Title: I All Alone
Author: vanillavinegar
Rating: K+
Summary: Al at the Gate: "He was not going to fall apart now."
Warnings: SPOILERS for the end of the manga/Brotherhood.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.
Author's Notes: Title comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 29. This particular fic was written for prompt 98 – 'Alphonse'. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Ricorum Scaevola, Sonar, and totaltheTERRIER for reviewing.

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The first thing Al felt after years living as a suit of armor was nothing.

It probably would make no sense to anyone else, but there was a definite difference between being unable to feel anything and feeling nothing. A world of difference.

And in the Gate, well, there was certainly a lot of nothing for him to feel.

Truth's shadowy silhouette had faded when Brother's arm had. Al wondered whether it was watching him invisibly, or maybe it could somehow keep an eye on the fight he knew was raging between his brother and Father. Anxiety stirred in his mind – and then, wonder of wonders, a physical reaction too – a tugging around his abdomen. Was this what people meant by your stomach being tied in knots?

Al let his curiosity about his newly regained body distract him. He had done all he could for Brother, and fretting wouldn't help. Besides, if anyone could defeat the cruel being that had tried to take the souls of all Amestrians, it was his brother. He had bottomless faith in Ed, and now all he could do was wait.

He flexed one long-fingered hand, then the other. His bones were clearly visible as they shifted beneath his skin, and he remembered how upset Brother had been after he'd seen Al's body in the Gate. Al understood; that was, after all, why he had not joined body and soul when he had come earlier. His fingernails were long, too, ragged and broken as they were. He pressed the pad of his thumb to them one-by-one, idly wondering if he was going to cut himself. He didn't, but he did feel a sharp sensation along with the pressure of nails against his skin. It made him smile.

His skin was so pale, he mused as his attention shifted yet again. Al thought about the way Brother's skin bronzed in the summer, how dark Winry had looked the last time they visited her in Rush Valley. He could vaguely remember sunburns he'd had when he was very young.

"Melanin," he said abruptly, recalling the name of the pigment that determined skin color. Then, shocked to the core, he said it more loudly, "Melanin!" He rolled the vowels on his tongue, enjoyed the way the 'l' felt in his mouth, and snapped out the last syllable with greater force. Al grinned. Speaking was so much more fun when you could feel the words! He began to repeat things he'd heard – a song Mom had sung when they were little, a lecture Winry often gave his brother on maintaining his automail, the Amestrian national anthem, some of his brother's most colorful rants.

Al was taking the word 'pipsqueak' apart into syllables – the pleasant way the p's made his lips pop, the severity of the 'k' at the end – when his throat almost closed. His eyes flew wide as he struggled not to choke, panic welling within him, before his throat relaxed again. What was that?He reached up to massage his neck, feeling the pounding in his chest lessen as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. There was a – a roughness to his throat, kind of like the way the 'k' had felt in his mouth. It was almost like there was something scraping along the inside of his neck…

"Oh," he said aloud, then winced. Right. He had been talking a lot, with nothing to drink for – well, years. His throat was dry. He grinned again at the realization. Not, perhaps, most people's reaction to having a dry throat and no way to assuage it, but this was basically a new experience for him. He found it to be terribly exciting.

But maybe he should do something other than talk for a while.

Al thought, almost unconsciously rubbing his fingers together as he did. He considered trying to stand, but decided he ought to preserve his strength for when Brother came for him. He wasn't sure what would happen then, but it seemed prudent to keep his energy stored up just in case. His muscles did feel – sore, maybe? He felt so much weaker than he could recall ever feeling before. Maybe he could try some of his brother's physical therapy exercises and it wouldn't sap too much of his strength.

Al flexed his hands again, then stretched them out in front of him. He stretched his legs out, too, eying the way his toenails were just as long and tattered as his fingernails. Then he leaned forward to touch his toes with his fingers. Disbelief echoed through him when he was unable to do so. He sat back, blinking, then leaned forward again. He could barely even reach past his knees. For the first time, he comprehended just how atrophied his body really was – it was one thing to see it, even to understand it in a distant sort of way, but entirely another to be able to feel his weakness and compare it to the last time he had flesh.

He swallowed and blinked, reaching up when his eyes felt funny. His fingertips came back wet, and the realization that tears had welled in his eyes stung him out of his distress. He had his body back. Brother was coming for him. So what if he wasn't as strong as he had been four years ago? Muscle could be regained. Al wiped all traces of his tears away. He was not going to fall apart now.

Suddenly something changed. Al was so surprised – could the Gate change? Was that possible? – that he had brought his legs up to his chest defensively before he realized it. He looked back at his doorway, but it still floated impassively behind him. Then he looked across where Truth and his brother's door had been before they disappeared.

There was something there.

Al squinted, trying to make out what it was. He remembered how wavy and insubstantial the desert outside of Liore had appeared, recalled the way his brother spoke of mirages and imaginary oases during his trip to the ruins of Xerxes. It was kind of like that – he could see something, but the image was so misty he was unable to make out what. He knew what it was anyway. He was sure of it.

Brother had come for him.

Like a radio being tuned to the right frequency, words slowly started drifting to him. First was "…sure about this?" in Truth's weird, fragmented voice. Next, inquisitively, "ordinary person." Then – Al's heart leapt – "as long as I have them!" in Brother's most decisive tones. Al ducked his head to smile into his arms. As if it, too, felt Al's pride, Truth replied more amiably than Al had ever heard it: "That's the right answer, alchemist." Brother grunting. Truth again, something Al couldn't quite catch, ending with "…Edward Elric."

And slowly the mistiness diminished, leaving no sign of Truth or Brother's doorway. There was just Brother himself, walking slowly toward Al, a smile growing on his lips. He looked exhausted, covered in dirt and blood and – were those tearstains tracking through the dust on his face? Brother hadn't needed to cry. Later, Al would probably be guilty over causing him such grief, but right then all he could feel was a strange, soothing somethingemanating from his chest and spreading right down to his fingertips. Later on he would recognize it as warmth, but right then all he knew was how comforting the sensation was.

He tried to stand. It didn't seem like they would have to fight their way out after all and Al wanted to greet his brother on his feet, but he had overestimated his strength again. He almost fell right back down. But Brother was suddenly there, strong arms – both of them flesh and blood – going under Al's own, supporting him as always. Gold eyes studied his face as though making sure he had the right Alphonse, then Brother smiled. "That was a crazy thing to do, you know?" he said, almost conversationally.

Al giggled. "You too, Brother," he replied, even though he didn't know exactly what had happened after he had broken his bloodseal. Knowing Brother, it was definitely something ridiculous, extreme, and semi-impossible.

Brother helped him turn as his doorway slowly opened. Unlike all the other times Al could remember, it was full not of darkness but of light. They both stared at it for a moment – Brother's arm going around his waist as if to hold Al to him – and then Brother spoke firmly. "Come on, Al. Everybody's waiting for us." Al nodded. Then, together, they stepped through the doorway, letting the light take them home.

THE END