Disclaimer: All creative rights to the Full Metal Alchemist characters belong to Hiromo Arakawa; I am not getting any profit from this story.
A/N: This little drabble takes place during Ed's recovery, in the year it takes him to get used to the automail. I'm assuming he sleeps in a different room than Al during his rehabilitation.
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The Imagined There
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The pain is always there. It follows him in his sleep, even now—a dull ache of stretched muscle and nerves. Often his dreams are centered on it, and he imagines a candle lit at the exposed bone when his flesh ends, or being dangled on wires from his shoulder and opposite leg. There are worse dreams, too, and sometimes he almost wishes he had them, rather than the endless and aching ones. At least in those nightmares, he can wake up to a slightly better reality.
And there are those he hates, loves, because they remind him. Those mornings, when he wakes up, he feels terrible; he feels the weight of all that has ever happened in the years since his mother grew ill. But he remembers, and it helps him with the nausea and the weak, trembling dizziness. Some days, he can even read alchemy books.
Tonight, he wonders a bit what his dreams will be like. He knows thinking about it won't change anything, but he still muses on it with a mixture of dread, anticipation, and boredom.
Falling asleep is easier today, because his limbs have finally been healing. He can walk the length of his room and back—14 meters—before his legs wobble and make him lose his balance. He doesn't vomit as much anymore after his physical therapy, and he feels more energized than he usually does. Al thinks that it might be the coming of spring. He likes wandering around the Rockbells's garden, with already emerging green buds and sprouts.
So, tonight, of all the worst things to ever dream of, he finds himself back then, and there. Before nightmares, before gnawing, endless worry, before the pain.
There is sunshine warming his face, the elastic feel of his muscles as he chases his brother, the smirk on his face when he finally pounces on Al's soft, warm body. He's wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and golden light. It's unadulterated peace and happiness, and he lets himself relax and bask in it.
There is Al, perfect and whole, and his mom, holding her hands out to him with the prettiest smile in the entire world.
He laughs, and wakes up.
For a moment, he is still running—his legs tangle in the sheets, and he leans out as if to sprint across the floor, he can feel his muscles flexing, his bare toes digging into soft earth—but then he falls heavily on his left leg, and a harsh, almost screechy thud rings out into the empty room.
He breathes in, shakily, on the verge of tears, and the ache returns, worse than ever.
This morning, he can barely find the energy to stand up from the floor.