A/N: I said squeee for the first time in my life. I found out about Conqueror of Shambala. I felt like such a fangirl. Thanks for the reviews. By the way, Henrika, if you could possibly email me specific errors, I would be very grateful.
V. Solidarity in the Bathtub
You want to hug him when he looks like that. You want to throw yours arms around him and cry for him because he seems to adamantly unwilling to cry for himself. Instead, he growls and yelps and jerks away from you.
He has never seemed so helpless before, and he has also never seemed so stubborn.
"You need to rest," you repeat when you see him hobbling into the kitchen, leaning his good shoulder against the wall.
"I need to heal," he snaps. "There's a difference."
You threaten to remove his limbs if he won't be still. He refused again, so you conspire with his brother; you sneak into his room and take them off while he sleeps off the morphine. In the morning, he repaints the room with his colorful language. He calls you every foul name there is, pushes every button you have—he knows them all—until your grandmother storms in and slaps him.
A month passes, and you ask his brother to bring him into the operating room. He won't look at you, but you weren't really expecting him to. You ask him questions about how his is feeling, and he makes a point to be monosyllabic.
"I think it's time you started working with the automail," you say.
"About damn time," he mutters.
Before you can install everything though, you have to ready the sockets. You have told him to clean the sockets every day, and he has, but there is still dried blood deep in the grooves. The warning you give him sounds strong and resolved, but your hands shake when you put on your gloves and ready a wet towel.
Tentatively, you push the towel into his shoulder socket first.
You ask, "Does it hurt?"
He shrugs, and you think that means that it does but he doesn't want to admit it. So you move very carefully, very lightly and slowly. When your fingers finally hit something hard, you begin to rub at it gently. He presses his mouth shut.
"I'm sorry," you say. He shakes his head and watches his foot.
After dunking the towel in a basin of water, you begin working again. You pass the cloth over something jagged against the smooth metal, and he twitches. Placing the towel down, you gently slide you fingers into the socket to palpate the spur.
He groans and drops his head. You see a blush spread over his face and down his neck.
Worrying for him, you move more softly. Your fingers find the spur, and you carefully fish it out. It is a bone fragment. You hope he doesn't think you were careless in the initial operation, but when you look up, he is still watching his foot. He hasn't seemed to notice you or his bones.
When you finish on his shoulder, you can hear him whimpering through his teeth. You work quickly on his leg. He has his hand curled into the upholstery of his seat; his knuckles are white.
"Hurry up," he growls, and you nod. The faster you work, the ruddier he becomes until you fear he might faint. Gritting your teeth, you pull the cloth from the socket and declare that you are done. He breathes deeply.
Your grandmother comes in so that you can install both arm and leg at the same time. "Get it over with," he says, still focusing on his foot. You exchange a glance with your grandmother, and you both cringe when he cries out in pain.
He does no want to do his exercises where you hold him and tell him to flex and extend his joints against your resistance. You think maybe he doesn't want you touching him, so you ask his brother to help. You take turns with his brother until you feel almost confident that it is safe for you patient to walk.
He moves like an animate doll, like he is learning how to move all over again. The automail is heavy, too heavy, you know, for an eleven-year-old boy. But you let him try anyway. Some days he can lift his leg; some days he can't. Some days he can feed himself with his right hand; some days he can't. The inconsistency frustrates him, and when you try to explain to him that is only to be expected, he gets angry with you. He blames you, of course, because it is easier than blaming himself. You let him. He already blames himself for enough, you reason.
You know he is pushing himself too hard when you have to wash the blood out of his sheets, when you find his pant leg and sleeve darkened and flaking. He won't quit, though.
Your grandmother talks to him. He ignores her. She scolds him. He yells at her. She washes her hands of him. He washes his back.
"You're the worst patient I've ever had," you say when you find him on the front porch, nursing a glass of apple juice.
"You're all holding me back," he replies, for once without anger. He sounds rather resigned, and that scares you.
"We have a choice between letting you work yourself to death or holding you back because we care and he know what's right."
"It shouldn't be your choice."
"Well, it is. And there's nothing you can do about it." You get up and go inside alone.
When he falls, he gets flustered and embarrassed and angry at you for witnessing it. When he drops things because he is shaking, he won't speak to you as you clean it up. You reassure him. He doesn't care, but he doesn't even bother telling you that anymore.
One morning, you find him in the bathtub in his underwear. The tub is empty, and his is dry. You stand in the doorway for a moment, watching and wondering and worrying. He looks up like he has just noticed you. His eyes are bloodshot.
"I just realized something," he says to you.
"What?" you ask, surprised by how you whisper.
He looks at his shiny new hand and says, "Things are never going to be the same."
As time passes, he becomes more graceful about his clumsiness. He seems to get used to being awkward and unsteady, and he begins to allow himself to be a student. You offer to help him down the stairs; he accepts and laughs when he misses the last step and you have to catch him. The sound surprises you so much that you almost drop him.
He begins to join you on your walks to the mailbox. He also accompanies his brother in the yard even if he can't train with him. He lets you test his resistance and flexibility without argument; he still blushes when you touch him, though. You blush back, and you think, Equivalent exchange in action.
His hair is getting long, you notice over dinner. To your horror, he catches you staring and makes an announcement of it by asking, "Do I have something on my face?"
His brother laughs. Your grandmother shakes her head and tucks into her mashed potatoes. You blush and look away very quickly.
"Your hair," you say lamely. "I just noticed how long it is."
He grins and shakes his head, letting it fall into his eyes. When you look back, his face is a golden curtain with a toothy smile poking out underneath. "I kinda like it," he says.
"Me, too!" his brother concedes brightly.
The next morning, you teach him how to braid. You let him practice on you. When he is still uncertain with his right hand and pulls your hair, he feels bad about it and says he should stop before he rips it out. You smile as you are reminded why you put up with him—a question you have been considering lately. You tell him he can practice more when he feels like it, and you braid his hair for him.
"It makes you look older," you say, not sounding very excited for him
He frowns at his reflection. You take a moment to realize that he is mimicking you. With an awkward laugh, you give his braid a tug and dart away.
One Wednesday morning, the time you typically set aside for a trip to the market, you hear your name being called. There is no urgency in the tone, but you run down the hall anyway. Sliding over the floorboards, you come to a halt in the doorway to the room he shared with his brother. You ask what is wrong breathlessly. He acts as though he has not noticed you while his brother laughs.
"Brother needs some help," explains a voice from somewhere within a suit of armor. You're still not used to it, and you doubt you ever will be. You look to the brother in question. He has his back turned away slightly, his hands fiddling with the open front of his shirt.
"What is it?"
"It's these stupid buttons," he says, turning toward you reluctantly. "I still don't have the dexterity to handle them yet."
He had taught you what dexterity meant a week before, and you're proud of yourself for remembering. You take a moment to laugh at his expense and then take another moment to marvel at the fact that he lets you. He glares at you but still waits for you to help him
"Isn't this what younger brothers are for?" you ask as you take the bottom button and eye in your fingers.
His brother huffs and whines, "My hands are too big. Plus, I can't feel anything."
You laugh. "I was just playing." Turning back to your work, you ask, "What's the occasion?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"
"When was the last time you didn't just wander around the house in your underwear?" you ask, knowing it will make him blush. He rewards you, and you laugh at him.
"I thought I'd walk with you today," he says rather sheepishly, looking out the window.
"To the market?" you ask incredulously. He nods. "It's a long walk."
He flashes you a pearly grin. "Don't expect me to empathize when you start complaining that your feet hurt."
"Ha!" you bark. "Maybe Al should come along. I'm not gonna be able to carry you and the groceries."
He scowls and you finish buttoning his shirt. You then roll up his sleeves into very neat, even cuffs. He surreptitiously rolls them back down. You are tempted to argue with him until you see him gingerly smoothing the sleeve down his right arm.
You chat casually and pause periodically as you walk, feeling more at home with him than you have felt in almost a year. He carries your shopping basket for you in his right hand, absently lifting and lowering it at his side. You are happy to see him adjusting.
"You're not shaking anymore," you say, venturing into sensitive territory.
"I'm getting used to it."
"I'm glad," you say. "I didn't know… I mean, I was afraid that… well…"
"Afraid I'd never get the hang of it?" he finishes for you. You nod. "Yeah… me, too."
And you lapse into a companionable silence. Maybe, you think, you understand each other better without the words.
You want to slip you hand into his. But you don't.
The trip there goes well. He doesn't seem winded, and he doesn't complain. You think maybe it was a good idea that he came with you; you certainly are enjoying his company. You quickly change you mind, however, when the two of you reach the marketplace.
The road narrows. You sniff the air, taking in the aroma of the rotisserie by the entrance. From your pocket, you pull out the list your grandmother gave you, and with your companion in tow, you begin weaving through the stands and other patrons.
He begins to ask you a question when you hear your names being called. Both you and he look up to see a red haired girl waving and jogging closer.
"Hey, Winry," she says quickly and then promptly ignores you. "Edward, where had you been?"
She sounds indignant. This makes you angry at first, and then it makes you furious. It seems somehow diminishing of what he has endured that she feels she is important enough to be upset with him for being away. She had no idea. Suddenly, you want to leave the market, take him away from people who would not understand.
"Jacob and I were wondering what happened to you. And Al, too. When did you get back?"
He blushes from all the attention. "Uh, we've been back for a little while now," he says.
"Well, why didn't you stop by? I've missed you!"
He blushes deeper. "He's been busy," you say quickly and rather territorially.
The girl's younger brother, Jacob, trots up. Before the boy can even say hello, his eyes grow wide. "What happened to your hand?" the boy cries, pointing.
There is a flash of sunlight off metal as he slides his automail hand into his pocket. "Nothing," he says. You can tell he's looking around for an exit and all he sees are staring faces, so you provide him and escape. You tell them you have shopping to do before taking him by the arm and pulling him away.
The moment you are away from Jacob and the girl, you let go of him. You shop quickly and silently for his sake.
Once home, he says he's going to take a nap. He doesn't come out of his room for the rest of the day and into the night. After dinner, you and his brother sneak in to check on him. He is motionless and sound asleep.
"Must have worn him out," he brother whispers to you. You nod and whisper back a good night.
Later that night, after you can't get to sleep, you slip out of you room and into the bathroom. In the dark, you lower yourself into the empty bathtub. It is cold against your legs, and without the buoyancy provided by water, the tub holds your neck and back at a rather uncomfortable angle.
To the tiles that you can barely see, you murmur. "I'm never going to be the same." When that doesn't feel right, you amend. "We're never going to be the same."
The day they leave, the morning you find them gone and their home burned to the ground, you make breakfast: pancakes with brown sugar, because you know he loves those. Alone at the kitchen table, you chew your lonely flapjacks without syrup. You're done crying, you decide. You have work to do, and that is much more important that worrying about him and his brother.
You get up from the table and resolve to dive into the steel; you have a customer coming in less than an hour, and that is certainly more important than…
You realize that, in the grand scheme of things, you are not that important—then you wonder when his opinion became the grand scheme of things. You say it to yourself again, that you are not that important to him. But he is off to do great things, to fix his life and the life of his brother, and if you know him, he will probably end up fixing a lot of other people along the way.
He is important. He will do important things.
You kick a chair as you walk by and let it clatter to the floor. You leave it there.
In the days that pass, you begin to understand better. You say with conviction that you will never be the same; it cements and holds. You say it again and again. You sit beside the bathtub and wonder how they are doing; you try not to think of him independently anymore, but you catch yourself doing it anyway.
You think you know how it must have felt to be him, to be in an altered body, to not know how to move, to be so frustrated with you own inadequacy that all you can do it sit and marvel at the oppressive stagnancy of it all. You're lonely. You remember him shaking and twitching, him stumbling and falling and getting so angry with himself. You remember the looks people gave him in the market, the murmurs of grotesque and malformed, the rampant disapproval.
You wish you could roll the sleeves down over you heart and pretend like nothing is wrong, but you can't. You know that now when you still pause and hope at the sight of every blonde braid, the sound of every metal creeek, the flash of every red coat—when you stop and look twice every time you pass the bathroom.