In waking
Edward Elric does not forget.
He wishes he could, sometimes. He wishes that, at night, when it's quiet but for the sounds of his own breath, that when he closes his eyes he didn't still see it. That he didn't still see what they had...what she... He wishes he could close his eyes and not see, not feel blood pouring out of him and not see their...that...that thing twitching, looking like it was trying to say something, trying to reach for
It's the waking he hates the most. He can't do anything about the dreams. But it's that moment before waking, when he forgets, just for a second. When his body twitches, and the weight of the automail is suddenly so heavy, heavy, why is my arm so heavy, Mom, why is it soand he's not awake, and for a split second, for a moment, there is no door.
There is no gate, there is no shadowy figure with a nightmare grin, there is no Truth.
There is no equivalent trade.
And then he wakes, and it comes to him again in a rush, and the knowledge rushes through his body, an electric hum throughout him. He has lost his arm, his leg, his brother's body, and his innocence, but gained an unconscious knowledge of the universe, humming beneath his skin and making his entire body an oroboros, primed and ready, connected to things he cannot understand and can not yet grasp, even though it is so close, taunting in it's closeness; an eternal emptiness that sickly cries out for one more glimpse, one more look into the abyss and he'll know.
It is equivalent trade.
And that moment of waking, that is the cruelty.
