Musicology

It was the same as it had been the last three nights: Al huddled in the corner of the Rockbell's living room while Ed slept in the next room, recovering from his automail surgery. The young Elric was beyond grateful for Pinako and Winry saving his brother. Without Ed, Alphonse didn't know what he would do. He didn't know how to go on, or how to change himself back.

Brother always knew what to do, where to go, who to talk to… If Al knew anything about Ed, he would wake with that fiery ambition and tenacity he always had; and when Edward finally woke, it would just be a matter of time before they were on the road again.

At least, that's what he was telling himself.

He'd washed his armor clean of all the blood that had stained it from carrying Ed over to their friends' home. Al was oddly transfixed by it. He didn't know how he was able to stomach looking at it–but then that's when he realized…

…he didn't have a stomach.

He couldn't feel nauseous. He couldn't throw up at the sight of blood–his brother's blood, at that.

He couldn't even faint.

It was an odd feeling, not feeling.

Alphonse looked out, up at the moon and stars at the sky. It was a beautiful night at least. The night sky was a perfect shade of indigo, and the stars sparkled in sequence from each other as they sat above him, like diamonds.

"Al?" a familiar small voice said. "You're still awake?"

Al looked over at the source of the voice, and spotted Winry in the hall, holding her fuzzy pink blanket and stuffed rabbit. She'd clung to it after helping Granny with Ed's surgery–Al didn't blame her, he'd probably be doing the same after what she'd been through.

"Oh," was all Winry said. Her blue eyes were sad, tired, and ashen–she'd seen too much, heard too much, the last few days. Through it all, Brother would survive–but it didn't make the screaming any less real. It didn't take the sight of an arm and a leg, just vanished.

Al couldn't imagine what it had been like for her; he wasn't there for the surgery–Granny Pinako refused to let him in. Al understood, of course–he'd be a distraction, and not just because of this new, enormous shell of a body. So he waited outside the operating room while they took Ed into the operating room.

Alphonse looked up at Winry from his seated position, nodding, "Yeah. I can't sleep. I don't think this body will let me." He huddled his knees as close to his chest as he could, not meeting her eyes with his (or whatever his current equivalent was). In the room behind his back, his brother rested. If he ever got his body back, Al would never take sleep for granted ever again.

He imagined, as he went along in this body, he would do the same with many other things.

Winry crossed the way and sat next to him. She threw her pink fuzzy blanket over them both–it was unnecessary, but Al chose not move the blanket, even if it only covered part of one of his legs.

"How does it feel?" she asked. "In the armor."

Al didn't look at her right away, instead staring ahead, "I'm not sure I can, Winry."

Winry reached out and touched one of the gauntlets of the armor, "Can you feel my hand?"

Al stared at her hand, wondering. He was aware of her hand, if that made sense, but he felt no warmth. He felt no sensation at all, only the weight–like when he ran his finger over that old scar he had on his flesh leg, from the swing in their front yard. It was years ago, but Al remembered how terrified his mother had been at the sight of it, and she'd carried him into town to the doctor. It needed ten stitches.

"Not… Not like I used to," Al answered finally.

Winry nodded, "Oh."

It was silent for the next few minutes, but then Winry spoke up again.

"But can you… feel," she asked, and Al glanced at her again, wondering why on earth she was repeating herself–but then he saw… she was touching her hand over her heart. "Can you feel… here?"

Al mirrored the gesture with his own hand, again wondering silently. "I… I think so," he said. Some part of that brought him comfort. "Yes," he confirmed, more confidently.

Winry nodded, and they sat again in another few minutes of silence.

But then she stood once more. "Come here," Winry said, her back turned to him as she walked across the living room–still holding her stuffed rabbit, though she dragged him by one of his long ears–and she stopped at the set of records on a shelf beneath the Rockbell's gramophone. Winry knelt next to it, searching through the stacks, all haphazardly placed on the shelf. Alphonse followed her and managed to sit cross-legged somewhat close to as she chose a single record.

"My dad," Winry began, her voice soft and quiet, "he liked this one. He liked playing old music. I never understood any of the words, but the songs were really pretty." Al watched as she touched the cover of the record, "This one… I never liked it all that much, because it just sounded so sad, but now…" Winry swallowed, and Alphonse could see how shiny her eyes had gone. She shook her head, "Now I think I know why my dad liked it so much. It's not so bad."

She took the record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable, switching it on as she dropped the needle. Winry took her seat next to Al once more, and they both listened as the record crackled to life.

It was a live performance, Alphonse realized, having heard a sputtering of applause come through at first–but then there was a hush over the crowd as an orchestra began to play a slow melody, and a voice began to sing.

It was low and mournful and beautiful. The singer sang in words he didn't know, might never know–but her voice carried into whatever concert hall had hosted her performance; it carried over the crowd attending, it carried into the Rockbell's living room, where the loveliness of the singer's voice seeped into Al's very armor.

He didn't need to feel cold to know he had the chills. He didn't need skin to see if he had goosebumps. He didn't need "real" eyes to know they'd be welling with tears as he listened.

Al had never really been religious, but he wondered if this is what angels sounded like. Her voice and music made him picture flowers in a spring meadow, but during a storm, raindrops sliding over matte petals under an ominous gray sky: sweet, but full of mournful melancholy.

As he had just moments before, Alphonse lifted his hand and put it over where his heart would have been. He felt the twisting of emotions: the awe at the beauty of the sound, and the grief the music stirred in him–for his brother, his mother, and himself.

"No," Al agreed quietly. "It's not so bad."