Title: Without Tears
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: N/A
Rating: PG
Warnings: Trying-to-be-hopeful-but-really-just-angsty!Al. Hee.

Without Tears

He had thought that he was progressing very well.

It hadn't taken much for Alphonse to learn to walk; somehow, moving his new giant body had been as easy as existing in it. If he had been human -- if, perhaps, he had simply been thrown into someone else's body, someone else's living body -- Al would have blamed it on adrenaline. Seeing his brother like that, bleeding horribly from two ends of his body, face tight and screwed against the pain... it would have been enough to get the blood pumping full of energy.

In a suit of armor, however, Alphonse wasn't exactly sure how panic translated. He was pleased with the end result, of course -- he would have been devastated if Brother had died right there in front of him, bleeding to death because Al wasn't able to move his new, bulky body. It was just strange, to think about it; why could he walk with relative ease right away when, two months later, he was still having difficulty touching things without breaking them?

But he was getting better.

In the last month, Al had learned how to move through the house, weighing his steps lightly enough that he didn't shake the entire place, shattering dishes on the ground. He could open doors without pulling the knob out, hold baskets of laundry without crushing the wicker between his huge hands, and help Granny Pinako fold clothes without ripping them apart at the seams. It was a slow process, but Al had been feel more hopeful; with every day, he was able to do more things.

And soon Brother would be better again, enough so that he could handle automail surgery like he wanted. And they would be on their way again, because Ed had confided to Al (secretly, so Granny Pinako and Winry wouldn't try to talk him out of it) that he wanted to become a State Alchemist and get their bodies back, like that soldier had suggested. Only one month along then, and still unable to stand up without somehow hitting something breakable, Al had readily agreed. They would both do it.

Maybe then, when they had another purpose in life, things would seem normal again.

And now that Brother was getting better, and Alphonse was getting better at holding dishes just tightly enough, Al had thought that things would even out. The outside would be different, but the core, the essence -- that would be the same. Al was still Al, not this frighteningly large metal suit that towered over everything.

But then he was sitting at the table, just as he did every mealtime to try and feel like things were as they had been, even though he never touched the food.

"Ed, you need to drink your milk--"

"No." It was a sullen mumble; Ed was too tired to protest as actively as he used to.

"You're gonna be weak," Winry teased in a singsong voice.

"Shut up."

"And you're gonna be short," she continued teasing.

"I said shut up, Winry!"

"Winry, eat your broccoli," Pinako chastised as a way to keep the peace, just as Ed began to will up the energy to snarl back.

"I don't want to, it's gross," Winry complained.

"So's milk!" Ed insisted.

"It is not!"

"Is too!"

"They're both perfectly fine foods," Pinako interrupted. "You're both just picky eaters. Now stop fighting and finish your meals, both of you."

Winry stuck out her tongue, and Ed copied likewise.

Al watched, silently. The meal went on around him after the squabble, though Ed's burst of energy had left him more tired than before; it was difficult to walk around on prosthetic limbs, Ed had told Al, which was why he was looking forward to the automail, ignoring the painful installation process. Winry kept giving Ed concerned looks when she wasn't trying to get him to perk up, and Pinako made him take vitamins to keep his strength up.

Sometimes, Al felt like he was a giant suit of armor that no one could see.

Ed treated him no differently; even now, through his faint yawn that made Pinako's jaw set a little tighter, Ed was glancing at him, as if he could somehow sense that Al was thinking about him. Neither Winry nor Pinako seemed to notice; even when Al was in the room with them, it was somehow easier for their eyes to pass over him during conversations. Here he was, a giant suit of armor concealing a scared little boy. It made sense that most people could only see the armor.

It was understandable, Alphonse supposed, because suits of armor were not supposed to live.

Or walk. Or touch. Or feel.

And it was really strange to cry without tears, but somehow Alphonse managed.