warnings: panic attacks

no fair sky. I'm the one who feels like crying

There's smoke in the hallway. Ed can barely breathe and he makes Al stay back in the closed-off kitchen, because his brother's lungs still aren't quite as good as they had been before his bout of pneumonia.

He knows better than to open the front door, even for a peek, because he knows how fast fire can spread. It's a frightening thought, how thin a wall there might be between himself and a blazing inferno, but he pushes past it, throwing his father's door open as though he hadn't been fleeing from that same room earlier. The air is thick; stagnant and almost hazy from the tendrils of smoke wafting under the door.

Daddy isn't in bed—no, instead he's on the floor. It's not the first time Ed has found him collapsed against their threadbare carpet, but it never fails to turn his blood to ice, because what if he's dead, what if—

Ed finds himself on his knees, narrowly avoiding a puddle of vomit, pressing two of his fingers against his father's neck before he takes in the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. When he digs his fingers in further, he finds a thready pulse. It's weak and unsteady, but it's there, and Ed has to choke back a sob because he can't afford to crack now. Not when Al and Daddy are relying on him to get them all out of here.

The smog is burning his lungs, and as Ed gasps for breath he realises that if he's struggling, the fragile string his father's life hinges on might very well snap, and so he pulls him quickly into the recovery position, grimacing as he swipes inside the man's mouth for any vomit that might be remaining. He's simultaneously relieved and disgusted that he did when he pulls his hand away covered in sick.

"Ed!"

"Al," Ed wipes his hand on the floor and pushes himself to his feet. "What are you doing here? I told you to—"

Al starts coughing. "There's smoke everywhere," he gasps, as Ed pulls him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. "The kitchen doesn't have big enough windows, we need to—" he suddenly pushes himself away from his brother, lunging for the comparatively larger windows of their father's bedroom. "Ed, why didn't you open them?"

"I—" Ed feels stupid. Maybe it was because he found Daddy dying on the floor, choking on his own vomit, or that amidst his panic he just forgot, but he can't dwell on that now. He clambers over their father, reaching to help Al with the latch, pushing the glass panes wide open, and inhaling blessed, smoke free air.

"What do we do?" Al whispers, clutching at Ed's forearm with shaking fingers. "We—we can't go out the front, it's—I think that's where it's coming from, Ed," he glances down at the floor, at the prone form still lying there, perfectly still. "And Daddy—"

He's crying, Ed realises. Al's crying again, but for once the thought doesn't make him sick to his stomach, because there'd have to be something really wrong if Al wasn't crying. It's normal to cry when the world is burning, isn't it?

Ed reaches up to touch his own dry face.

"I don't know," he whispers, with a sickening clarity. "Al, I—I'm not sure there's anything we can do."

The whole apartment block must be on fire, if the number of siren wails are anything to go by. It's not safe to leave the flat. It's probably not safe to leave the room, so Ed stuffs a blanket against the thin gap under the door, and the steady stream of smoke pouring through it becomes a little less steady. With the window open they won't suffocate, though even the air outside is becoming markedly hazy, and the roar of flames is suddenly audible, loud and unsettling.

There sirens are getting closer, the screeching almost unbearable, and there's a blistering heat that Ed knows must be from one of the apartments below them. The thought makes him nauseous, because he'd known that at least a few of the flats had caught fire, but the confirmation sends a tingle of fear up his spine. It's aggressive, he can hear that much. He's not sure whoever lives there is going to survive this, and he knows that if their own front door is unable to withstand the flames, they very well might not survive this either.

He might not be able to keep Al safe.

He sticks his head out the window, and even through the thick smoke and billowing heat, he can make out the tell-tale red of the fire trucks and the white ambulance vans, because there's no way they won't be needed. People are going to die, and people are going to get hurt, and there probably won't be enough medics for everyone. There's even a few police cars, and a number of people wearing strange costumes who, Ed discerns with a startle, might actually be heroes, begin to pile out of them. They each survey the scene with a look of horror, and something inside him begins to crumble further.

Ed watches as they scatter, before he can even begin to call out, to ask them to look up. It doesn't stop him yelling though, because he has to try. Even as hot smoke licks at his throat, even as Al tries to join him and immediately starts heaving bile, because Al's lungs are still a little sick and he's beginning to realise his younger brother can't cope. Daddy is still breathing, and that matters too, but not quite as much because there's only one of Ed and one of his brother and he can't even begin to start figuring out where their father fits into his mental landscape.

"Please!" He chokes, his face red from the heat and voice hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. "Please, we're here."

He can't use his quirk. The building is so unstable it'll probably come crashing down on everyone if Ed isn't careful. And he doesn't know how to be careful, not with so much at stake.

He knows there are people here who want to save him, people who are good, who chose to become heroes, just like Al wants to be—but Ed's never been the sort to look at the world and just believe. Believe that everyone who needs to be saved is saved. Believe that good will win. Believe that winning doesn't come without a price. Ed knows none of this is true. He knows, he knows that something has to give. That there's no life without loss, that somewhere there's an equivalency to be had. His whole life has been a series of reminders that if he wants something, he has to get it. He's not like Al. He can't just sit here and hope for rescue, and believe in heroes like some kind of child.

He has to be willing to pay the price.

Which is why he hoists himself onto the windowsill, ignoring Al's strangled protests amidst his hacking coughs and wet gags, because if he doesn't then they're going to die, and at least if Ed makes himself more visible they stand a chance.

Something crumbles and Ed slams his hand into the brick wall pushing, and suddenly there's an indent and he curls his fingers, grasping his home-made handhold as he desperately tries to find his footing. He clings to the open window with his other arm, probably putting far too much weight onto the hinge, but he doesn't have a choice, because of Al and Daddy, and because getting noticed might make the difference between life and death, and Ed—

Ed screams.

And someone—someone's suddenly staring at him, all the way from the ground, looking up, face a picture of shock, and then they're shouting, eyes wide and fixed upon something above him—

"Eraser!"

The hinge, rusted and old, breaks under the pressure.

Ed is falling.

Until he's not.

A strip of cloth, that feels a little like rope, is encircling his ribcage. A few of his ribs are probably cracked, because the pain of the cloth cutting into him is almost unbearable, but—but he's alive, inches from the ground, seconds from becoming yet another body, because he knows those are piling up.

Arms reach for him, taking the weight off of his chest, unwrapping the cloth in what seems like practiced ease. A low, almost familiar, voice murmurs things he can't quite catch and that are probably meant to be comforting but fundamentally aren't.

He's lifted up and cradled as though he's a much younger child. It's not until he moves his arm to cling to the stranger's shoulder that recognition floods through him, because there's a strange metal box in the way, and that means this is one of Al's heroes, and maybe even Ed's too a little bit, because the radio show is actually kind of soothing to listen to, and—

Al.

"My brother," he gasps, and the man carrying him falters.

"There's another child in there?"

And now—now, Ed definitely recognises the voice as belonging to Present Mic.

"Y-yeah," Ed twists and nearly vomits from the pain. "He's—he's—" he's still in there, he means to say, but he can barely breathe, and every other gasp is a cough. "Please, please—"

"Okay," Present Mic murmurs, tightening his arms around Ed and moving a whole lot faster all of a sudden. "Which apartment?"

Ed gives him the number, and the hero reaches to fiddle with something by his ear, which Ed quickly realises must be some kind of earpiece. "You got that, Dante?"

There must be an affirmative because Present Mic doesn't say anything more to the person on the other end, instead turning to Ed and humming a silly nursery rhyme that would be condescending in pretty much any other situation, but somehow isn't in this one. "It's gonna be okay, kiddo," he sings gently as they arrive at an ambulance. "You're going to be okay," and when Ed is told to let go and he finds he can't, Present Mic sits down with him instead and stays, even as they listen to Ed's chest and tape up his ribs. "I'm on civilian duty," is all he says when the paramedic questions it. "There's not much I can do against a fire like that."

Ed understands the need to feel useful, to be doing something. He remembers doing his best to heal Al's injuries after he'd been roughed up by a couple of older kids, remembers seeing his brother bleeding on the pavement, bullies long gone—remembers pressing the wounds together as though Al were a sock puppet, all seams and stitches of his skin's own making, and he—he hates having to do that, but he will for Al. He remembers the sickness he'd felt, the burning in the pit of his stomach, seeing his baby brother hurt so badly—how he'd rushed to help and how even wiping away Al's tears had felt like the smallest of triumphs, because at least Al was hurting that little bit less.

He wonders whether that might be how Present Mic is feeling right now, so he turns and tugs at the man's sleeve from under his arm, whispering "thank you," when he glances down.

The smile he gets back is a bit sad, but maybe a little genuine, because the hero squeezes him gently, murmuring just as quietly, "You're very welcome, little listener."

Present Mic is a good person, Ed affirms, because Present Mic is just as kind as Al.

Al, who is very clearly still trapped somewhere in that building, because he's not here and yet he should be, because he's definitely injured. The fire service and heroes are barely keeping up with the flames. The air is still burning even as the ground becomes sodden, water running in rivulets under the wheels of the ambulances and fire engines and police cars. The ambulances are peeling off, one by one, and even fewer are returning, and Ed is transferred to wait with the police because he's not a high priority patient. Which is okay, because he's not leaving without Al.

"My brother," he croaks, as they watch the carnage unfold from the boot of a police car. "He's not here."

Present Mic doesn't reply for a moment, though he looks down at Ed, pulling him more firmly against his side. "I can't ask for updates, kiddo," he finally responds. "Distractions like that could jeopardise someone's safety."

"Will they tell you?" Ed whispers, "When they find them?"

"...them?"

And suddenly, the hero isn't by Ed's side at all, but crouched in front of him. "It's not just your brother in there?"

"Daddy too," Ed swallows. He's not supposed to talk about their father, in case they get taken away, but—but it's probably important, and it's not as if he decided not to tell, he just kind of forgot, because Al is—Al is more important, isn't he? "He's drunk. He drank a whole bottle."

Present Mic's eyes are impossibly wide.

"I'm sorry," Ed says shakily. "I forgot. I'm sorry, I forgot, I—" he cuts himself off, pressing hard against his eyes with clenched fists. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," large hands cover his own, pulling them away from his face. Present Mic's soft smile is back. "It's okay kiddo," he says. "It's okay. It just means I need you to answer a few questions. Do you think you can do that for me, bud?"

Ed bobs his head numbly.

"Your dad and brother," Present Mic asks seriously. "Were they conscious?"

"Al was," Ed closes his eyes. "He was coughing, but he was—he was awake. Daddy w-wasn't—" he chokes, and Present Mic squeezes his hands gently.

There's a roaring in Ed's ears. "I put him in the recovery position," he's shaking suddenly, tremors wracking his body. "There was sick in his mouth but I—I pulled it out. He was breathing. I checked, I checked," he gasps for air because he's not sure there is any anymore. "He was breathing. He was breathing."

"Kid, hush, it's okay. No more questions, you did good. You did so well. Now, how about we slow down, yeah? In and out. Yeah, exactly like that."

Ed clenches his eyes shut, clinging to the words and clutching the hands gently grasping his own, trying to emulate the hero's exaggerated breaths.

"That's it," Present Mic murmurs. "You're okay. You did well kiddo, I've just gotta—ah, Tsukauchi-san," he stands, placing a hand on Ed's shoulder and beckoning a police officer over. "I've got to relay some info. Mind sitting with this little one for a moment?"

The officer's shadow falls over him as Present Mic moves away, before the man is settling into the spot next to Ed. "Rough night?" He offers, his tone a little wry.

Ed can't help the shocked giggle that escapes him. It's not funny. Nothing about this is funny, but all the same, he finds himself snorting at the remark. "I guess," he mumbles, pulling his legs up to tuck his knees under his chin.

"There are some good heroes here, kid," the officer waits until Ed glances up at him before carrying on in that same, gentle tone Present Mic had used. "A solid rescue team. I know it's hard to believe right now, but there's a good chance your family is going to be okay."

"Heroes can't save everyone."

The officer's eyes are momentarily shadowed, an expression not quite akin to bitterness etching itself across his face. "No, they can't," he says, and maybe there's a little grief in his voice.

Ed knows what grief looks like.

The moment passes just as suddenly as it came, and the man squeezes Ed's forearm gently. "It's always good to hope, though," his lips twitch, as though attempting a smile, though Ed can't help but think it's not quite as sincere as Present Mic's. "It'll be okay, buddy."

It'll be okay. He doesn't know if he can quite believe that.

They're both silent after that, and Ed watches Present Mic pacing rapidly back and forth. He's clearly still talking into his earpiece, and the grim look on his face is doing nothing to reassure Ed.

And then he just—stops.

The officer beside Ed stiffens. "Stay here." One moment he's speaking sharply to Ed, and the next he's striding towards Present Mic, grabbing the other man by the shoulder in a grip that looks like it hurts.

Something's wrong.

And then they're both sprinting towards the building, just as the main entrance doors are being flung open, a man staggering out, hauling something—someone—something over one shoulder, cradling another something— someone, it must be a person, but they're so goddamn small, and—

Al's tiny little head lolls sickeningly, flopping over the man's arm, and—and—

Ed doesn't know when he started running.

"Al!" He's screaming, he knows, and he can almost feel the eyes on his back as heads turn. "Al, Al, Al—" please be okay, please, please please—

The same cloth from before snakes around his waist, pulling taut, and he's flying backwards. His vision whites out for a moment, his taped ribs screaming in protest as he collides forcefully with something solid. He doesn't even have time to struggle before there's an arm looping around his chest, pinning him in a crushing but gentler hold. "Calm down, kid," there's a low voice in his ear, but he can barely hear anything above the roaring fire in his head.

Present Mic is pulling Daddy onto his back at the same time the police officer takes Al, and the man who had been carrying the two of them slumps to the gravelled drive, breathing heavily. Two paramedics rush to help him, even as half a dozen more are running towards his little brother and father, strapping them into stretchers, wheeling them towards the ambulances, carrying them away—

"That's my brother!" Ed shouts. "That's my dad," he digs his heel into his captor's shin. "Let me go."

There's a sharp intake of breath, and Ed feels the cloth loosen from around his torso. He isn't released, the grip on his shoulders twisting in a way that forces him to turn until the ambulances are behind him. There's a hand on the back of his head and dark eyes that stare down at him from a scruffy face. The stranger won't let him look away, simply moving into Ed's line of sight every time he even tries, and its only when the sirens finally fade into the distance that the man drops into a crouch in front of him, murmuring, "It's going to be okay. I'm a hero, kid. You're safe now."

And even though Ed is heartily sick of those words—even though he knows it won't be, there's something about this man that reminds him of Present Mic, who reminds him of Al—Al, his little, baby brother who might die—might already be dead—

And.

And there are tears sliding down his face, and he sobs, pulling his arms around his chest which kind of hurts, because his ribs are aching and everything just feels hollow.

"Don't leave," Ed begs.

The hero reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly. "I'm not going to."

Notes:

So to summarise, Ed kicks Aizawa in the shin...