in his brother's breathing, and the cadenced beating of his heart.

It is completely possible, of course, that he is just fooling himself with the rustle of the wind through the grassy plains and the relentless patter of the rain on the window panes.

Sometimes, on nights like these, when Alphonse is not awake to convince him otherwise, he thinks that this quest of theirs is impossible. It has been too long -- they have seen too many horrors, sifted through too many lies. They've talked to too many people and read through too many books, each time to end up in a dead end after a futile chase. Everything has started to blur into an unchanging landscape of endless train rides and crowds in some nameless inn, and messy hand-written reports to be handed in when there is no real point of doing so.

Sometimes it's just too much, and all he wants to do is to turn to Alphonse and tell him that this is pointless. But he could never do that to Alphonse, not when it had all been his fault
-- Al let's resurrect mom we can have her back we can be happy I'm sorry I'm so so sorry --
and he knows Alphonse wouldn't want to give up either. Because Alphonse does it all for Edward's sake, and that is what they are doing -- living for each other, because this is what they know better than anything else.

And at times like these, when the light slinking past the horizon glints upon his automail arm, and all he sees are sharp planes and angles, and all he remembers is Alphonse's touch, he thinks it would have been better if he had died in Alphonse's place. His life for his brother's, the exchange satisfied in full. That is how the principal of equivalent trade works, right; is that not what they believed? Wouldn't have that been enough?

Sometimes, even though it is Alphonse who is the one who has lost everything but his soul, Edward feels like it is himself who is no longer human. After all, he has sold his soul for these machine-wrought limbs to chase after dreams that are slowly slipping through his fingers. Alphonse has nothing but fading memories, and yet he still doesn't hate Edward for all he has become.

He sighs, and lies back down, and he is not surprised that he does not fall asleep again.

-

---

-

The light drizzle makes the sunshine seem as if it has been filtered, and when it streams through the window, Edward pretends to wake up. Alphonse almost immediately greets him, his voice light and infinitely hopeful. "Good morning, brother. Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," he says. He's lying, of course, and Alphonse pretends not to notice. He cheerfully goes on about breakfast, and the nice alchemist they had met yesterday, even as he deftly packs up Edward's suitcase. Everything will be all right, brother, that is what Alphonse is saying, and Edward has to give him a smile.

Just sometimes.