A Strong Boy
By Mezzo-chan
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or aspects of Full Metal Alchemist, no matter how delicious they are.
"Oh! Alphonse, you're such a good, strong boy!"
His mother had told him that when he was six. When he was much smaller, and much more gullible than he was now. It was on a rainy Sunday afternoon, his brother had come down with a nasty flu, which he insisted was stunting his growth and would ruin his life forever. But Al was too busy to listen to his brother's whines; he was the only one who could help Mother. And he loved to help Mother.
She'd been making soup for Edward to drink, along with their own dinner, and needed an extra pair of arms to carry the pots, pans, and heavy logs of firewood to keep the stove hot. She needed strong arms. The arms of a boy.
Real arms.
And dear, sweet Alphonse was happy to receive the daunting chore. After about the third trip from the woodpile to the kitchen, his mother patted him on the head, offered him a fresh biscuit, and said in a sweet, astounded timbre,
"You're such a good, strong boy!"
How naïve he was. How juvenile was he to think his boyish attempts would ever measure up to the man's endeavors of his father? But Mother had said it. And he loved his mother more than anything.
'S-strong? Me?' he thought to himself, watching his brother sleep. Such a thought--he, the youngest brother, strong! Strong like his courageous older brother. Strong like the father he never saw. Strong, like a man should be. No one, not even his brother, had ever called him truly strong.
Sweet. He'd been called sweet and innocent and good-hearted by many a person. And maybe on the outside that was okay. But how he longed to be a resilient boy. A strong young man that would stand tall and proud. Like a suit of armor, impenetrable and gleaming with an outer strength men fought for.
He never thought that they were dead and empty on the inside.
"Am I strong?" he asked his brother, tentatively, as gold eyes screwed closed to shut out the bright light. Edward never answered that question; he was too groggy to comprehend Al's turmoil. And Al could only turn to the one friend he and his brother knew best.
"Winry, tell me...am I a good, strong boy?" he'd run through the rain to ask her. She was a girl after all. Girls liked strong boys. They fell in love with strong boys. They had to have some form of sixth sense to spot these strong people.
Winry had stared at him for a long time, mulling over his words, trying to decide on the best response. "You're kinda....sorta..." she was at a loss. "Well, you're a good boy...and you're pretty good at liftin' stuff." This was not the answer Al had been wanting to hear, but he began to wonder if what he wanted to hear, and what was reality, might be very different things.
"So I'm not strong? Mother lied?" he wanted to cry. Strong boys didn't cry, but then again he wasn't strong, so what did it matter?
"Sure you are, Al! You just...got a different kinda strong." Winry was making no sense at this point, but he listened, biting his six year old lip to keep from sobbing. "Ed is strong with his brains...and he's also pretty good at liftin' stuff. But you're strong here," she made a motion that surprised him into opening his teary eyes. Her hand was on his heart, he heard it thumping in his ears, and he wondered if this was the untold strength she spoke of.
Strength you couldn't see past the skin. Hidden in cold armor.
He was strong in his heart.
He didn't remember if he said goodbye to Winry or not, but he ran back home and yelled to his family that he'd stay strong for the two of them. He never knew if they heard or not.
Now he looked back and thought maybe it was better that way. Edward needed his support; a deeper, steel-like, silent support only brothers like them could ever feel.
Al never doubted his body's abilities, despite being a hollow shell; he knew where his true strength lied.
And even though he never resigned himself to being a "strong boy"...
At least he'd always be a good one.