warnings: panic attacks, grief

the deeper the darkness

Ed can barely remember the first time he rode in an ambulance. He recalls phoning the emergency services, though at the time he only knew he was calling for help, and he remembers the doctor who held his hand as he watched medics load his mother into the back of the van, but the ride itself is… hazy at best. He thinks he can remember crying, but he isn't sure if it had been Al's or his own.

He doesn't have to this time. The hero, Eraserhead, carries him to a police car and sits beside him in the backseat while Present Mic takes the front and the officer, Tsukauchi, settles behind the wheel. Eraserhead helps Ed with the seatbelt, tugging on the strap a few times, before making sure it's not too tight on his ribs.

"What's your name, kid?" Eraserhead turns to him as soon as the car begins to move.

Ed can't help but stiffen. He doesn't like questions—he always says too much, and it tends to be safer not to give answers. Even this kind of question, which should be harmless, always devolves into a much longer conversation, because Ed's name isn't Japanese.

Not that he can really refuse to give his name to two pro heroes and a police officer.

"Edward Elric," he whispers, and watches in dismay as Present Mic sits up a little straighter.

"You speak any English, little listener?"

And oh. He hadn't been expecting that.

"Yeah," Ed replies, suddenly flummoxed. He hasn't spoken English since his mother died. Daddy had just… stopped. Stopped speaking the language, stopped replying when Ed and Al did—they'd learned quickly not to, after that. "It's—it was my first language."

English sounds the way his mother felt; like safety, warmth, comfort, even from the lips of a stranger. Ed finds himself relaxing, a tightness in his chest that he hadn't realised was there in the first place easing, and he takes a shuddering breath.

"You alright?" Eraserhead nudges him gently. Ed glances up to see the man grinning stiffly down at him.

"Y-yeah," Ed takes the transition from English to Japanese as poorly as anyone fluent in both languages can. Switching between the two comes as easily as riding a bike with a rusted chain—that is, if the chain had been rusting for five years and the bike not ridden since. He flushes. "I'm—I haven't in a long time. Spoken it, I mean. Sorry," he directs the apology towards the front seat, but the words come out rushed and garbled in their delivery and he winces, clamping his mouth shut and staring desperately out the window. Beyond the patches of light thrown down by street lamps, the world appears drenched in shadow, swallowed by the stillness of the night air.

"It's okay, little listener," Present Mic is concerned and utterly soft, swapping to Japanese flawlessly.

No, Ed wants to whisper. I wasn't upset. It just reminded me of Mummy.

But that's personal, and so he doesn't. He turns back to the occupants of the car instead, and waits for the inevitability of more questioning to befall him.

"Your face," Eraserhead prods further at his wounded pride. "It's bruised. What happened to it?"

His face—?

Oh.

It feels like an eternity ago.

"It looks like somebody got a hit in," Eraserhead's eyes narrow, and despite his calm tone, Ed thinks the man might actually be angry.

"He's drunk," Ed had told Present Mic earlier. "He drank a whole bottle."

It's too late. They know, he's sure of it. Eraserhead already knows who hit him, but he's asking anyway, and Ed really isn't sure why. Maybe so they have proof; so they can take Al and Ed away from Daddy, and shouldn't Ed really be doing something to stop that? He's read so many stories online about kids who get separated from their siblings in foster care, and Al is quirkless, and if that isn't a disaster waiting to happen—

He can't let them take Al.

Except that they already have.

"I want to tell someone," Al had said.

Ed is horror struck when he realises that if Al does die, if Al is dead, that will have been his last request. He doesn't have a choice, not really, because Al wants Ed to tell.

"Somebody did," he finally whispers, twisting his hands in his lap, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

"Who?" Eraserhead's voice catches on the word, low and just as stiff as his smile had been. Ed feels similarly caught, but it's his own fault for willingly walking into a trap that he'd known was there.

There's a soft "Shouta" from the front of the car. Ed blinks at the familiarity shown, but otherwise doesn't move. He thinks it might have been a reprimand, but Eraserhead doesn't give any signs of backing down, and Ed doesn't really want him to.

"My dad," he tells them, as though he's walking to the gallows. "He was drunk," he allows the trap to snap shut without fanfare, and waits until he's sure the man beside him has mentally pocketed the evidence before turning to look up at him once more.

Eraserhead's expression is dark, his eyes shadowed as they flicker over the bruise marring Ed's face. He reaches carefully, movements steady as though not to startle, grasping the boy's shoulder with a light pressure. The middle seat between them isn't much of a seat at all, and Ed can almost lean into the contact. He wants to, but the space is just enough that the act would come across as purposeful, and he's forgotten how to seek comfort not freely given. There's been a distance between Ed and the adults in his life for a long time, and he feels too awkward to ask for closeness now.

Maybe that distance stretches between Ed and the world as well. It is, at the very least, an arm's length, because Al is usually holding his hand, and Ed likes to keep the rest of the world away from his vulnerable little brother.

"—brave for telling us," the police officer is saying, doubtless speaking to him, but Ed is feeling spacey.

Though it's not exactly difficult to guess what the man is talking about.

"My brother wanted me to," he says, shrugging, jostling Eraserhead's hand from his shoulder as he does. "Al is usually right."

So is Ed, but if he can help it he'll put Al's judgement above his own, in the rare occurrence that they come into conflict.

"So he's older than you," Eraserhead surmises, the corners of his mouth turning down. He doesn't look as though he's angry though. He's wearing the same expression Al sometimes does, when there's a problem to solve and the pieces of the puzzle aren't fitting together right—and sure, maybe it's actually a logical conclusion to make. Ed knows that older siblings are kind of supposed to bully younger ones a bit, because they do in all the storybooks, but Ed and Al have never been like that with one another.

"No, I'm eleven. Al—" Ed swallows, hesitating, because it's kind of horrible isn't it? The way today, of all days, has turned out."Al's birthday is today. He's ten."

There's a silence then, and it's close to becoming stale before Eraserhead finally breaks it, voice rough, "I'm sorry, kid."

Ed sniffs back threatening tears. "You didn't start the fire."

"Somebody did," Eraserhead insists, and sure, if he wants to care that much, it's not like Ed can stop him. "You didn't deserve this. Neither of you," his lip curls into a grimace. "I'll find whoever's responsible for this."

Ed can't help but envision a dark hero in a black jumpsuit and goggles, wielding an off-white scarf against whichever terrified office bureaucrat was in charge of building regulations in the poorer areas of Musutafu, "You don't have to do that, Eraserhead."

"Why not?" Present Mic interjects, twisting in his seat to do so. There's a funny expression on his face, a bit like Eraserhead's—and just like Eraserhead, Ed doesn't quite know what to make of him in that moment.

"You probably can't," Ed says haltingly. "It could've been anyone. A lit cigarette, a gas stove. The walls are like paper, it'd only have taken a spark." Obvious, all too obvious to Ed, but maybe not so to these heroes. Maybe they've never lived in the kind of places he has. It feels like that should make him bitter, but there isn't any room for bitterness anymore; he's not sure even that could displace the dread, the terror—the grief.

Something's been lost, even if just a home; even if an entire family.

"I see," Eraserhead murmurs, something a little like resolve flickering across his countenance. "Thanks kid, I'll see what I can do."

And the thing is, he sounds like he actually means it.

Ed briefly considers that his vision might come to pass.

The hospital is busy.

Ed can tolerate Present Mic's insistence that he hold his hand as they weave their way through the swathes of patients and nurses and crying mothers, but he can't help but be a little indignant over the strange scarf looped around him in a loose hold. He knows they just don't want him to get lost, but he's not a little kid. He's not going to run off. Besides, they're not going the right way, because he saw a sign pointing towards the intensive care unit, which is where Al has to be, but they took a wrong turn three blindingly white corridors ago and he's feeling sicker with every step.

"My brother," he pleads, tugging on Present Mic's sleeve. "Where is he? Where did they take him? Can I see him?"

Present Mic's mouth is pressed into a thin line, and he's shaking his head. "It'll be alright, little listener," he says. "We'll find out for you once we've had you looked at, yeah?"

But Ed doesn't want that. He doesn't know what he wants, but it's not—not that. He wants Al. He wants the peace and quiet of the car, those simple questions he'd thought he was going to hate but that actually helped reorganise his cluttered mind. He wants to take Al and leave. More than anything, he doesn't want to stay. It's hurting his eyes. The walls are too white, the smell too sterile, the lights too blinding. It's barely a memory, but he knows it's bittersweet, and he remembers the pain.

He stops, pulling his hand from Present Mic's and turning to walk back the way they came, because he's been going in the wrong direction, and he has to find Al. He has to—

Move.

He can't.

Eraserhead holds tight to the scarf wrapped loosely around Ed's waist, even as he stoops low, pulling them both to the side of the corridor. "It's okay," he says quietly, from somewhere far, far away. "It's okay. I want you to try breathing with me. Can you do that?" He exaggerates his own breaths, his chest rising and falling visibly when he does.

And Ed—Ed tries, but there's something stopping him—constricting, and he can't. It's not really the scarf, it's something else, hurting deep within his chest, and maybe he's not so sure it's a cracked rib this time. "Take it off," he whispers, because something is squeezing, choking him and he can't breathe, and take what off? He doesn't know. He can't— "Please, I can't—" two pairs of hands work swiftly and the scarf is removed in mere seconds, but Ed still—he thinks he remembers, because the light is so blinding, and the walls are so white, and perhaps Ed can tack his sums to the plaster here too. "Mummy," he gasps, because he's here, but he's also there, and maybe he can be in two places at once when they're the same. "I want Mummy, please, please—"

There's a hissed "God" from someone nearby, and it must be Present Mic because Eraserhead is still crouching in front of him, hands on his shoulders, dark eyes wide and mouth taut with concern.

"Shouta, don't ask—" Ed hears Present Mic start, but he's cut off when the other hero shakes his head dismissively.

"I know," Eraserhead's eyes track upwards for a moment, before he's focusing again. He covers one of Ed's hands with his own, resting the clenched fist against his chest. "I want you to breathe with me," he repeats. "It's just us here, kid."

No white walls. No hospital. Just them.

When Eraserhead takes another breath, Ed does too.

"That's good," the hero says gently. "Alright, Elric?"

Ed nods shakily.

"You think you can tell us what set you off?"

The question is cautious. There's an opportunity to back out, somewhere there, but the storm raging inside him is calmer now, his pulse walking a steady gait. Ed has no reason to lie, and for once it's freeing. The truth on the tip of his tongue doesn't burn when he allows it to pass his lips. "It reminds me of my—of Mummy."

Present Mic kneels beside them, his hair tower somehow even taller at eye level. "What does, little listener?"

"The hospital."

Ed has to watch his expression crumple. He doesn't like it, because with the blond hair and kind eyes, Present Mic reminds Ed a little too much of Al. They're similar. He's always known Al has it in him to be a hero, but now, confronted by the possibility of that future, something settles in his chest. He was right. He's always been right. It's not a quirk that makes a hero, it's the heart. Al's heart.

"We're taking you to the paediatrics ward," Eraserhead squeezes his shoulder. His eyes are sad. "It doesn't look like the rest of the hospital does. Have you been there before?"

Ed shakes his head.

The hero looks like he expected that. "We don't have far to go now. You can walk if you like, but if you let one of us carry you, you'll be able to keep your eyes closed until we get there," he hesitates, briefly, gaze flickering over Ed as though gaging his reaction. "Is that alright?"

"Will you leave?" Ed whispers. "Are you going to leave me there?"

He doesn't want to be left alone.

"Not if you don't want us to."

Ed stumbles forward, reaching out to cling to the hero's black jumpsuit. "Don't," he mumbles into the fuzzy fabric. "Please don't."

His face is full of scarf, and the words come out muffled and distorted, but he thinks they understand anyway. Eraserhead lets out a heavy sigh, pulling Ed into his arms as he straightens. "Let's go, kid," he sounds tired.

Ed's tired too.

When he closes his eyes, he drifts.