Edward is small in his slumber. Small regardless, granted; but the energy, the drive, the conviction of daytime bleeds into something young and serene at night, and slumped over books or documents or piles of notes, lost to dreams or peaceful oblivion, the alchemist looks like a child.
For all that he's a prickly, proud little thing—for all that he's guarded, and careful about who he lets near—it's not entirely uncommon to stumble upon him sleeping. The same boy who can't comprehend the smallest of kindnesses, who wrinkles his brow in confusion at a simple favor or helping hand, will fall asleep in the library, the mess hall, once even on the stone steps of Central Command, as comfortably as if he were home. It's quite frankly an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability that's more than a little hard to understand; a level of trust that doesn't quite line up with the rest of him.
But then, perhaps it's due to his hulking shadow of leather and armor that he can rest so easily; perhaps because Edward counts on his brother the way most people count on the sun to rise with every morning, to be there while he sleeps and handle whatever dangers they're so certain are lurking.
And while there is nothing defensive about the way Edward sleeps, sprawled and snoring and always, somehow, so deeply tired; there is everything defensive about his brother, and the position of sentry he takes up like a precious mantle, silent and watchful in those few scattered hours he is allowed to play protector.
Alphonse is a menacing giant, and sometimes his eyes seem to glow like soft flame. But he is as kind as he is strong, doting and patient and full of a love that somehow telegraphs straight through lifeless steel; and he can lift his brother into his arms without waking him, and carry him to a more comfortable place to sleep.
