It took two alkahestry treatments to stop the bleeding.

Why did it take two alkahestry treatments to stop the bleeding?

During the process of cleaning Ed up, they found an infection had taken hold at his port. Al didn't understand why the alkahestry hadn't cleared it up, unless Ed's system just had nothing left to fight with. Fawn had no idea if that is what caused the violent reaction, but Ed had also had a midday fever, which was unusual in and of itself. Fawn had speculated that it could have been related, or his illness was merely progressing, but either way, the leg had to go. This, however, presented them with a catch twenty-two.

The alkahestry had, no doubt, sapped any energy Ed had left. In such a fragile state, and after so much blood loss, going into surgery to remove the port would undoubtably put Ed's life at risk.

But if they waited, with his weakened immune system and his regular fits, the infection could easily make its way to his heart in a matter of days if it hadn't already, killing him just as thoroughly as bleeding out.

And with Ed lying motionless in bed and seven pairs of eyes drilling into Al's soul, Al hoped he made the right decision.

Havoc, Falman, Roy and Al all helped load Ed's lifeless form into Fawn's horse drawn cart to deliver him to Rockbell Automail, swathed in blankets and a third bag of blood held over his head by Falman to try to stabilize him en route. It was Al's last bag. Winry already had an operating theater prepped and ready, and with Fawn's assistance, they took him in to remove the leg, the port, and clean the remaining stump.

And sitting outside in the hall, Al was reminded of the night they tried to bring their mother back. It was similar; the despair filling his hollow chest, the cold fear seeping into his very soul as his brother sat in the room behind him, bleeding out. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear it raining, wind whipping through the great oak out front and lightening crashing through the skies as Granny Pinako called for more towels—

"Al?"

He blinked open his eyes, surprised to see Roy staring down at him. Actually, they were all staring at him, Falman and Havoc looking on with drawn expressions and bleak eyes, Roy's mouth pressed together in a grimace. Al wondered if he looked like a suit of armor, unmoving and cold, in the same house Roy had found them in all those years ago.

"Did I . . . Is this the right thing?" he asked, his voice a bare whisper.

He wanted to throw up himself. Was this because he had given him morphine that morning? Would Ed have made this decision? What would he do right now, if their situations were reversed? Would he have sent Al in there for a surgery that may or may not prolong his life, but would prolong his suffering?

"You've made the best decision you could with the information you had," Roy promised. "It's the decision Ed would have made."

Hearing it voiced took the barest of edges off of the suffocating anxiety that clutched his heart.

"Here."

Havoc shoved a glass of juice into Al's hands. It was only then that he noticed he was shaking, breathing just a little too quick, his heart pounding in his ears. He took the glass and tossed it back, downing it all in three gulps.

He coughed, then shuddered, staring at the glass and wondering if Winry had anything stronger.

XxXxX

Alphonse wasn't much aware of what went on outside of his brother's room.

He sat, and researched, and read, and stared.

Time went by.

Winry came in to check on Ed, and sometimes she stayed. Sometimes she started crying and left. Al felt too empty to cry, so he researched some more.

Roy came in at some point during the day, his face hollowed like he'd forgotten what sleep was. The small window at the side hinted at it being sometime late evening, and Roy wordlessly offered him a bowl of soup before taking the seat Winry had just vacated a while ago. Al set the bowl on the table beside him and joined Roy in staring at Ed.

He looked like a ghost, pale and lifeless, the white bedsheets swallowing his wasted frame like water embraces the drowned, sinking and pooling where his left leg should have been. His eyes were sunken in, the skin on his face taught and papery, his dull hair spilling limply on the pillow. Tubes snaked around the bed, disappearing under the covers, a blood bag donated by a stranger hanging over his head, desperately trying to drip life into a dying body. A glass mask had been secured to his face, and his breath puffed against it, easier than it had been before Fawn had placed it over his nose and mouth. The oxygen therapy seemed to be helping.

Fawn didn't expect him to wake up from this soon, but Ed was stubborn, so Al hoped.

Al turned back to his books, because somewhere, there had to be an answer. Alkahestry had to have the answer.

He was only faintly aware of Roy staring, first at Ed, then at him, then back to Ed.

Then he got up and left, too.

The soup sat on the table and went cold.

XxXxXx

The party had been delayed until the next Saturday, another week off, but Roy wasn't sure if it was foolish to hold out hope that Ed would be in a better position by then.

Would it be a party, or a wake?

Everything was up in the air, everyone waiting with bated breath to see when it would all come crashing down around their ears.

Fawn wasn't sure when—or, after Roy pressed, if—he'd wake up. He'd said Ed was very weak, his system on a knife's edge, and only Ed would be able to decide if he was going to pull through this latest hurdle.

And Roy was almost done. Doctor Marcoh would arrive soon, and Roy just needed a few more days after that, and he needed Ed to hold out that long.

But Ed was stubborn, so Roy hoped.

XxXxX

Ed woke up two days later, sometime around midnight.

Al hadn't left his room except to take care of basic needs, but on one such occasion, he'd come back in to find Ed looking at the ceiling, the oxygen mask pulled from his face and resting on the pillow beside him. His golden eyes were glassy with fever, rimmed with exhaustion and a dull pain, and he had a hand wrapped around the stump of his left thigh, idly thumbing the bandages under the thick covers.

An oppressive weight lifted from Al's shoulders at the sight. Ed was awake.

He wasn't done yet.

"It's gone," Ed said simply, his voice a faint rasp. Al would have missed the words if he hadn't been staring at him and seen his lips move.

Al chose not to address that for now. "Do you want some water?"

Ed closed his eyes and nodded.

Al helped him sit up, worried to note that Ed didn't help in the process very much, despite his effort. He stuffed a few spare pillows around his brother's rail-thin frame, horrified at just how devastatingly skeletal he was. It was getting hard to tell just which one of them had been wasting away on the other side of the Gate for over four years.

Al grabbed a glass Winry had left by his bedside and lifted it to Ed's lips. His brother raised a hand as if to help, but it shook hard and Ed let it fall to his side.

Sometimes, it was the little things that were the hardest to watch.

Ed finished, then sat heavy against the pillow panting, half-lidded gold eyes staring vacantly around the room. "How long . . . was I out?" His voice was stronger now, but Al's fingers itched to put the mask back over his face. He breathed a lot easier with it.

"Two days," and then some, Al added to himself.

Ed nodded, turning his head to cough away from Al, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet room. He turned back with blood on his lips. "Can't keep sleeping . . . my life away like this."

Al thought it was supposed to be a joke, but he didn't really find it funny. He smiled anyway, setting the glass down. "You're right," he agreed, reaching over with a tissue to wipe the red away.

Ed looked annoyed but didn't move to stop him. "What day is it?"

"Technically Monday," Al supplied.

"Where's my leg?"

Al winced, but tried to school his expression into something more neutral. "There was an infection. They had to take out the whole thing, I'm sorry."

There was a sadness in his eyes that Al found hard to look at. All he said was, "Oh."

"How do you feel?" Al asked, desperate to change the subject and feeling like a coward doing it.

"Great," came the automatic response.

"Now, how do you really feel?"

Ed arched an eyebrow, another stab at humor that fell flat when it transformed into a pained wince. "You don't believe me?"

"Not even a little bit," he agreed, combing Ed's shaggy bangs back from his face. Ed needed a haircut. Maybe he should get the scissors . . .

Ed glared, weakly turning his head away. "Stop that." This time, Al's amusement was genuine. The only person that got a free pass to touch his hair was Winry, it seemed. "Where is everyone?"

Al knew he was dodging the question but didn't have the heart not to let him get away with it, at least for now. He pulled up Winry's chair and sat next to Ed, propping his elbows up on the bed. "Mostly here, at Winry's, but I haven't seen Roy in a while. I think he's at our house. Falman and Breda are heading back to Central to take care of some things but should be back in a day or two. I'm not sure what the train schedule is these days." And he hadn't been paying much attention when they were discussing their plans for the future. Al was too busy living one day at a time.

Ed looked thoughtful, his eyes sliding over to the pile of books and papers that Roy had graciously brought from their house at Al's request. Al had always been able to read his brother well, and he knew he was thinking carefully about something, considering his next words.

"Al, I want you to . . . do something for me," he murmured between breathes.

Al blinked, surprised. Ed wasn't one to preface. "What is it?"

"I want you . . . to stop all this research."

A cold stone dropped in the pit of Al's stomach, ice spreading in his veins.

He took a breath. "Brother—"

"Al," Ed cut him off, his golden eyes forceful despite the exhaustion ringing them. "It's time. We tried, and . . . that's the best we could do. I don't want to spend . . . the rest of my life watching you read." He reached out a quivering hand, and without thought Al latched on to it. "I want to spend it with you. With Winry, my friends . . . maybe even with Mustang, if the drugs are right."

A hysterical laugh tore from Al's lips of its own accord, scaring him with its suddenness. It wasn't that funny. Nothing was funny, why was he laughing? "Ed, I can't—"

"No more research," he said, demanded.

Just like that, the laugh died, cold silence stretching between them.

Al didn't know he was crying until he tasted saltwater on his lips.

"Please," Al finally whispered. "Don't ask me to do this."

Ed gave a little shake of his head. "Alphonse. This is what I want. No more research, no more . . . playing doctor. . . Just . . . be my brother."

Al didn't have the strength to hold himself up. He sank forward, burying his head in his brother's thin chest. Ed stiffened for just a second before tentatively bringing a hand to rub weak circles on his back, like he had when they were little. He smelled like sick and blood and disinfectant, nothing like his big brother. It wasn't right.

Nothing was right.

"Do you remember when . . . Mom talked about the day you were born?" Ed asked softly, one hand moving to stroke his hair, just like Mom used to when he was upset.

Al sniffed and shook his head against Ed's sharp ribs, not trusting his voice.

He could hear the smile in Ed's voice. "When I saw you . . . I told Mom, 'you have me . . . this one is mine'."

A fresh wave of tears spilled from his eyes, soaking into the thin white sheets.

"Don't worry . . . I hated you after you started getting all the attention."

Al huffed a choking laugh that ended in a sob. "I do remember that," his voice trembled.

"Sure," Ed sighed, then coughed hard, Al's head bouncing roughly against his chest. "That's the part . . . you remember," he finally wheezed, voice like sandpaper.

Al didn't want to look up and see the blood dribbling from Ed's mouth, so he stayed where he was, listening to the rattling in his lungs and the quick thump of Ed's heart, proof of life.

"I don't know . . . what I did to deserve . . . a little brother like you," Ed whispered. "But it must have been . . . pretty good."

Al didn't try to stop the tears slipping from his eyes, falling freely. He took a shuddering breath, letting them pass.

"I'm sorry I . . . wasn't a better big brother."

"Shut up, Ed," Al mumbled, voice tight. "You're a great big brother." He turned his head, staring at the empty space where Ed's leg should have been. "You always have been."

Ed made a humming sound, that wasn't necessarily agreement, but he didn't argue. "Thanks, Al. I'm sorry . . . for this. I didn't want this . . . for you or for Winry."

The last thing Al needed was Ed to start apologizing with his misplaced guilt. Al was already crying as it was. "Ed, please," he said, voice thick. "Don't start that."

Ed thumped his ear lightly. "I will start . . . what I want," he rasped.

Al couldn't handle it anymore. He wasn't thrilled with Ed watching him cry, but he couldn't handle the way every sentence Ed whispered grew weaker and weaker. Al sat up and wiped his wet face, then picked up the glass mask from where it sat hissing gently on the pillow. He wanted to talk to Ed more than anything, but Ed needed the oxygen more than Al needed to talk. He looked his brother in the eye, noting the smear of red against Ed's chin, a harsh contrast to the bluish color his lips and eyelids had turned, and the fatigue seemed to be etched into his very soul.

He looked so tired.

But he still glared at the mask as if it had offended him deeply.

"Al—" he whined. It might have been comical if it hadn't ended in a chocking cough.

Al let him finish, his lips looking even bluer after he was done, then Al wiped away the blood and slipped the mask over his mouth and nose. Ed didn't fight it, accepting it with only an unhappy grunt.

Ed turned his glare to the ceiling and said something into the glass.

"What?"

Ed turned back to Al, then lifted a shaky hand to pull the mask away from his mouth a fraction. "This thing sucks," he repeated, resituating it on his face and lying back like the movement had exhausted him.

Al gave his brother a half smile. "But does it feel better?"

Ed just rolled his eyes in response.

Answer enough.

Al's smile was a bit stronger this time, feeling more genuine on his lips. Even as he watched, Ed's eyes slipped shut a few seconds, then opened.

"Sleep, Brother," Al said. Ed turned his tired eyes to Al, holding his gaze for a beat, then letting his eyes slide shut once more. It didn't take long for his breathing to even out into sleep.

Exhaustion tugged at Al's mind like an old friend, reminding him that he hadn't slept much in a while. He glanced at his research, stifling the urge to reach for his journal.

It's all Ed had asked for.

He was done.

Al blinked back another wave of tears and leaned forward, pillowing his head in his arms on the hard mattress next to Ed, despair crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. Ed's cold hand touched his, and Al had no idea if it was conscious or not but wrapped his fingers around Ed's anyway.

No more research. No more playing doctor.

Now, until it was over, Al would just be his brother.

That's all he'd ever been.

Welp. The good times were fun while they lasted, huh?

It's getting depressing in here :'D

So my parents were like, you need a puzzle because hobbies are important. And I promptly explained how puzzles were really nice pictures that someone cuts up, and then sells you on the idea that your life will not be complete until the picture is, and puzzles are in fact a scam. But they give me this puzzle anyway, so it sits on the table, I throw a few pieces together just so I can tell them, "Yes, I've worked on the puzzle, much fun, wohoo." Then I go on my way to do laundry.

But every time I walk by, it calls me. I have to keep putting pieces together. It's like some sort of compulsion, a psychological trick that these puzzle masterminds employ because they know our hearts will not be satisfied until it is assembled, every piece in place, every cloud complete, every sunset set.

And forty-eight hours later, I've got this thing finished, AND THERE IS A PIECE MISSING.

What MONSTER leaves out ONE PIECE?!

It. Is. Infuriating.

So, back to my original point: puzzles are a scam.

Thank you for coming to me TED talk. I'm not sure when, exactly, I started treating the ends of my chapters as inane little journal entries, but here we are xD

I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please drop a review, and I'll see you next time c:

God Bless,

-RainFlame