warnings: panic attacks, grief

we're all lost, that's why we're sad

The summer sun burns brightly. It's a warm day; warmer, perhaps, than is usual at this time of year, when the green leaves threaten to curl in on themselves, darkening to the colour of Mummy's hair.

"He's found us," Mummy is whispering. She isn't anywhere Ed can see, her voice bodiless and malformed. "He's found us Van, and after Malachi—I just can't lose them too. Why else would he be here? Van, Van—"

"It's okay," Daddy whispers, standing tall, the way he hasn't since Ed was just a little boy. "It's okay it's okay it's okay—"

A fire rages, blazing, the sky now aflame. The sun has set the sky on fire, Ed thinks.

Al climbs to his feet before him, next to Daddy, burning, flesh blistered and sooty, hair charred. His head lolls sickeningly to the side, and his green-gold eyes are closed, and maybe he isn't standing, not anymore.

Not anymore.

"No," Ed clutches at his brother's limp arm. "No, Al. Please, wake up. Wake up—"

"Wake up, kiddo," Daddy kneels, his hand on Ed's head. "C'mon now."

"Al," Ed lays his palm on the child's body. "Please, Al. Please, please."

"It's okay, little listener," Daddy takes hold of Ed's shoulders. "You're okay."

"Al," Ed cries and cries. "Please, I love you. Please wake up."

"Elric-kun," Daddy shakes him. "Wake up buddy, come on—"

Ed is crying.

There's an arm around his shoulders, levering him into a sitting position, and a leather jacket pressing against his cheek, damp and sticky, because leather probably isn't meant for tears. "It's okay," someone soothes, words lilting. "Just breathe, kid. It's all okay."

It's all okay. Ed sucks in a shaky breath. He recognises the voice. He remembers—

Remembering hurts.

"Present Mic?" the words are hushed as he pulls away, blinking up at the hero through bleary eyes. He sees hair as blond as Al's, and eyes that are green, like the grass in his garden used to be; green like Mummy's—

Present Mic smiles gently as he settles into a chair beside the bed—a hospital bed, Ed realises. "That's right, kiddo," he keeps hold of Ed's forearm; a light pressure that's almost grounding.

Ed needs that right now. His head is spinning so much he thinks he might begin to float if it doesn't stop soon. "It was real, wasn't it?" he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears still threatening to fall. "It—it was real."

Not all of it, he thinks. But—but enough.

"The nightmare?" Present Mic asks, brow furrowing when Ed nods. "Ah. Okay, well. Mind telling me what it was about?"

"Al was burning."

Al's head, lolling sickeningly, charred and broken and—

Ed blinks, clenching his fists around starched bed linen. It's coloured, like the rest of the room. The paediatrics ward, he knows, is a ward of the hospital built specifically for children, and it looks the part. The walls are painted forget-me-not blue, and the curtains drawn across the hospital windows are decorated with sparrows. There are glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and the lights are soft.

"It doesn't look like the rest of the hospital."

It doesn't make him think about Mummy. He supposes that's a good thing.

"Your brother didn't burn, Elric-kun," Present Mic squeezes his hand. The smile has dropped from his face, though his expression is still gentle; still something akin to pitying. "He's alive. Your father, too."

Ed swallows. Alive. There's something about the way it's said. He's alive, not he's okay.

Maybe he isn't okay.

But he didn't burn. He's alive. Doesn't that mean something?

Present Mic ducks his head, catching Ed's eyes. "Hey now," he says softly. "It's okay, buddy—"

"It's not," Ed chokes out hoarsely, a sob escaping before he can stop it. "It's not and I don't—I don't know what to do."

He hates it. He hates the way the hero's eyes widen, hates the pity and the hurt that he knows is for him. It's just one more reminder that he's failed his little brother, in some way, because there's something the man isn't telling him, and Ed is afraid.

"Let us sort it out," Present Mic catches Ed's hand in his own. "We're not going to leave you to face this by yourself, kid."

"But—" but there's nobody left. It's just Ed and Al now, by themselves, and Al—

Al's alive.

There's nobody left except Al. They're alone, because there's no way they'll be given back to Daddy after everything that's happened.

Your father, too.

Is he a terrible person for not really caring? He loves Daddy, just like he loves Mummy, but it doesn't change the fact that they've both left him now.

Ed doesn't blame Mummy—not at all—but sometimes he wishes, wonders, about what might have been if she'd never died. Would she have stayed? Would Daddy have looked after them all like he was supposed to?

He trusts that Mummy would have stayed. He thinks Daddy might have found another reason to fall apart; another reason to drink, to hurt and abandon.

"We're not going to leave you to face this by yourself."

Present Mic is a hero. It's practically demanded of him to be kind, to be a good person. To care, even. He's implying more than one person that cares, which is two more than Ed has ever thought would. He kind of suspects the other might be Eraserhead. Which makes sense, because Eraserhead is a hero too.

Heroes care, even if they can't save everyone.

Heroes are good people.

But even good people tell lies; especially grown-ups.

Present Mic is lying to make him feel better—not about Al, he thinks, because that would be a bad thing to lie about, but he's definitely lying about the other things.

It's not going to be okay. That's a lie. That's always been a lie. So, strike one.

They will leave him. Nobody stays, not for long. Not for a quirkless little boy and his brother. Daddy is the only one who's ever tried, before the bottles of medicine stole him away from them. Strike two.

And Ed? Ed is alone. With or or without Al, he's always been by himself, and to promise otherwise is—

It's a lie.

"Little listener?" Present Mic asks cautiously, because Ed is taking too long to reply, and apparently that's cause for concern. "You good, kid?"

It's a lie. Ed wants to scream.

"You don't have to pretend," he hisses cattily, bitterness churning in the pit of his stomach. "It's—" he almost chokes trying to force the words out of his mouth. "It's okay. You don't have to pretend. We're fine on our own."

He tries to be angry, but it comes out broken and scared. Like him, he supposes.

In the wake of his outburst, Present Mic stares, eyes widening with poorly concealed horror, before he's blinking rapidly, turning away until his face is hidden.

"Are you—?" Ed starts, before cutting himself off. He doesn't really know what to do, because he's made a hero cry. He hadn't thought that what he'd said was really that mean, but maybe it had been? "I'm sorry," he squeaks. "I—" he flounders for something to say. When Al cries, Ed gives him a hug. When Daddy cries, he ignores Ed and Al and locks himself in his bedroom with his bottles. Ed doesn't know how to comfort adults, but Present Mic is really, really similar to Al, so maybe— "Do… do you want a hug?" he whispers shakily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry, I'm really, really sorry—"

He's interrupted when Present Mic turns back to him, head shaking insistently, "You didn't kiddo," he still isn't smiling, and his eyes are suspiciously watery, but his face is dry. That, at least, hadn't been a lie. "I'm sorry, you dig? I—ah, I let my emotions get the better of me. That wasn't cool, since I'm the grown-up round these parts," he sighs, "and it was really nice of you to offer a hug, buddy, but I don't want one unless you do, yeah? You shouldn't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."

There's so much there that Ed just doesn't understand. Grown-ups do get to be sad, and he's done something wrong and now he has to fix it, but Present Mic is being confusing and kind, even though Ed hasn't been. Even though Ed doesn't deserve it.

"But I hurt you," he curls in on himself, ignoring the way his ribs twinge. "I snapped and then you got sad, and that was my fault."

He has to be careful, too, because saying the wrong thing can make people really sad, and then they leave for a long time and don't go to work, and Ed doesn't get enough money to buy food for Al.

"You didn't hurt me," Present Mic explains patiently, "and I'm not really sad, I'm—" he pauses, frowning slightly. "I'm concerned," he offers after a moment. "You've told me some very concerning things that I... well, that I can't leave alone. Honestly, little listener, I don't think—"

"We won't be allowed to live with Daddy anymore," Ed cuts in, dully, "will we?"

It's not a question, not really.

"No," Present Mic says softly. "He wasn't looking after you, kiddo."

"I can look after myself," Ed whispers weakly, "and Al, too. I have been, for—"

For five years, maybe, ever since Mummy died? Or longer, because she was sick and sleeping, and Daddy was working and—

"For how long?" Present Mic prompts.

Ed doesn't know. He stares at the starched sheets covering his knees, fighting the urge to curl up completely. "What's going to happen to us?" he asks, instead of answering. "Al is—he's quirkless, and I know they might split us up if we go into care. I don't want him to get hurt."

He doesn't say it outright, but he doesn't have to. Being quirkless invites pain, and foster care is going to make that a whole lot worse.

Present Mic makes a noise of understanding in his throat. "That's why you never told anyone," he surmises. "That's—" he frowns, the corners of his mouth turning down, "I'm sorry, kid."

"I don't want him to get hurt," Ed repeats. "It was my decision," he hesitates. "Al wanted me to tell, though." He's said so already, he recalls, in the police car. He wonders if Present Mic remembers. "What's going to happen to us?" he asks again, because the hero still hasn't answered and Ed's starting to wonder if it's for a reason.

Al's alive, not Al's okay. Why did he say it like that?

"There are some things you need to know, kid," the hero finally murmurs.

"Tell me," Ed demands, nails digging into his skin through the sheets. "Please, just tell me. "

Present Mic tells him, and Ed cries.

There are so many wires.

Ed's scared to get too close; scared because if he jostles something, breaks something, touches anything at all because he doesn't trust himself, Al could get hurt, and Ed's already hurt his little brother enough. If he'd just listened, then maybe—

"You coming in, kid?"

There's a man, dressed in the same green hospital pyjamas that Ed is in, seated by Al's bedside in one of the flimsy chairs dotted around the room. His eyes are dark, just like Eraserhead's, but his black hair is cropped short. There's a smear of soot over his left temple, and scratches across his cheek. He looks worn, but the stare he gives Ed is anything but defeated.

"I—" Ed hesitates, glancing back at the hero standing mere inches behind him. "What if I hurt him?"

Present Mic gives him a reassuring smile. "You won't, kiddo," he puts his hands on Ed's shoulders, gently nudging him into the room. "Here, let's get you sitting down. Those ribs of yours must be giving you trouble."

They are, a little, and Ed can't help the sigh of relief as he sinks into the cheap, plastic chair, opposite the man already sitting down. Present Mic pulls one up beside him, settling into it and resting a hand lightly on Ed's forearm. It's a warning as much as it is a comfort, Ed thinks, because they're distanced enough from the bed that he wouldn't quite be able to reach for his brother.

Al looks so vulnerable lying there. So small, swathed in sheets and covered in wires, hooked up to a ventilator, because his brother can't even breathe on his own.

Comatose, Present Mic had told him, his voice softer than ever, as though each next word might be the one to break Ed, in the pastel room with the ceiling covered in stars. Oxygen deprivation due to the amount of smoke Alphonse inhaled. Unlikely to ever recover full function.

A chance of brain death, rapid deterioration. They just don't know.

It's Ed's fault. If he'd just taken his brother with him, lugged him onto the windowsill somehow, somehow. Al's taller but he could've found a way. He should have found a way. Or maybe—maybe if hadn't upset Daddy earlier that day, his father could have helped them. Daddy is clever, and he would have, Ed knows, if he'd just been sober, because even though he's sick he still loves them so much. He would have died for them, and the worst part is that Ed wishes, terribly, horribly, that their father had been awake enough to do that, because—

Isn't that what parents are supposed to do?

It's what Ed would do, for Al. It's what he wishes he'd done.

And now—and now Al might not even be there—

"Hey now," Present Mic sounds alarmed, his hand moving to squeeze Ed's own lightly. "We're supposed to be breathing, bud."

That's not right. Ed can breathe just fine. Al's the one who—

The world tilts.

"Whoa," Present Mic's arm curls around his shoulders, pinning him against the back of the chair. "We're definitely not doing the whole falling over thing right now. C'mon, little listener, breathe with me yeah? We're going to take a deep breath in, counting to four."

There's a scrape of plastic against linoleum and the sound of footsteps as Present Mic counts and Ed heaves. He's almost more lightheaded as the air rushes in, choking because the iron band sitting heavily around his lungs is unyielding and he can't breathe.

He hears, more than actually sees, someone kneeling in front of him.

"It's not your fault."

The words are like a lifejacket, and Ed clings to them, forcing his eyes wide open and meeting the speaker's own dark gaze. "It is," he gasps, his own voice garbled and barely there. "It is. I was supposed to look after him. I left him. I left him."

"You left to save him," Present Mic murmurs. "You told me where he was. You did everything right, kiddo."

"But I couldn't save him," Ed takes another, shuddering breath. It's easier, somehow, just hearing those words. Even if they aren't true. "I couldn't."

He doesn't ask why, because he already knows.

Heroes can't save everyone.

Ed isn't even a hero.

"You still tried," the man in front of him presses, a flicker of something in his gaze, though Ed can't quite figure out what. "Sometimes that's all we can do, kid."

All we can do.

It's him.

"You're Dante," Ed whispers, watching as the man's eyes widen minutely. He remembers the name of the hero Present Mic sent to find his brother. "You—you tried too, didn't you?"

"I did," the hero, Dante, says. "I'm sorry I couldn't, kid."

"It's not your fault," Ed shakes his head. "It is mine. I was scared and I—I forgot my dad was there—I mean, you carried them both out. That slowed you down, didn't it? If I'd said so earlier, you could've asked for backup."

Dante's expression darkens, and his gaze flickers towards Present Mic before coming back around to rest on Ed again. "Your father was drunk," he near snaps, and Ed flinches before he can stop himself.

Present Mic actually scowls, "At least try to have some tact, Roy."

"Sorry," Dante winces, taking a slow breath, as though centering himself. "Listen, kid, what happened was not your fault. Your father shouldn't have been that drunk around you in the first place, and I—" he hesitates. "If I'd thought that saving him would be detrimental to your brother's safety, I would have asked for help. They were unconscious when I got to them, and it's highly likely that this would have happened whether or not I'd had backup. I just didn't get there fast enough, and for that I am sorry."

"It's not your fault," Ed insists. "It's mine."

"No it's not," Dante looks like he's trying really hard not to glare. "Stop blaming yourself, kid."

"You stop blaming yourself," Ed snaps, before he can shove down the frustration that's been bubbling up inside him. He doesn't mean it, and he especially doesn't mean it here, at his comatose brother's bedside. He doesn't want there to be a fight here. He doesn't want a fight at all. "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I'm sorry. Don't shout, please, Al could hear you. Please don't shout."

Present Mic and Dante share a grim look that Ed doesn't understand.

"Nobody is going to shout at you, bud," Present Mic murmurs soothingly, his arm tightening a little around Ed's shoulders. "This is a difficult situation, it's okay to be upset."

"I was rude," Ed says softly. "That makes people mad. When they get mad, they shout."

Dante stares at him, his gaze seeming to catch on Ed's cheek, the same way Eraserhead's had. "Do they do anything else?"

Ed hadn't thought they did, but now he knows that they do. Daddy just hadn't gotten angry enough before, he supposes. "They do if they get really cross," he answers truthfully. "That's when they hit you."

Dante startles, naked concern plain across his face as he glances up at Present Mic, "Hizashi—"

Present Mic shakes his head, "Shouta's dealing with it."

Eraserhead is Shouta, Ed remembers. Present Mic called him that on the car ride to the hospital. They're familiar enough with each other to use first names, all three of them. He wonders whether they're friends. If they work together often, it would make sense for them to be.

Ed wouldn't know, he doesn't think he's ever had friends before, besides Winry and Al, and he hasn't seen Winry in a long, long time.

Now Al is as good as gone too.

Present Mic jostles him gently, "You still with us, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Ed scrubs at his eyes, at the tears threatening to fall. "I'm fine, I promise."

"It's okay if you're not."

Maybe for other people, but never for Ed.

"Breathe, kid."

Because he can't again.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay, let's get back to counting, yeah?"

Something cold nudges his fingers, and he glances down. He can't stop the tears then, and Dante tries to withdraw his hand but Ed snatches at it, clutching it in both of his own. "Where did you get that?" His voice is cracking wildly as he tries to stifle his sobs. "Where did you get it?" he doesn't dare touch the object held within, because—

"Your brother was holding it," Dante says quietly. Ed can barely hear him over his own, ragged breathing. "Is it yours?"

"It's his," Ed chokes out, shivering with sudden chills and rolling nausea. "It's his but—but I made it for him."

"Made it?" Present Mic asks oddly, his brow furrowed as he blinks at the intricate figurine in Dante's grasp.

"It's m-my quirk," Ed's teeth are chattering from how much he's trembling. "I can—I can make things and b-break them down, if I understand them enough."

"That's a powerful quirk," Dante sounds thoughtful as he pulls his hand gently from Ed's own. "You should keep this, kid," he presses the figurine into Ed's palm. "You'll want it later on, even if not now."

For the memories, is what goes unsaid, and it's true.

Because even if Al wakes up, he won't become a hero. If he wakes up at all.

Ed takes the tin can man reverently. "I do want it."

The metal is cold, but it burns when it touches his skin.