Disclaimer: I've got a headache…
Author's Note: Wow, let' see… what to say?
One, thank you for the awesome responses to last chapter! XD I'm still completely blown away by all the kind things you guys have to say (especially after having re-read some of the older chapters myself; God, chapters 1 & 2 BIT HORRIBLY! (sobs) Edward and Alex were still so 2D as characters… (smacks herself))… thank you so much! (Blush) I hope that y'all continue to enjoy—though we're getting frighteningly close to the end. O.O (I know; horrifying, isn't it?)
Two, the riddle behind Ed's apartment number… a lot of you guys got close—some of you even solved it. YEA! I'm impressed! And to be honest, the reason all of you didn't get it is because I was stupid… I forgot that I have a weird cell phone. Anyway, the joke was that the numbers 3, 6, and 1 are also the letters F, M, and A on the buttons of a phone. (Or my cell phone, anyway. Like I said, I forgot that most phones' alphabet starts on 2.) So 361FMA. (Though to be honest, I liked the ENA answer, better. X3)
Finally, someone mentioned how they thought Ed Sr. was a little OOC by forcing Al to marry Annya. A valid observation; I partially agree. And originally, that scene was going to be written with the boys on opposite sides—Al was going to be arguing why HE should be the one to marry Annya, rather than Ed, because he never got to shoulder any of their burdens back in Amestris. But it didn't work out that way, because Annya's not interested in marrying Ed: she wants to marry Al. (Make any sense?) With that in mind, Ed's argument was founded on two basic ideas. The first being that Annya is stubborn (and yes, a little spoiled). Even if Ed tried to marry her himself to "save" Al, she wouldn't hear of it. They'd get no where. The second idea upon which Ed based his argument is that incest is wrong. He knows it, and even though that hasn't stopped him and Al from doing naughty things before, he will always feel partially guilty for it. That's just the way Ed is. Therefore, he sees this as an opportunity to do what's "right" (if you consider, as most do, incest "wrong") and make things "normal" for his little brother, who never got to be normal in Amestris.
Everything make sense now? Yes…? Good!
In that case, off we go to unravel more mysteries… (oooooo)! XD
(WARNING: This chapter touches back on things mentioned waaaay earlier, so you might need to review! (dances))
Enjoy:3
PS. Rawr, this chapter was a bitch to write and edit! Thanks to my lovely Skeletons beta, Su-chan, for not sugar-coating my hideous mistakes, even when I threw a tantrum. ;)
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Grandpa was a cynical man, at best.
Not to say that he was unpleasant— he was lovable, in his own special way. I enjoyed spending time with him, and he with us. I can fondly recall many pleasant outings: days at the park spent playing on the swings and eating ice cream. He'd teach us simple biology and old lullabies; and, of course, there were hundreds of stories to stuff those lazy summer hours with. How he loved retelling those tales; loved to bask in our unending supply of childish adoration; loved to laugh with us.
Yes, Grandpa Elric liked laughing.
…He just didn't have much to laugh about.
I didn't know him like most did, I suppose. After all, whenever he was with us, he was happy… But in the present of other adults, he was bitter and pessimistic—always frowning, always grousing; he always saw the worst in people and situations. Grandpa was… closed, I guess is the word for it. Cold and quiet and hard as a rock. It was like there was some sort of shell around him: a barrier that helped him keep face.
But sometimes that face shone through.
Alex got sick a lot when he was small. No particular reason why, he's just one of those kids who inadvertently attracts every bug and germ and virus that could possibly do them any sort of harm. Because of this, it wasn't that unusual to see him shuffling through the house in footie pajamas, flushed and clammy and hacking up a storm as he wobbled around with Bunny in tow.
Rosie and I got used to it.
Grandpa never did.
He didn't come over much when Al was ill—you could tell that the sight unnerved him. Heck, the sound of coughing unnerved him. Anything that could possibly be equated to sickness made him tremble; his face would grow pale and his eyes would get glassy… and he'd cry. Not publicly, of course, but…
I saw him, once: saw him sitting by Alex's bed, watching him sleep as tears slipped silently down his leathery cheeks. He briefly touched Al's hand, then pulled away—standing and brushing past me without a word. I only remember this because the sight horrified me; I thought Grandpa might be broken.
And maybe he was.
Grandpa Elric hated illness. I think he'd learnt it meant "goodbye."
X
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Skeletons
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Alexander stared at the open diary for over an hour, mind whirling with questions and strange realizations. 'Dad's father was Alphonse Elric, not Edward Elric,' he repeated mentally, though the words still sounded foreign. They probably always would. 'That means that our biological grandfather was really Alphonse; Edward was our great-uncle. But… but why? If Grandpa wasn't really Dad's father, why did he portray himself as such? Why did Dad act as if he were? Did they always…?'
Drumming his fingers rhythmically against his forearm, Alex thought back as far as he could, trying to recollect some slip in their performance—but no: every Christmas, every birthday, every family vacation had been spent as if Edward Elric Sr. was really Benjamin Elric's dad, and Alphonse Elric—
Alphonse Elric…
The brunette frowned. Outside of the journal, he'd never even heard of Alphonse Elric. Which, all things considered, wasn't very surprising: if Dad had really known what the two brothers had done in private, he'd certainly have chosen to erase all remnants of his biological father. But what didn't make sense was that Edward Elric hadn't received the same treatment. Heck, he'd gotten the opposite: he'd been honored. Alex had been told from an early age that his father had named Edward, and his mother had selected 'Alexander.' Then, when Rosie came along, they had collaborated for reasons of fairness. So why had Benjamin chosen to name his first born after his gay, incestuous uncle?
Unless…
The boy rolled over, gazing blankly at the ceiling. 'It shocked Dad to find out that Grandpa wasn't his father… so Grandpa must have been raising him. He probably didn't even know about Al. But then, what happened to Alphonse Elric? And why…?'
"Why…" Alexander whispered, eyelids growing increasingly heavier, "why does Dad ignore his existence…?"
Those were questions even the diary couldn't answer.
He'd have to ask Benjamin himself.
X
August, 1934
Dear Al,
I don't know how we're going to make this work. It's almost been two years, and I still have no idea. You and I, you and her… it's like a battleground.
Because you refuse to let me go.
Don't get me wrong, Al—I nearly cried with happiness the first night you snuck into my bed, holding me and kissing me as if nothing had changed. But Annya, if nothing else, is as stubborn as we are, and refuses point blank to surrender you to me. And now that you're married, you're contractually obliged to play the part of husband whenever she's awake, or anyone else is around. Not to say that you do so whole-heartedly, but you do love her and try your best to pacify her.
She returns the courtesy by not killing me in my sleep.
Needless to say, Annya and I don't talk much, anymore; on good days, we'll have a polite conversation about something as inconsequential as the weather. On bad days, we'll ignore each other entirely and talk only to you. Sometimes you take her side on matters, other times you take mine… but regardless, once night has fallen and you've made a show of going to bed with her, you sneak out and join me instead. You say you can't sleep, otherwise. And your wife pretends to believe it, just like she pretends not to hear the noises we make in my bedroom. Just like I pretend not to hear the noises the two of you make in her bedroom on the rare occasion—generally her birthday—that you submit to her.
Nobody's happy; whenever two are, the other isn't, dragging all three of us into a deep depression. It may be fine and dandy on the outside, but on the inside we're cultivating little seeds of abhorrence and distaste and irritation…
It's like having a picnic in a minefield. We dislike it, but we keep going back. And we will probably continue to do so, until one of us steps on a bomb.
I don't know what else to do; I can't think of how else to get by. I hate the tension, but I hate the thought of leaving you—or never seeing you again—even more. I don't want her to suffer, but I don't want to suffer, either. And you, Al, have made it perfectly clear that you'd fall apart without me around… even though you don't want to upset Annya.
It's not fair, not to any of us.
But I suppose life never is, is it?
—Ed
X
There was, of course, the problem of actually talking to Benjamin.
Alexander frowned pensively, sinking deep into the living room loveseat; watching his father read the newspaper from over the pages of a random magazine he'd snatched off the coffee table. It was quite the conundrum, really: how on earth could he bring up the topic of parentage without sounding… well, suspicious? He certainly didn't want to explain to his father that he knew about the diary, particularly after seeing how he'd reacted to Edward Jr.'s 'enlightening' announcement. What would Dad say if he realized both of his sons knew his dark and dirty secret? Hell— that they were practically reliving it?
'They say that those who do not know history are condemned to repeat it,' Alex thought dryly, flipping through the glossy pages of whatever it was he was pretending to read, 'but clearly, that doesn't always do the trick.' Not that Benjamin wasn't trying to keep the past from reoccurring, he just didn't comprehend the extent of the damage being done; didn't realize that his world was collapsing beneath his feet.
Alexander almost felt sorry for him— but his anger over Edward's swift exile kept him from feeling too sympathetic.
'Ed...'
The brunette scowled, pulling his knees to his chin and curling his toes in irritation at the memory. Edward had been living on his own for nearly a month, now—content and cheerful and working his hardest to make ends meet. He was doing relatively well, considering the circumstances, but that didn't mean Alex could forgive his father for what he'd done. Homophobic or not, Edward was his son… how could he kick him out so heartlessly? How could he continue to disregard him? The Elric children couldn't even say their oldest brother's name anymore without being glared at.
This made the task of excavating information all the more difficult. After all, it was one thing to mention the forbidden name "Edward,"— a person Dad was purposefully ignoring, but everyone was aware of. It was quite another to mention "Alphonse"—a person Dad was purposefully ignoring, but no one else knew existed. No one else but Alexander… who wasn't even supposed to be reading this diary, anyway.
How does a criminal trick a police officer into sharing classified information without admitting to the crime?
Alex, never having been a felon before, wasn't sure. But he was determined to find out… if not for his own sake, for his Grandfather's. Edward Elric Sr. deserved to be understood, if only by one person; if only a decade after his death.
"Alex?"
The teen jolted upright— more startled than he cared to admit—tilting his chin to look into Rosie's inquiring face. He forcefully shaped his mouth into a cautious smile. "Uh, yeah…?"
Rosalie arched an eyebrow, biting her bottom lip; wearing an expression that implied she'd missed the joke. "Why're you reading my Cosmo…?" she asked slowly, careful to keep her voice down. The last thing either needed was their father noticing anything he might consider "odd." "I mean, to each their own, but even I find it rather—"
What she found it, however, was lost in the sound of her brother's flustered squeak. Rosie smiled faintly, watching the magazine fly across the room. "Yeah, something like that," she drawled, unable to keep a hint of amusement out of her retort. Shrugging, the girl marched over to the TV set and plucked the publication off the ground. "Anyway, Alex, Mom and I are going to the grocery store. You wanna come, if you're bored? I bet we could talk Mom into buying some muffins or something."
Alexander grinned, but he knew it must look strained. "No, thanks," he said as dismissively as possible, waving a hand and trying to keep the pain in his gut out of his voice. At the same time, he knew he was being stupid—he couldn't avoid every place he'd ever been to with Edward; it wasn't healthy. Even Ed would tell him to get a life… but it still hurt to be reminded of his brother: the brother he couldn't even talk about anymore, and had to sneak around to see. It was annoying, it was frustrating, and it hurt, dammit. "I… uh, think I'm going to go see if any of my friends are home."
Rosie watched him stand and dust himself off with an odd expression on her face—an expression which suggested that she didn't quite believe him. Alex didn't know why; what had she expected him to say? Whatever it was, it would have to remain a mystery: she chose to shrug instead of press for information. Then, as if nothing had passed between them, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called loudly: "Bye, Daddy! We're off to the store. Blink twice if you heard me!"
Benjamin gave a start, paper rustling as he lowered it. "Er—pardon?" he blinked, looking a bit disorientated; eyes clearing of thoughts. "Sorry, I was… um, what was that again?"
As his sister repeated herself, evidently exasperated, Alexander began to wander: feet taking him no where in particular, though apparently with a specific destination in mind. He shuffled, hunched and broody… only to discover that the destination his body had in mind was the front porch: his glider creaking forlornly in the brisk autumn wind.
The brunette felt the ghost of a smile tug on his lips; it'd been a while since he'd last sat out here… 'I guess I've been busy,' he mused, easing gingerly onto the edge of the cushioned seat.
It was cold and damp— the remnants of clinging dew and rain soaked through the back of his pants. Around him, the shrubs and grasses looked like sticks of cinder; gray trees tearing at the cloud-covered sky with their bare, scraggly arms. They groaned in the breeze, the sound echoing over otherwise-silent hills. But though the heavens were a dark slate, the ground was a bright, vivid green: spotted with wet brown leaves that tried vainly to dance on air.
"When did fall get here?" Alex asked himself with a tiny grin, touching a socked foot to the ground. The swing began to move slowly: back… forth… back… forth… And soon he felt himself relaxing, closing his eyes; the words of his mother's old lullaby inevitably popping into his head.
But there wasn't time for that now.
The teen leaned back in his seat, idly twisting his long hair into a braid as he contemplated his problem. A way to make Benjamin confess to his past without admitting he already knew part of it… "Maybe I should just flat-out ask him," Alexander heard himself mumble, eyes flicking lazily over the scenery. Ben had acted rather spacey when talking to Rosie; perhaps he wouldn't notice if Alex said anything strange.
Yeah, right.
'I could try saying it's for a family history project,' the brunette mused, but rejected the idea almost instantly. Rosalie had done a project like that in 8th grade; he'd be told exactly what she had: "Go ask your mother." A response that, at the time, had struck the Elric children as 'lazy'—now it sounded suspicious.
Alex blew out his cheeks, watching the clouds darken, rumbling ominously. Well, it did look like rain… The teen stood with a stretch and a sigh, moving towards the front door. 'Maybe I can ambush Dad while—'
Crash!
Alexander choked on a gasp, clutching his racing heart. That had come from no where… 'Geez,' he shivered, taking a deep breath.'Stupid thun—!'
…wait.
That hadn't been thunder; couldn't have been thunder. Unless thunder was now being produced in their garage.
The boy frowned, nonplused and curious, inching away from the door and towards the edge of the porch. Leaning out and around the corner of the house, he glanced towards the garage window, squinting. It was dark, but there was definitely movement inside. Rapid movement. And muted swearing. "Dad…?" Alex whispered, stunned. What in God's name was he doing?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
X
March, 1941
Dear Al,
A lot has happened since I last wrote. I won't get into politics, as I would probably run out of ink before I ran out of things to say. However, I will comment on the more personal side of things. For starters, we finally moved out of New York. Back in 1939, actually. After years of saving and quite a bit of luck, we managed to catch a train to Chicago, where we're now residing. We live in another apartment; it's not much better than the one in New York, but it's enough. It's very pretty: you can see the lake through the window; the sunrises and sunsets make the most beautiful colors off the water.
We also got a new cat. As always, it was a stray from the street that you just "couldn't live without." You named him Midnight, and he likes to get into everything. But he keeps the mice in check, so I guess he's all right.
As for work, you wrangled yourself a job at the library. From what I understand, your main duties are to sort books, put them on the shelves, and to keep the card catalog organized. You seem to like it— a lot— as it gives you access to any book that you could ever hope to read, and a chance to talk to well-educated people. I, on the other hand, found an occupation at the local museum. At first I just gave tours and dusted off antiques, but now I have an office job where I organize and oversee new exhibits. It's not what I thought I'd be doing, but I don't dislike it. And together, we make enough to scrape a living.
Annya contributes where she can, as she always has: cleaning the house, making meals, and recently she's begun sewing blankets out of old clothes, selling them for as much as she can convince people to part with. On good days, she can coax as much as $4 out of some of our more wealthy acquaintances. So we're doing all right.
Financially, anyway. Though I suppose I can't complain about the emotional side of things, either, considering.
You and I are still going as strong as ever, though secretly. I know it hurts Annya, and I'm sorry, but I can't help it. Neither can you. We've just… we've just been through too much together to let one girl tear us apart, no matter what the stakes. For her part, Annya takes it well—purses her lips and glowers, but rarely throws tantrums anymore. She even talks to me, once in a while; sometimes we'll find ourselves laughing like we used to. Of course, she'll soon catch herself and leave—but still it's progress. In return, you and I act like the brothers we were born as whenever she's around. She's around a lot… but we can catch spare moments on the walk home from work; wait to kiss until we're hidden in a dark alley way; stall our touches until after she's left to visit a friend. You try to stay in your bed at night, too; more and more often I sleep alone. And despite what I say, it does hurt, dammit—just like having to hide our feeling, just like having to watch you kiss her, just like—God, a million other things…
But that's okay. You make up for it, when you can. And you are her husband, after all.
I have no right to complain.
—Ed
X
To say that he'd surprised Benjamin would have been the understatement of the century.
"Ack—!" Mr. Elric yelped, covering his head with his hands in an attempt to protect himself from the tower of boxes that threatened to topple over. Thankfully, the warning sway came to a hesitant halt—though many of the cases maintained a disturbing tilt. "Alex—!" Ben snapped, spinning around to face his second-oldest son with a flush and a grimace. "What do you think you're doing!"
Alex, who'd done nothing more than enter the garage and call his father's name, blanched; lowering the hand he'd lifted to wave. "Um…saying hi?" he offered weakly, shooting his father a puzzled gaze. Why was he so flustered? Why was he so jumpy?
The older man must have realized from Alexander's stare that he was acting strange, as he quickly straightened and cleared his throat, smoothing back his dark blonde hair. "Sorry," Benjamin muttered distantly, shaking himself and turning back towards the mountain of neatly stacked boxes. "You… startled me, that's all. I thought you were out with your mother and Rosie, but—um— never mind."
The brunette arched an eyebrow, understandably concerned. "Dad…?" he murmured, walking warily forward and touching his father's back. Mr. Elric was tall, taller than Edward; Alex, even when stretching on tip-toe, could merely reach his shoulder. Still, it was the only movement he felt he could make, so he made it.
However, the gesture wasn't appreciated. Ben shied quickly away, eyes glazing over behind his glasses.
Alexander tried again, verbally this time. "Dad?" he repeated, careful to keep his voice gentle and patient. "What're you doing? Are you looking for something? Maybe I could help—I'm the one Mom had organize these." The boy jabbed a finger towards the boxes, for once thankful that Edward had duped him into finishing his chores. "So…?"
His father glanced towards him, visibly embarrassed, mumbling something like "Oh, did she?" under his breath. Why? Why was he so troubled? Because he was caught in the garage digging through boxes? Or was his anxiety based on what he was looking for…?
Something secret.
It had to be something secret.
And suddenly, Alex knew. He knew beyond any sort of doubt; felt his belly twist into uncomfortable knots as it all came together. 'Grandpa's stuff…' Mom had told him that Dad had saved it to go through someday—he just hadn't had a chance or reason to do so. Not until now. Now; now that he knew his oldest son's secret, now that his neat little world was cracking. He needed the box of Edward Elric Sr. old things. Why? To remind himself why he had to kick Ed out? To reaffirm his opinions? To make sure it was still there, that his children hadn't been influenced by it?
Alexander wasn't sure. But one thing was for certain: 'He's looking for the diary—!'
This was his chance.
"Well, um…" Mr. Elric scrubbed the back of his head, pasting a thin smile on his face. "Originally, I was looking for an old refrigerator box full of… items… but I guess you guys moved it all into smaller boxes, so… Do you remember which boxes you put the stuff from the refrigerator box into?"
Alexander swallowed, trying to keep cool. He knew from playing games with Rosie that he had a wonderful poker face— but this was real-life, and this was high-stakes. Still, if he could play his cards right now, he might win a real jackpot. "I dunno…" he drawled, nonchalantly easing himself onto of a stray box in the corner. "Could you tell me what the 'items' in it were? Items are easier to remember than specific boxes are."
Ben fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable. "Oh— oh yes, of course. Let's see… there were some old pictures and a journal. About the size of one of those comic books Rosie reads—"
"Manga."
"Yeah, those," the older man grunted, rolling his eyes. "About the size of one of those. And it's a dark brown color; almost black." He cast his son a hopeful look, removing his spectacles and cleaning them with a cloth he kept in his pocket, a nervous habit that the whole family recognized.
So far, so good.
"Hmm," Alex hummed contemplatively, brow crinkling in deep thought. "Those do sound famil— oh yeah!" The brunette glanced up with an expression of 'swift realization' on his face. "I remember those. Mom said they belonged to Grandpa!"
His father inhaled sharply, then nodded with a fake, cheerful grin. "Yes, yes they did. Since everyone was gone, I figured I might finally take a look through his things… I've been meaning to for a while, I've just never had the time."
Alexander didn't have to be a farmer to know bullshit when he smelt it. Regardless, he continued with his act—allowing his face to fall a bit. "Oh… oh, Dad, I'm sorry," he said dolefully, coiling a lock of hair around his finger. "Brother and I threw most of that stuff away… We didn't think you needed it anymore." Alex clicked his tongue apologetically, avoiding his father's gaze. However, after a suitable second had passed, he made another small noise in the back of his throat, turning to face his father once more. "So, wait—that filthy little journal? That belonged to Grandpa?" he inquired, trying to sound shocked and excited. "Really?"
Ben—who seemed torn between regret and… was that relief?—nodded hesitantly, sitting on a box bedside Alex's. "Yes… he started it when he was about E— a little older than you, and kept writing in it until the end."
"Man… now I wish I hadn't thrown it away," the boy pouted, glowering at the floor. "I'll bet it was full of history! And a first-person source, too…" He sighed, 'mourning the loss.' But then, abruptly, he frowned; tapping his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. "Hey… if you knew about it and how long Grandpa had written in it, Dad… had you read it before?"
Benjamin set his mouth in a tight glower; perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose and squinted aimlessly out the opened garage door. Rain was starting to splatter against the concrete, turning the soft gray a dark shade of gunmetal. "…I did, once," he admitted delicately, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his knees. "When I was about 12. Your grandfather had left it on his bedside table and I couldn't resist, though he told me never to touch it." He chuckled nostalgically, shaking his head. "I never wanted to listen to him; he was always so strict…and I thought 'what's the harm?'"
Casting Alex a sideways glance, he grinned—a toothy, teasing smirk that both Rosie and Edward had inherited. Alexander blinked, surprised at its unexpected appearance. "I know it's hard to believe, but I was a kid once, too. I thought that everything my dad did was unfounded and stupid… that's just the way children are."
Alex pursed his lips, feeling his neck bend strangely when his father ruffled his hair. Sentiment was all well and good, but this wasn't the time for it… He'd have to be more straightforward. "What did it say?" the boy pressed, not having to fake the impatience in his tone. "What did the journal say? It must have said something worth remembering, if Grandpa had forbade you from reading it."
The smile vanished. Benjamin turned away, sighing. "…Yes, it did. But I really don't want to talk about it."
"I don't believe that," Alexander announced confidently, shocked by his own daring. His father arched an eyebrow, staring stonily. In response, the boy shrugged: trying his best to look nonchalant. "Well, I don't. If you came in here to find the diary after so long, whatever you read has clearly been on your mind. Recently. And you're obviously pretty preoccupied. What's wrong? What'd Grandpa's diary say?"
His father didn't reply; he only watched the rain as it fell, harder and harder against the ground.
Dead end. Dammit. Time for plan two. Alex bit the inside of his cheek, screwing up his courage for this next, crucial step. "Dad…" he tried again, softly; toying with the decorative zippers on his cargo pants, "I don't know much about Grandpa—I was only 6 when he died. But after you... after Edward left—" Ben stiffened "—Mom and I got to talking. I was really mad, but she told me that you had your reasons. That… that Grandpa had been gay, and you'd found out somehow."
Mr. Elric's face had hardened; his mouth a thin white line. But Alexander continued, regardless, feeling the butterflies in his stomach morph into a hive of anxious bees. "The only thing is… well, I mean, if you really hated gays, you'd have to hate Grandpa, then—and you don't, do you? You named Ed after him, and you kept all of his stuff…"
"What're you getting at, Alex?" Benjamin inquired wearily, dragging a hand over his face.
"I— uh, well…" The teen wiggled his feet, watching them bounce against the face of the cardboard box. "I guess what I'm trying to ask is if that had anything to do with what you read about in Grandpa's diary. That maybe… you know… you found out something about Grandpa that kept you from… er, hating him for his sexual orientation?"
He didn't respond; not for a whole minute. Alex—torn between letting the matter drop and asking again—started weighing his options.
But then Ben took a deep breath and stood, dusting down his well-pressed pants; avoiding his son's probing gaze. "…Edward Elric was a good man," he said solemnly, unusually quiet. Alexander, surprised by the unfamiliar tone of voice, looked up abruptly: startled. "He was strong, smart, determined—and though life threw him more curve balls than he deserved, he kept on fighting. Through Hell and heart break, he never gave up, he never backed down. And even when he didn't need to… he took on responsibility." Benjamin nodded resolutely, briefly brushing the corner of his eye. Alex pretended not to see, glancing respectfully away. "I may not have agreed with… everything he did in his life, but I owe him more than I could ever possibly repay, and the least I could do was honor him."
The conversation was over.
Alexander watched mutely as his Dad walked away—opening the door to the kitchen and slipping noiselessly inside, firmly closing it in his wake. The sky roared. And Alex sat alone, scrutinizing the storm from his seat on the boxes, feeling unusually empty.
"It really didn't work… did it?" he breathed, hugging his knees to his chest.
He wasn't referring to his plan.
X
October, 1945
Dear Al,
Things have been happening—have happened. Everywhere. Our old home in Germany; our new home in the United States... Years have passed since the more horrific stories played out, but still, I hate it. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to write about it.
I can't stop remembering Amestris; Ishbal; fallen soldiers; mother.
We may act strong during the day, but at night…
I hope we don't have to deal with this any more than we already are.
—Ed
X
"Well, aren't I the lucky one?"
Alex smacked his brother playfully, rolling over so that he lay sprawled on Ed's stomach. The mattress squeaked beneath them… "Don't tease," he chided with a smile, resting his chin on his crossed arms. "It was really rather touching. You're lucky to be named after someone Dad cared so much for."
Edward snorted, playing with a strand of his brother's hair. "Could be worse, I guess. I coulda been named after Alexander the Great." He wrinkled his nose in mock distaste, laughing when his boyfriend punched him again.
"It's not my fault Mom was a history teacher before she had kids," he grumbled, blushing twenty different shades of pink. "I'm just grateful that she waited to take an interest in the arts until after I was born… otherwise I might've ended up with a name like 'Vincent.'"
Ed snickered, gazing wistfully at the empty walls of his bedroom. "Oh, but I could've had such fun teasing you—!" He threw his hands up in surrender when Alex glared. "You know I'm just kidding… and I'd love you even if Mom and Dad had named you Moonunit."
"Cute," Alex drawled flatly, though he colored just the same when Edward kissed his cheek. "You know, I'm only telling you because you asked."
"I know," the blonde sang, grinning widely. "And I asked because I'm interested. Family history is fun. Learning Dad's secrets is even more fun. But making jokes about it all? That's the best part." He winked to show he was only joking, tapping his younger sibling on the nose. "Now we should get you home. It's almost 11—you don't want to break curfew, do you, Al?"
Alexander's face crumpled, wrapping his arms tightly around Ed's middle and burying his face in his sibling's stomach. "I don't wanna…" the younger teen whined, voice muffled by his brother's warm skin. "I'd rather stay here."
Edward smiled, running his hands through Alex's long locks. "I know, and I wish that you could," he reminded soothingly, sitting up and forcing his lover to do the same. "But you can't. You know that."
The brunette nodded miserably—and for some reason, his mind began to wander backwards: reflecting on events that he hadn't even been present for. "Things can't last forever…" Alex heard himself whisper faintly, eyes locked on the murky window. He scowled, froze. Ed, who had been amusing himself with the task of re-buttoning Alexander's top, glanced up, curious. "Hm?" the older boy hummed animatedly, tugging his brother's lapels straight. "What was that?"
Just as suddenly as the frown had come, it was gone. In its place, the brunette wore a tender smile; tickled by Edward's childish enthusiasm over something as stupid as his shirt. But how could he always act so care-free? Didn't he realize how dangerous things were for them?
…not that he had the right to point fingers: Alex found himself forgetting, too, when he was with Ed. Of course, that was no excuse—especially with his grandfather's diary entries weighing heavily on his mind. Guilt, too, though he'd never actually admit it; piling higher and higher with each new lie he told his parents. Oh, they were worth it— he'd do anything to see Edward— but…
He shook his head, clearing it; forcibly untying the knots in his stomach. 'I'm not going to think about this. Not now, anyway.' "Nothing," the smaller boy assured, leaning over to brush his lips against his older sibling's collar bone. "I'm just a little tired."
"Well, then, let's get you home."
The walk back to the Elric's house was uneventful in a pleasant sort of way; they ambled down the shady streets hand in hand, dodging the puddles of golden light streetlamps cast on the shadowy sidewalks. It was nothing they hadn't done before—laughing and bantering over small talk, though always sure to keep quiet: just in case anyone in the nearby buildings happened to be awake or knew who they were. Usually the secrecy added a level of fun to the stroll, but tonight Alexander only felt exhausted, wishing he could've stayed with Ed.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Alex gave a nasty start, the concerned question snapping him out of his gloomy reserve. "Huh?" he gaped, mentally smacking himself against the closest tree when he realized how 'intelligent' he sounded. "Er, I mean—yeah, I'm fine! Why do you ask?"
Edward quirked an eyebrow, torn between amusement and worry. "Because we're here," he announced with a small smile, gesturing his free hand in the direction of the house.
And so they were. The brunette blushed, embarrassed; feet nudging the frost-covered grass that grew over the edge of the driveway. "Oh…"
"We've been here for the past five minutes," Ed continued, speaking in a tone which suggested that he was busy mentally critiquing Alex's health, "and all you've done is stand here holding my hand. Not that I'm complaining," he assured with a wink, "but you appeared rather deep in thought. So I'll ask again: are you sure you're all right?"
The younger boy glanced away, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his scarf. "Yeah, I'm fine," he repeated quietly, prying his fingers off Ed's. "I've just got a lot on my mind right now, what with Dad and the diary and all."
"Well, don't get so lost in the past that you forget the present," the blonde advised with an impish leer, bopping his brother mischievously on the head. "Or else you'll forget what day it is tomorrow and stand me up."
Despite himself, Alexander felt a smile tug on his lips. "Don't be stupid. I remember what tomorrow is—Friday, right?"
"And…?" Edward prompted, hooking his thumbs around the belt loops of his jeans. Alex graced him with an expression full of false confusion, mimicking his stance.
"And what?"
His elder sibling pouted; face twisting into a look of unbearable pain. "Al…!" he whimpered, though his mouth was already starting to morph into a grin, "Don't be mean. You know that we're going to the mall tomorrow—we're meeting up after school. Remember?"
Alex frowned pensively, rapping a finger against his chin. "That does sound vaguely familiar, yeah…" He smirked, laughing behind his mittens when Edward tried to glare at him. "I'm kidding! Of course I remember. I'll meet you by the bus station at 3."
Ed immediately perked up. "All right then," he beamed, ruffling his baby brother's hair. It was the most affectionate gesture he could make while standing in front of his old home… who knew who was still awake inside? Alexander bat at the hand, privately wishing he could hold it a little longer. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow," the brunette promised, turning to march down the driveway and slip in through the back door. It was a performance he had long since grown used to repeating: he'd memorized every creaking step, each squeaking floorboard; how to open the door without making a sound. Rosalie had been right— he had gotten used to sneaking around. Quickly. It was almost second nature, now… though he was beginning to feel properly ashamed about it.
'Speaking of Rosie…' Alex felt his brow furrow in bemusement, sliding the door shut behind him with a hasty glance around the kitchen. His little sister was no where in sight. 'Weird.' She was usually waiting for him at the kitchen table, eager to hear how the night had gone. ("Without all of the juicy details, if you please," she had once requested, giving a teasing shudder. "I mean, you are my brothers, after all.") 'I wonder where she is?'
She couldn't possibly be asleep already, could she? Alexander tiptoed down the hallway, careful not to make any noise, and peaked around the half-open door at the very end of the passage. Rosalie's room.
Could she be asleep? Yes, evidently, she could. Her many, multi-colored lights had been flicked decisively off, and there was a predominant lump in her stuffed-animal-strewn bed: a lump that only a human could make. She was also snoring gently, which served as a pretty blatant hint; and though her computer monitor was glowing, she had—shockingly— logged off the internet.
Had he not seen the sight himself, Alex never would have believed it. His sister, asleep before midnight? Inconceivable.
'Maybe she felt sick,' he thought, pulling his head back from the doorway and stealing into his own bedroom. 'She has been acting sort of strange… I'll ask her tomorrow.'
He gave it no more thought. Instead, he scurried into Edward's bunk and whipped out his Grandpa's journal; itching to read on despite the waves of uncertainty the more recent entries had been dousing him with.
"Let's see," the boy said to himself, speaking in a whisper. "September, 1953: Dear… Edward?"
Alex felt his insides drop away.
"You cannot be serious."
X
September, 1953
Dear Edward,
Forgive me for taking your journal out of your dresser drawer; I realize it was an intrusion of your space and privacy. Do not worry, I have not read any of it. However, I was going through my old notes earlier this morning and ran across a song I once wrote. It was then that I recalled a promise I had made—a promise to write that particular song down for you, as I had originally written it for you and Alphonse. I admit I had forgotten, but now that I have remembered I have no excuse not to keep my word.
I know that you had said you liked it, back when I first sang it for you; I hope you still like it, now. (Particularly the English translation, which I added per your long-ago request.)
"Братья"
Прости меня, младший брат!
Я так пред тобой виноват.
Пытаться вернуть нельзя
Того, что взяла земля.
Кто знает закон Бытия,
Помог бы и мне найти ответ.
Жестоко ошибся я:
От смерти лекарства нет.
Милая мама! Нежная!
Мы так любили тебя.
Но все наши силы
Потрачены были зря.
Тебя соблазнил я
Прекрасной надеждой
Вернуть наш семейный очаг.
Мой брат, я во всем виноват.
Не плачь, не печалься, старший брат!
Не ты один виноват.
Дорога у нас одна,
Искупим вину до дна.
Мне не в чем тебя упрекнуть,
И я не обижен ничуть.
Тяжек, наш грех
Хотеть быть сильнее всех.
Милая мама! Нежная!
Мы так любили тебя.
Но все наши силы
Потрачены были зря.
Я сам соблазнился
Прекрасной надеждой
Вернуть наш семейный очаг.
Я сам во всем виноват.
Но что же нам делать, как быть?
Как все исправить, забыть?
Пытаться вернуть нельзя,
Того, что взяла земля.
"The Brothers"
Forgive me, little brother
I am to be blamed
One shouldn't try to regain
that which was taken away by the earth
The one who knows the law of being
would help me find the answer.
I was utterly mistaken;
there is no cure for death.
Dear Mother! Affectionate one!
We loved you so much.
But all of our strength
was spent in vain.
I intrigued you
with the beautiful hope
of returning our family's house
My brother, the fault is all mine.
Don't cry, don't despair, big brother
You are not the only one at fault
We are both on the same road
Let's bury all of the guilt
I have nothing to reproach you with
And I bear no grudge at all
Grievous is our sin
The desire to be stronger than all
Dear Mother! Affectionate one!
We loved you so much.
But all of our strength
was spent in vain.
I was intrigued, myself
with the beautiful hope
of returning our family's house.
I am the one to blame.
So what should we do, how should we act?
How do we correct everything and forget?
One shouldn't try to regain
that which was taken away by the earth.
—Annya
X
One thing was for certain: Alexander needed to stop reading these life-changing entries at 12 in the morning. It made sleeping really, really difficult.
"Mom!" Alex screeched, sliding into the kitchen as soon as his clock read 6:30 AM. However, he was a little too enthusiastic… or, at least, a bit absentminded. Either way, he should have forgone the socks: he slid into the room so fast that he nearly slammed into the table, cursing his feet all the while.
Teri Elric chuckled good-naturedly as he floundered, pinwheeling his arms and dragging himself to the counter. "Good morning, Alex," she chirped from her place behind the island, working busily on pancakes. Her apron was already covered in flour and cinnamon. "You're certainly up early."
Early—ha! She didn't know the half of it; he'd barely slept a wink all night. He was too busy, too shocked… and the words of her old lullaby wouldn't stop running through his head.
But he didn't need to tell her that. Instead, he slammed the diary down in front of her, slapping the page he'd discovered the night before. "This," he said in a breathless, demanding voice. "This, it—!"
Baffled, his mother blinked vacantly down at the small black journal; eyes skimming the words he'd been jabbing at with little more than polite interest. "Um… yes?" She smiled brightly, pouring liberal amounts of batter onto the sizzling griddle before her. "And what is that?"
"What IS it?" Alexander gawked, frustrated and more than mildly irritated. "It's your song! The lullaby you used to sing to us when we were little! Don't you remember?" He quickly hummed a bar or two, repeating the ending chorus: "So what should we do how to act; forget everything bring it back—!"
"One never should try to rebirth what was taken away by the earth," Mrs. Elric finished calmly, flipping a flapjack with a rubber-tipped spatula. "Yes, of course I remember. What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" the brunette choked, face white with shock. Teri noticed his clammy countenance with a murmur of concern, lifting a hand to feel his forehead. Alex easily ducked away. "Mom, how do you know this song? How? I know you said Dad read Grandpa's diary, but did you…?"
He trailed off, eyes locked on his mother's composed face. She glanced his way briefly; sighed… then smiled, aware that she wasn't going to be able to skate around this.
Alexander waited.
Astonishingly, he wasn't disappointed.
"You'd have loved your Grandma Annya," Teri declared, beaming as if this conversation were nothing out of the ordinary. "She was quite the storyteller. Always talking about the past and days gone by… she'd seen hundreds of amazing sights by the end of her life. But her favorite story to tell was of two brothers she had met." Mrs. Elric bubbled merrily, sliding the finished pancakes onto four plastic plates. "Quite the epic… she insisted it was true. And although she never had a chance to tell me the whole of their adventures, she did teach me that song— and she made me promise to sing it to my children so that the brothers' story wouldn't be forgotten."
"…" Alex gaped wordlessly, only realizing how far his jaw had dropped when he felt his chin hit his throat. He promptly snapped his mouth shut again, but his face remained a dazed white. "How much… did she tell you?" 'How much did Mom know…?'
Mrs. Elric only smiled, pushing a plate of flapjacks towards her son. Alex quirked an eyebrow; she'd decorated the top of his breakfast with a syrup smiley-face. "Eat up," she cheerfully encouraged, resting her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands, watching him with large, bright eyes. "I don't want you getting hungry during the day— especially with how little you eat of your lunch and how late you get home for dinner. And I don't trust that mall food at all."
A bite of pancake slipped off Alexander's fork; his silver pools widened to the size of oceans. "Mall food—? What're you…?"
Teri beamed, waving a hand and turning to attack the dirty dishes in the sink. "I just don't want you getting sick, honey," she explained sweetly, oblivious to the growing shock on her youngest son's face. "Oh, and don't stay out too late with Edward, all right? Strange people ride the bus after dark."
The fork fell from his hands with a clatter. Simultaneously, Alex felt his stomach vanish. Vanish; and the rest of his insides turn to ice—horror painting itself on his overly expressive features. His ears were buzzing; his heart racing…
Pushing away from the kitchen island, the boy flew backwards with so much force that his stool almost toppled over. 'Forget 'did'— How much does Mom know?' he thought in a panic, slowly inching away.
His mother began humming their lullaby.
Alex grabbed his backpack and bolted out the door.
'How much do they all know?'
X
June, 1955
Dear Al,
Damn, it's been years again, hasn't it? Sorry—I know that I should write more often, but I'm too distracted by… well, living. Time seems to move so quickly, you know? One minute it's 1921, the next it's 1955. I don't know where the months go, I really don't. Hell, the only reason I'm writing now is because I have nothing else to do: you're sick with the flu and Annya had to go shopping, so I volunteered to stay and take care of you. I may miss out on bossing my museum underlings around (haha), but it's worth it to spend some time with you, ill or not.
It's almost fun (rather, it's fun marred by occasional vomiting): reliving memories of mother and of lazing around as sick children. We spent a long time talking about how we used to take naps together in her big downy bed, cold cloths pressed to our foreheads; kept alive on strict diet of broth and juice. I tried to reenact that for you: I made some apparently-edible broth (we were both surprised that it wasn't toxic) and found some juice; pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and laid beside you on the bed, waiting to move until you fell asleep with a bad headache.
After that, I got up to fetch you another wet cloth and feed your whining cat. It only took a minute; and it was on my way back from the kitchen, when I passed my bedroom, that I paused and —on nothing more than a whim— decided to take out this old journal. Which brings me to now: sitting on a chair beside your bed, writing as you sleep. Heck, maybe when you wake up, I'll finally share this little book with you. You never did press for information when you saw me writing in it so many years ago… Maybe you forgot, maybe you were respecting my space, but either way, this was written for you—so I should really let you read it, shouldn't I?
In fact, I should pr—
X
East Central mall was known for many things: its size, its stores, and its sales being three beloved attractions. It was a four-story architectural masterpiece of fiberglass and steel located only 45 minutes from Edward and Alex's small neighborhood, making it easily accessible by bus or car; typically bus, seeing as how Edward could no longer borrow his parent's car. But at least they didn't have to fight with holiday shoppers for parking spaces, anymore.
This particular mall was a frequent haven for the Elric boys, also on the grounds of size, stores, and sales—just for different reasons. Reasons that mostly fell in the category of "staying inconspicuous": the more places, people, and pandemonium, the easier it was to hide in public. And normally that was enough for Alex—the opportunity to subtly hold Edward's hand in a crowd of strangers, discuss meaningless musings and act like a regular couple: cloaked among people who didn't know or care about them one way or another.
But Alexander's thoughts were too far gone that night; his whole brain stunned stupid by his discussions with his father, his mother, the most recent entries in his grandfather's diary. Though it had nearly been 12 hours since his breakfast chat with Mrs. Elric, his innards had yet to stop squirming… and he was beginning to second-guess every glance shot his way, intentional or not.
He jumped half a foot when he felt a hand brush his own.
There was a dreary sigh. "All right, that does it."
Alex snapped his head up when he heard a paper cup hit the sticky surface between them, abruptly aware of his surroundings. They were in the food court… enclosed by countless white checkered tables, shaded by a forest of plastic green ferns; serenaded by screaming children and the noisy gossip of conformity-driven teenagers, all of whom wore clothing either three sizes too big or three sizes too small. Dozens of nutrition-needy customers clamored around the dozen fast-food joints, yelling their orders so as to be heard over the din.
The brunette blinked; fingers tightening around his drink. There was the faint taste of food in his mouth… what had he ordered again? 'Heck, when did we get here?' "Um… sorry about that—you startled me," he mumbled, almost shyly; blushing. "What were we… er… talking about, again?"
Edward's face tightened, furrowing with worry. Pushing aside a litter-ridden plastic tray, he leaned forward—piercing his younger brother with those unnervingly golden eyes. Alex's cheeks darkened; his own glance drifted to the right.
Ed frowned. "Seriously, Al…" He looped his fingers around the hand Alexander had left lingering on the table, voice steady and soft. But even the gentle evenness of his tone was unable to smooth out the kinks in Alex's stomach; if anything, they merely made them worse: the memories and revelations returning with augmented distress and dread. Edward… himself… Grandpa… Alphonse. Alexander could barely suppress the tremors that shot through his body. And though he knew was being irrational, he couldn't stop panicking— it was getting harder and harder to breathe. "I know I've asked this already but… are you really okay? You've been out of it all day. What's on your mind?"
Alex didn't respond. He didn't lift his gaze. He didn't do anything, really; the cool condensation of his soda dripping down his clammy palm. But his brother had been blessed with an innate sense of patience, so he waited—tawny pools deep and wide and ember-bright, watching the brunette's face crumple with thoughts and emotions.
"It's just…" The younger boy swallowed thickly, trying not to squirm as a little girl stared pointedly at them, waving with a smile when scolded by a parent for her rudeness. "It's just that I've been reading more of Granapa's diary and it's…"
Alexander paused; irresolute. It's what? Disturbing him? Alerting him? Making him nervous?
He tried again.
"You've heard that history repeats itself, right?" he asked quietly, careful to keep his eyes anywhere but focused on his older brother. Edward, nonplussed, made a sound of assent in the back of his throat. "Well, in Grandpa's journal, things have… not gone so well. And I—"
Ed suddenly smiled, leaning back in his chair with a wave of his hand and an understanding chuckle. "Is that it?" he surmised, face decorated with amusement and adoration. "You don't think things will work out for us because they didn't work out for Grandpa and his brother?" Alexander flushed brightly, horrified that Edward had said something like that so loudly. What if someone overheard? "Oh Al, you don't have to—"
"Mom knows."
All the color drained from his elder siblings face; he blinked at Alex, dumbfounded. "What…?"
"Mom knows," Alex repeated dourly, annoyed beyond words by the ease with which his brother had been responding to his greatest fears. "At least… she knows more than we thought she did. She knows about the diary; Annya, Grandpa, and Alphonse. She knows I'm seeing you. She might even know what we're doing." He bit his bottom lip, glaring frostily at the table between his sibling and himself.
Edward managed another small, though somewhat forced, smile; brushing their hands together one more time. "I think you're being a bit paranoid, Al—" he began quietly, but was cut off by a fervent shake of Alex's head.
"Not paranoid," he snapped. "Cautious. We're supposed to learn from history, after all: history does repeat itself. Don't you see?" Alexander finally reconnected their eyes, his own wavering with desperate insecurity. "It's just like what happened with Annya—once anyone finds out, it's over. And it… it ruins people, Brother. Ruins relationships between friends and spouses and destroys trust. It ruined Grandpa and Alphonse. It ruined Annya too. It ruined Dad."
Alex took a deep breath; Edward watched him do so with determinedly vacant eyes. But still, the younger boy could see the hurt—the horror— behind them. "What are you trying to say, Alex?"
The brunette scrunched his nose, scowling—again, unable to look anywhere but away from his older sibling. "I'm… I'm saying that things can't stay like this forever," he whispered, feeling the paper cup in his grasp crumple, yet unable to loosen his grip. "That things don't work like that. I'm saying that all of this running and hiding and sneaking around isn't good for either of us… I'm saying that I'm not fearless, like you—I'm scared." As if on cue, Alex felt the pinpricks of tears gather behind his eyes. He hated himself for being so weak.Still, he pressed on— smacking away the fingers that darted out to touch his cheek, hissing through his teeth when he wasn't able to murmur softly anymore. "I'm scared of Mom knowing; of Dad knowing… I'm scared of all the rules we're breaking coming back to bite us, like they did to Grandpa and Alphonse. And…and I'm scared of everything falling apart!"
Edward ran a hand over his face, drained and preoccupied: a gesture that Alexander recognized from their father. Now he was having trouble maintaining eye contact: tilting back in his chair, pale and almost timid. Disorientated.
After another moment, the blonde blew out his cheeks; carefully leaning forward and closing his eyes, as if awaiting the guillotine. The air around them stilled… like it was dead. "So then…" Ed began, in a voice so cold and distant that Alex wondered momentarily where his brother had gone, "what do you want to do?"
What did he…?
Alexander's mind went blank. What did he want to do? What could he do? What choices did they have? What choices could there possibly be?
…only one. The boy's own expression crumbled, flesh ashen as his stomach rolled itself into a tight ball; refusing to loosen so long as his heart still beat. But that was fine: it was a problem that would soon be remedied. Because… because…
Well, that was it, wasn't it? The only way to stop everything bad… was to stop everything good.
"I…" Alex choked, struggling to un-stick the sour words in the back of his throat. Tentatively, he turned— touching his hand to Edward's; staring resolutely into those haunting amber eyes once they'd fallen on him. It had to be done… "We... we have to end this, Brother," he whispered, trying to ignore the way something behind Ed's eyes appeared to splinter; trying to ignore the way his own heart seemed to snap in two. "Before it gets out of hand. Before people start to question us; before our lives are ruined. We can't go through life hiding from neighbors and friends— we can't keep pretending we have a future together. You know we don't… we can't. Things don't work like that. So we…" Alexander broke off, trying to speak around a sob, "we have to stop now, before—! Before…"
He hurriedly glanced away, blinking rapidly in an attempt to quash the threat of oncoming tears.
The blonde's trembling fingers quickly laced around his brother's. "Alex…" he breathed, in a voice so soft and helpless that Alexander nearly shattered, falling to pieces; but no, he couldn't— this was… this was for the best…
"Don't," Alex begged, disentangling their hands. He could feel his insides writhing again, worse than before; his voice shaking like leaves in the wind. "Don't look at me like that, Ed. Please…!" 'Don't make this harder than it already is—!'
But Edward could no more stop looking broken than Alex could stop feeling broken. "I'm sorry," the younger boy pleaded, pulling away entirely; trying not to act as small as he felt. "I'm sorry, Brother, but it has to be this way… it has to, if we ever want to be happy."
Silence. Impenetrable, grave, painful; destroyed only by Ed's rueful grin. Alexander wanted to die when he saw it… "Well…" the older teen said quietly—in a voice crisp with empty comfort and sheered hurt, "as long as you're happy, Alex."
And that was it. Alexander stared blankly at Edward, torn between self-loathing and anger; enraged by the aching loss that painted Ed's features, furious at his gallant agreement—even while his golden eyes cried: crumbling to ash, imploring that Alex take it back. But he'd never voice that wish… because he'd meant what he said. All he wanted was his baby brother's happiness.
Damn him! Damn him for his sweetness; for his understanding; for not yelling and screaming and hating Alex as much as Alex now hated himself. And God, Alex hated himself; a detestation that well-surpassed the point of redemption, all for putting that look on Ed's face.
He couldn't be here anymore; he couldn't take the glimmer of wounded concern in Edward's gaze.
"I'm sorry," Alexander echoed, subdued and strained and nearly snarled; pushing away from the table with arms as heavy as lead. "I'm sorry—!"
And he ran: ran into the crowd, melding into the throng; pushing his way through the shoppers and their present-heavy bags, forcing his body in the direction of the exit. Faster and faster, before the world could swallow him whole, throw him into the darkness growing behind his eyes; before Ed could—!
…But even if the stores had all been empty, even if they'd been the only two people around, he knew that Edward wouldn't have followed.
Alex was alone.
Still, he waited until he made it to the bus stop to begin crying: curling up on the wooden bench and sobbing—louder and louder, until he'd reached a wail— vainly trying to stifle the sound with his knees. The wind blew, the stars shone, stray advertisements fluttered down the garbage-covered streets. But he didn't care. He just cried; oblivious to those who saw him, who heard, who stared: unaware of the child's frustration and broken heart.
He really was alone.
X
June, 1955
Dear Al,
I… I don't know what happened. One minute you were fine—ill, yes, but fine—the next you were jerking, jerking like you were being electrocuted, making these… squeaking little retching sounds as you choked on spit; conscious for one moment and the ne…
God damn it, I can't even write about it!
A seizure. You had a seizure, and I panicked. I called the hospital; that's where we are right now. Annya's here, too, but she's with you. I'm in the waiting room—only one of us was allowed to go in to see you, and since you're her husband…
I don't really know how long I've been here. I'm still trying to piece together what's going on. You have the flu! We shouldn't be in the hospital at all; none of this should be happening! None of this… not the increasing temperature, not the rashes, not the c—
…you're in a coma
I want to know what the fuck's going on; I want to know now—! But I can't do anything but wait here, because I have no idea where you are or what's going on and I'm scared that if I do anything, I might make things worse. I just—
Wait, there's Annya. She's coming through the doors to the waiting room. There are doctors with her.
She's crying.
And she's speaking to me.
"I'm sorry."
—Ed
X
The bus, as always, dropped Alex off on the side of the road about 15 minutes away from his house: beside a glowing streetlight and a frozen metal bench. Said bench looked even colder tonight than usual, as in the sky dark clouds began to collect: splotching out large patches of the diamond-bright heavens. Alexander watched the gathering vapors with itchy red eyes, sniffling once: unimpressed as a sprinkling snow began to fall. He sneezed; a puffy white flake stuck to an eyelash.
He shook his head and continued down the sidewalk; hands in his pockets and a lump in his throat.
How has this happened? How had everything fallen apart? He knew it was his fault; knew he'd been the one to travel down the condemned path of what-ifs, but it had only been out of concern for both of their well-beings. It was supposed to be for the best…
So why did he feel like he was dying?
The brunette snuffled weakly, the raw clawing of bile stinging the back of his throat. He was coughing, he was panting, he was… humming?
Alex gave a jolt, startled to hear his voice— scratchy, hoarse, whimpering— melting into the tune he'd heard countless times growing up; always used to hum when upset. But that was an insult to memory, now that he knew who had written the song; now that he knew of his mother's familiarity with the story. He didn't want to sing it, he didn't want to do anything other than cry.
Regardless, the words forced themselves out of his mouth, one by one; strained, painful… unfamiliar. Words that strayed from the original lyrics.
Alexander slapped a hand over his mouth, convulsing as if about to vomit. 'NO.' he thought firmly, seeing his house in the distance and racing for it—trying to outrun his depression and fear. 'I don't want to think about it! I don't want to think about him! I don't—!'
He burst into the kitchen, not caring if Rosie was there—not caring if he was quiet—not caring if his parents ground him for life for coming home at 11:30. He just didn't care anymore; didn't care about anything other than dulling the pain of his insides being torn into unrecognizable shreds.
Holding himself in a pseudo-hug, the boy fruitlessly tried to gulp down another harsh sob; about to storm past the living room and go to bed—
When his eyes fell upon his piano, sitting there in the darkness: big and brown and familiar and calling… the catharsis he craved.
Alex whimpered, edging gingerly closer: standing before the instrument as if terrified it might attack him. When it didn't, he allowed a tentative hand to drift towards the keys, brushing their glossy surface with an aggrieved kind of adoration. He pressed a little harder, shaping a familiar chord.
The notes sang loudly— melancholy; miserable.
And then he was playing. Without thinking about it, without realizing it; without feeling himself ease onto the wooden seat: the haunting melody began to pour from his fingers like teardrops, wetting the ivory surface of the keys. It was distressed, it was joyful, it was heart-breaking… but it wasn't Annya's.
It was a song all his own.
As he played, a little black book slipped out of his back pocket, dropping to the carpeted floor with a muffled thump. Bouncing once on its spine, the two covers fell back: opening to a page worn and wrinkled by antique tears.
X
June, 1955
Dear Al,
Meningitis.
You somehow contracted bacterial meningitis… and you—
You…
Fuck it, I can't believe it, let alone write it! I can't… you were just here. You were just here, dammit, and now you're not! I don't— I can't—!
Annya is crying. She's been crying for hours now: we sat in the hospital waiting room for a long time, doing just that. It was odd…not the crying, but the crying with her. She sat herself in my lap—she's still so small— and wrapped her arms around me, just like when she was 12.
She apologized. Wailing, snuffling, and heart-broken, she apologized repeatedly—sorry for all of the things she'd said, sorry for not understanding, sorry for trying to steal you away, sorry for acting like a spoiled brat… sorry that she wasn't a better person; sorry that she didn't know how to help me, now. Sorry for everything she had and hadn't done.
Sorry that you're gone.
I should have said something in response to all of that. I should have. But I couldn't. I couldn't even manage to feel any sort of gratitude for her earnest regrets; I was only numb. I was numb, then cold, then hot—then gone.
I was gone. I was nothing. I was another person, someone outside myself; someone outside the silently sobbing man who sat on that hard plastic hospital chair, shock and denial painted on his face.
I… I'm still gone. Sitting by the window, watching the sky; wondering if, were we in Amestris, would I have been able to save you? I will never know. And it will never matter. Because even if the answer were yes…
It's too late. It's too late to do anything— I wouldn't even be able attach your soul to armor, now. You're gone, little brother.
You're gone.
And I've lost you forever this time.
—Ed
XXX
…um…
I know this is a bad time to say it, but I'm gonna be out of state for a good chunk of July (I'm actually out of state now; I was just lucky and found myself a temporary internet connection), so… I might not have a chance to update for a while.
Just remember that hating/killing me won't get you a new chapter any faster!
…(runs screaming from readers)
PS. DON'T PANIC. Things will be further explained next chapter—especially baby!Ben. I promise. X3
PSS. Alexander's song, "Brothers' Sadness," will be included on the Skeletons OST—both with and without lyrics. :D Yea!
PSSS. The English translation I used of "Brothers" was written by combining and comparing a few different translations I've found drifting around the internet. I apologize for any inaccuracies; I speak very little Russian. (sweatdrop)