[A/N]: As fond as I am of the original version of this story, looking back on it, I can't help but feel that I can tell it better now: use virtually the same premise, but capture more of what's going on with more characters and even incorporate events into the mangaverse timeline. After having felt this way for long enough, I've given in (especially since inspiration has been lagging in general in my fic-writing). Doyle will make more frequent appearances rather than popping up in a mere two chapters, and there will be a couple of other OCs with whom Ed interacts during (namely, his assigned therapist, Fiona Clellan, and her younger sister, Briana). THINGS WILL BE DARKER. There may even be different outcomes in this retelling, who knows? Without further ado, I hope you enjoy.
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CATALYST
It's been a normal enough morning. The sun has risen, the laws of physics have held — there are even a handful of pigeons loitering on the outside windowsill. All seems more or less right with the world, as much as can it can be when you've committed the ultimate alchemical taboo and pretty much screwed up life for your only sibling.
Edward Elric rolls onto his stomach, face buried in pillow, and mumbles a "Mornin'" to Alphonse, who, as usual, had taken a seat beside his bed, ready to calm him from a nightmare or answer his sleep talking. Right now, however, Al says nothing. And Ed thinks nothing of it at first, but… this is a sort of ritual for them — why would he not answer? Shifting position again, Edward looks at the suit of armor with raised brow. "I said, 'Good morning.'"
No response.
Increasingly perplexed, Ed kicks off the sheets and swings his mismatched legs over the bedside, letting the automail heel clink against the sheet of steel masquerading as Alphonse's thigh. "What, did I do somethin' to piss you off? If so, m'sorry."
Silence.
"C'mon, Al. This silent treatment thing's gettin' old real fast." He tries a few more times, and each insistence marks a progression from a tone of amusement to one of concern, even fear. And, as is typical of Edward Elric, anger surges up to hide that fear. Sliding down from the bed, Ed climbs — scrambles, really — into Alphonse's cross-legged lap and grabs him by the neck guard that encircles his helmet. "Dammit, Alphonse! This isn't funny anymore! Answer me!"
But no amount of yelling or shaking yields any results. Ed's brain is going a million miles an hour. What's going on? Why isn't Al answering him? What's gone wrong!? Having worked himself into a panic, Edward clings to the armor, straining his ears for sounds that he fears will never come. Al's voice, his laugh, his chiding, his encouragement, his comforting… The longer Ed waits for them, the further they slip away from his memory. What does Al's voice sound like again? It's soothing and warm, despite this cold shell in which Ed had imprisoned it. It's strong, but gentle, the kind of voice that belongs to a person who will defend you with their life and call you out on your issues and stick with you until you right those wrongs. So why isn't Al sticking with him now? Where is he? Where's he gone?
Gone… The word doesn't seem to sink in. Ed can't explain it, and he refuses to accept it, but the loneliness seeps into his skin, turning him cold as death, as the empty suit of armor pressed against his cheek. Al… Al is…
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