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.H y p n o p h o b i a.

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The irrational fear of sleep.

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It was true that Alphonse was not fond of his armored body. He wasn't able to eat, no matter how much the food in front of him looked so delicious or appetizing. He wasn't able to feel, no matter if it was the wind brushing against his skin or being impaled through the stomach (like his brother.) And one more thing; he couldn't sleep.

He hated the last one the most, because without any sleep, it just reminded him of his big body. Of the cold, unfeeling, metal. Of each creak and heavy gaunt of his steps, Of being able to be taken apart and put back together again with no problem at all. It reminded him that he was abnormal, that he was a stranger, a sinner, an outsider. And what he hated the most - what he hated out of all of the downfalls was the fact that he couldn't dream anymore.

His sleep was always filled with sweet things when he was younger, filled with happiness, laughter, and warmth, just like their lives had been. He never had a bad dream, because dreams were always good and fulfilling, because dreams took him to a world that he couldn't imagine and he could. It was, in it's complexity, another thing he loved so dearly in his childhood; next to his brother, mother, and alchemy.

But now, he supposed, he could never dream anymore.

Because his mind was always haunted; it was always littered and drawn with the images of his past. He had looked, on many occasions, at his brother's troubled face while he was sleeping; even when Edward was unconscious, his mind was always filled with the pictures of death, blood, gore, and sins. It was never something sweet, not anymore.

It caused his older brother's face to screw together, eyebrows furrowing and lips tightly pressed. Sometimes he would whimper, sometimes scream and thrash. And Alphonse could do nothing, nothing, because he had no idea what it felt like. Edward always cried silently afterward; it was a sight only Alphonse (and sometimes Winry) got the sight to see.

Seeing Edward like that, moonlight illuminating his pale, withdrawn, face, made him scared. It made him scared, because his older brother was the reason he himself was standing, so if Edward crumbled then so would he.

And he remembered, he remembered what Teacher had always told them: What hurts us in reality kills us in our dreams.

Alphonse realized this statement was wrong. It was wrong because nothing could kill you in your dream. Dreams were your sole escape, they were your oasis from the stress of reality. But this was not a dream.

This was a nightmare.

This was a nightmare, because what he and Edward saw were not escaping from reality; they were trapping themselves into reality. They forced you remember, to know that you did this, you were the cause of this, this was all your fault.

Alphonse was glad, in a way, that he couldn't sleep. He was afraid, he was scared. He didn't want to see those images, see what he had done. Those things, those memories that overshadowed the good, they would always stay that way. Those memories would never leave him. It was stick in his head, it would haunt him and shame him and make him cry. Because they were always going to lurk in the darkest corners of his mind, they were always going to creep up until they were ready to attack.

Because he didn't know, he had no idea at all - if he could take facing reality in his sleep.

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