Seventeen years later and he still dreams.
He cannot stop the dreams from coming; they are as vivid as ever and his tired mind somehow manages to outdo itself every time the night renews. He embraces the dreams, even when the colors have changed from childhood yellows and oranges to stormy purples and mauves and reds, and occasionally black.
He doesn't know how lucky he is that he dreams in color.
When he sleeps, he is feverish. He wriggles all over in the blankets and he sweats, gloriously, like a child sticky and full of midnight bliss.
He dreams of many things. He dreams in life stories. He dreams of his own life and his brother's life, the Colonel's life (he doesn't know why), the life of his enemies, his mother's. He dreams them all, murmuring their stories on his lips as the clock ticks in shadows, recounting every word.
He dreams and his golden hair plasters to his forehead as he mumbles.
Tonight, unusually, he wakes up in the middle of his dreaming. He is warm and flushed and wet from grainy mind sweat.
He looks up from the bed to the shadow of his brother; the menacing jags of it make him laugh. The soul inside of it could never match the hulking body. There never was a bigger mismatch, he thinks. And the mismatch all his fault.
His brother looks down at him at the same moment, eyes all aglow and teeth glinting in the pallid gloom.
The rain falls outside like mourning dove ash, cooing against the window.
He wants to speak, say something, and at the same time knows that if he says something it will destroy this perfect silence. He chokes on the hot lump in his throat. He lets out a silent sigh and closes his eyes. He never knows what to say to his brother. His brother is too wise for him, too tender.
It's best that his words go unsaid.
His brother breaks the silence. The air ripples with the gentle tin voice. "Brother—"
He opens his eyes and looks to his brother's earnest gaze. He wonders how his brother gives so much soul to the metal he wears. His own metal remains cold in his body, shares the dead pulse of his veins and arteries.
"Brother," says the tin-boy, softly. "Did you—were you dreaming?"
He lifts his head. "Dreaming?"
His head rolls back to the ceiling of the small, dingy room.
"Yeah, I was dreaming."
His brother shifts against the wall and his metal joints squeak faintly. He can tell that his brother is contemplating something deep, something he would probably never understand himself.
"What were you dreaming about?"
He thinks; the dream is fuzzy at the moment. He can't remember.
"I don't know," he says. And then, for reassurance's sake, "Something nice, I think."
His brother would have smiled then, only he can't with the fierce iron mask he wears.
"You know, Brother, I was thinking," the tin-boy says.
"Hm, you do too much of that, Al."
He imagines the blush that would have been. The image quickly fades.
"But really, Brother, I—" he stops. "I miss it."
A faint tongue of lightning illuminates the room.
"I miss dreaming."
Ed sighs, closing his eyes again.
"Al—"
He chokes again, on the lump in his throat.
After a lapse of silence: "Yes, Brother?"
"Al, sometimes…dreams aren't enough to carry you. They aren't life. You don't need to miss them."
He hates saying things like this to his brother.
"I…I know, Ed."
The tin-boy is struggling with something. Struggling to piece something together so that he can share it with his jaded big brother.
"They aren't life, I know. They're—they're something better."
He pauses to recollect his thoughts, to form words of them.
"They're something that, once you've had them – they never stop burning inside. Even—even when they're unfulfilled…the ash keeps blowing in your eyes, Ed. You can't see anything but them."
Another pause.
"You're so lucky, Ed."
Ed smiles, because his brother can't. But mostly he smiles because of the irony.
You're right, Al. You always are.
And then he remembers.
He'd dreamt of clear skies.
Wow, first step out of Naruto fandom, first step into FMA. Yay. First attempt (I don't know FMA as well as Naruto, so pardon an OOCness). Kay, there ya go. I love Ed.