warnings: same as last chapter

never forget who you want to become

They see Granny often after that first visit. At least once a month, sometimes twice, when the fridge begins to look barren again.

Warmth is now a constant and Al gets better quickly, the doctor's quirk working alongside the antibiotics he'd prescribed. Ed no longer has to listen to his brother's wheezing gasps at night.

He still sleeps in Al's bed. Sometimes he's afraid he'll wake up and find his little brother blue-lipped, burning hot, chest heaving, but he never does. The fear doesn't leave though. It remains cold, coiled in the pit of his stomach, twisting into nightmares and terrors.

The bottles disappear, for the most part, and Daddy gets a part-time job at the corner shop. He only works during school hours and never on weekends, because he goes to a group therapy on Saturday mornings. Ed and Al go with him, though they aren't allowed to sit in on the actual meetings, and instead have to go to the Kids Club two doors down. The lady who runs the Kids Club is called Maria Ross. She insists that they call her Maria. She says they're friends, so it only makes sense to call each other by their given names. Ed doesn't know if he likes being friends with her; she asks a lot of questions and sometimes he doesn't know how to answer them. Sometimes he doesn't want to.

He goes anyway, because Al likes her. Maria is quirkless too, and she's kind to Al. Not many people are kind to his brother. Ed doesn't understand why the kids at school will talk to him but not Al when his brother is ten times friendlier than Ed will ever be.

Maria isn't the only person who makes him talk. On Fridays, their social worker comes to their house and snoops around. Mrs Curtis has beady eyes and a mean expression, and she asks difficult questions that Ed answers in twisted truths and lies. He doesn't know if she believes him, but he knows if he says too much Daddy might get taken away. Sometimes they split siblings up in foster care, and he can't risk that because Al is quirkless, and if Ed isn't there to protect him—

"What are you colouring, Edward?" Maria smiles from where she's kneeling beside him. Her dark hair is clipped back and she's wearing a yellow sundress that clashes vibrantly with her pink earrings.

He looks down at the drawing. "A knight," he answers honestly as he scribbles in dull grey.

"Why did you choose that one?" She's still smiling at him.

Ed jerks a thumb in Al's direction. "Al likes 'em."

Al, who up until now had been studiously colouring in another medieval themed workbook, glances up with bright eyes. "Yeah!" he exclaims excitedly. "Miss Maria, will you look at mine? Do you like it?"

"Oh I love it!"

Al gives him a sly smirk and Ed grins back. They look after each other, him and Al. He makes sure Al has enough to eat and takes baths and goes to bed on time, and Al handles the social situations when Ed gets overwhelmed. It works well for both of them.

Ed doesn't hate the Kids Club anyway, because at least he doesn't have to be in charge. He knows Maria will look after Al—and maybe he doesn't hate being her friend either. She's the kind of person who knows how to make the people around her happy, a bit like Al.

The world would be a better place if there were more people like Maria and Al.

Ed catches them just outside the school gates because he'd recognise those cries anywhere.

Alphonse.

"Get away from him!" he shouts, tears of anger smarting in his eyes as he throws himself between his little brother and the biggest bully. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?"

"What, like you?" The boy sniggers. He's older than Ed by at least a few years, and he sneers, his sharp features contorting. "You're even more of a runt than he is."

"Shut up!" Ed snarls, standing on his tiptoes so he's at least level with Al. "Just shut up." His brother is a year and a half younger than him at nearly ten, and Ed's only just turned eleven, so there's really not that much difference between them. He's not that short.

"Why don't you make me?" The boy laughs. "I bet you can't. I bet you're just as worthless as that piece of shit behind you," he leans in, smirking. "I bet you're quirkless too."

Quirkless isn't an insult. Ed, for once in his goddamn short as all hell life, as Granny would say, keeps his mouth shut.

"Thought so," the bully laughs and swings his hand back. His friends leer with stupid grins on their faces behind him. He brings his fist forward and Ed pushes Al to the floor, diving, slamming his palms to the sticky gravel.

The ground shudders, and as Ed pulls, the bullies sink rapidly, stuck, up to their calves in asphalt and toppling like bobblehead trinkets.

Ed helps Al to his feet. "I do have a quirk," he tells the purpling bobbleheads. "Don't mess with my brother again."

On the way home he describes, in depth, a medical textbook he'd borrowed from the local library during breaktime. Al looks appropriately bored, and Ed pretends not to notice the awe filled glances his brother gives him every time he turns back to the pavement.

Daddy is furious, the lines on his forehead more prominent than ever. The school calls him that evening, and he turns on Ed quicker than a whip. "I've told you," he's shouting and Ed can hear panic behind the anger. "You mustn't use your quirk in public, Edward. It's not safe—"

"But why?" Ed snaps. "They were hurting Al! They were going to hit me! I know it's legal in self defence. I'm not even in trouble with the school, not after you explained—"

"It's not about that," Daddy lowers his voice, turning away as he massages his temples. "I'm sorry Ed, I—I know it's not fair, and when you're old enough I promise I'll explain, okay? But for now, just do as you're told. Do not use your quirk outside this house."

"Even if Al's in danger?" Ed bites back.

"Even then."

Bitter tears spring to his eyes and he turns away to hide them.

"Edward," he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Ed, kiddo, don't be like that—"

"Leave me alone!" Ed rips himself from his father's grasp. "Stop touching me. You're wrong. You're wrong! I don't care why you think I shouldn't—Al's more important. Al's always more important, you—you're a terrible dad! I hate you! I hate you!"

"Edward—" Daddy's voice is shaking.

"Leave us alone," Ed sneers coldly, words spewing from his mouth like vomit. "We don't need you."

Daddy turns and walks out of the room, and the icy anger trickles away, leaving something worn and hollow behind.

We don't need him, Ed thinks viciously. We don't.

That night, after Daddy has drunk himself to sleep and it's past even Ed's bedtime, Al whispers to him: "You should be a hero, Ed."

But that's Al's dream, not his. Ed knows better than to take something like that from his brother, not when the odds are as stacked against him as they already are.

"I'm going to be a doctor," Ed says, as he always does. "You're the one who's going to be a hero, Al. I know you can do it."

They've had this conversation before, but this time it's different. Al doesn't smile at him with a mixture of awe and pride, as though Ed has handed him the world on a platter through raw determination and belief.

Al turns away from him. "I can't Ed," he whispers. "You know I can't. Please don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," Ed says, and he means it.

Al laughs bitterly, and—and it's wrong, coming from his little brother, because Al isn't bitter. He's gentle and loving and kind, and—

And quirkless, the words come unbidden to Ed's mind. Wouldn't you be bitter too, if around every corner you found the world to be against you?

"Listen to me," Ed feels a new sense of urgency, and his heart pounds as he turns the younger towards him, grasping his shoulder tightly. "Listen to me, Al. Don't listen to them. They don't know you, I do. I know you can become a hero. I know that you will."

"How?" there are tears in Al's eyes, but also a cautious hope. "How, Ed? I don't have a quirk—I can't fight villains," he scrubs at his eyes. "I don't know what to do."

Ed has thought about this before—he's done what he can to make Al's dream come true, after all. He's looked into latent quirks, researched the logistics of fighting without the advantage of a strong physical quirk, and there are heroes out there who work in the shadows, with quirks not strong enough for a fair one-on-one fight. "Support weapons," is what he says. "I've sketched some designs for you. We can try building them together. Most of the mechanics are simple, it will just be a case of getting the materials."

"Oh," Al breathes. "Oh, Ed."

"And I've designed protective gear as well. I've based it off—well, actually I'll show you. Stay here."

When Ed returns he's carrying a picture book with several drawings tucked into the margin. He's stuffed one of Daddy's empty beer cans under his arm after a sudden flash of inspiration, and he lays his spoils on Al's bed, opening the book and unfolding the research pages and diagrams.

Al's eyes are wide, an almost thirsty look in them as he drinks in the sight. "I—this is amazing, Ed—" he breaks off, as though suddenly short of breath, before he's flinging himself into Ed's arms, nearly crumpling the papers beneath him as he sobs. "Thank you, thank you."

Ed clings just as tightly, because Al shouldn't have to sound so grateful, just to be given the same chance as everyone else.

They pore over the pages, whispering to each other about tension and manoeuvrability, and Al is helpful, suggesting things Ed hadn't thought of. Al has always preferred physics over biochemistry and it shows; the diagrams spilling over with annotations and scribbled side notes.

An hour later, they have much more than just a theory and Al is beaming, his cherubic face lighting up as he stares at the pages filled with harsh pencil lines and blue ink and the rough sketch (for neither of them are artists) of his hero costume, shaded in soft greys and silver. "This is so cool," he whispers, enamoured. "This is so cool."

Ed grins, because it kind of is. "This is gonna be you, Al," he says. He casts his gaze over the drawings in satisfaction, before a gleam of metal catches his eye. "Oh yeah," he picks up the forgotten beer can, shaking it in his brother's face. "Remember this?"

Al blinks, leaning back a little from the abrupt turn of conversation. "You—brought that with you?" He frowns, confusion evident in his expression. "Why?"

"Just watch," Ed furrows his brow, summons all of his willpower and presses. The can crumples, metal sheets folding together seamlessly. He starts with the general shape first—arms, legs, the helmet, before moving onto intricacies. It's hollow—there wasn't all that much base material to begin with, but the helmet is detailed and there are joints carved into the arms and legs: a suit of armour. It's misshapen, certainly, for Ed really isn't an artist, but it's form is unmistakable.

The end result isn't large; perhaps the width of his palm, but Al takes it reverently. "I don't—I don't understand," he whispers, in a tone that suggests that perhaps he actually does. "Eddie—"

"They didn't have quirks," Ed hands him the picture book. "The heroes of Camelot. Nobody did in those days."

Al sniffles. "I wish I could look like that."

"I know," Ed squeezes his arm. "I know Al, and it sucks that you can't right now, but—but you will one day, you hear me? You will. I'll make sure of it. Just—just keep that, okay? Maybe it'll help you remember. It's not the quirk that makes the hero, it's the heart. You know that."

"I remember," Al clutches the little figurine. "I think I know what I want my hero name to be."

"Yeah?" Ed isn't crying. He isn't.

"The tin can man."

Ed stifles a sob. "Oh."