Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of the respective characters.
A/N: This is my favorite so far. *Self-high-five!* I was going to make it its own one-shot, but I decided to put it here instead because I haven't updated in a while. Hope you guys enjoy.
I left the end open for interpretation. Imagine the saddest ending you can think of and that's probably the one that I imagined. But if you like amazing-and-sudden-rescue-happy-fluffy ending stories, then so be it.
Blood Brothers
"...In the season of the snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers." - an excerpt from the poem "Cold Poem" by Mary Oliver
V.
Even though it's cold...
(so cold – Alphonse can't feel it, but he can see it. In his brother's breath that pours out of his mouth like a rippling fog, in the way his brother's body huddles in on itself, arms hugging around his chest to try to cradle some small amount of warmth, and the way his brother's body shivers and trembles against the icy white back drop of a world)
...something in Ed, something that Al fears and loves at the same time – something that lights Ed's eyes up with fiery passion and hard determination – possesses the young man to drape his red coat over Al's shoulders instead of his own.
He must be crazy.
That is what Alphonse thinks, but he does not question it aloud. He is afraid of how right he might be (and he doesn't want his brother to be crazy) but there's a good chance that there used to be this switch in his head – one that used to be switched on – and it's off now. One that told him to think logically (not rashly – not forward into everything and backward into nothing).
No. That couldn't be right.
He must be crazy.
That is what Alphonse thinks, crazy, but never illogical. Logic has run their lives for quite a long time – mathematics, science, alchemy – and was a constant, a standard of comparison on which the rest of the world could be judged. Both brothers had a mental scale, and they placed each novelty and conundrum upon it without hesitation.
They'd watch the scales tip. Logical. Illogical.
Never anywhere in between.
So no, it wasn't that Edward was no longer capable of logic (it was one of the only things his brother was still capable of – among things like diligence and tenacity). It was beyond that.
Somewhere in between.
He must be crazy.
Edward's logic was just different from everyone else's.
Alchemy had taken two opposing forces and melded them into one. Alchemy was a science, but it was warm, like art and hope and power – strict with rules and cold like chemistry – but still rich with energy and life.
His brother had been so enraptured by it, so consumed, that he had become just like the science he studied so arduously.
Edward was chaos.
Controlled chaos, with the mind of a genius and the diligence of a bull – as well as the stubbornness – and all the complexities of an endless enigma hat could never be puzzled out.
All the creative parts of his brain had split open and leaked into the logic parts, the science parts...
(but they hadn't flown from his nostrils and ears and eyeballs like they had for so many others, they came to life)
...and found the spirit and the courage of this science, of alchemy – and had been confused, for how had they not seen the fire here before? Been drawn to it?
Then a transmutation had taken place.
In Edward's mind there was no discrepancy between logic and creative thought – yet he could not see the fault of emotion in his equations – and his mind refused to inform him of the fact that he had choices.
To him, there was only what must be done.
And...
He must be crazy.
Because...
(and he doesn't want his brother to be crazy)
No.
Because...
Even though it's cold...
(so cold – Alphonse can't feel it, but he can hear it. In his brother's head as his body rattles and his teeth come together again and again, in the way each sigh that escapes his brother's icy lips is trembling in itself, and in the way the world seizes around them, over and over and it's screaming)
...something in Ed, something that Al fears and loves at the same time – something that fills Edward's eyes with guilt and avaricious rue – possesses the young man to drape his red coat over Al's shoulders instead of his own.
Which is crazy.
Gold erupts (as the elder brother turns to him, face pale as the snow, the ice, the cold) and it's that look again, and even though it scares him Al knows that he's not alone – it's really Edward who's afraid.
He looks at him as if his soul may freeze over and steal away into the frozen fog of the morning...
(and it's cold)
...because he's so afraid of losing Al that it hurts them both.
It's crazy...
He must be crazy.
...because if he dies all stiff and frozen – a statue of someone who was logical, someone who was filled with life but it empty now, cold – he wants to at least have been a dutiful older brother first.
The words are hardly a whisper, and that's the most his lungs can manage.
(There are icicles spearing into his organs, and his blood is hard, glossy streams of unmoving liquid.)
"...Gotta stay w-warm... A-al..."
Al doesn't even know what warm feels like anymore.
That's half the reason Ed's coat is on his shoulders.
"Brother –" he answers, his voice is so loud and perfect and unharmed by the cold – so cold – that it cracks the ice beneath them and puts dents in the metal that encases his soul.
He doesn't even get to finish was he was going to say, Ed's already nodding in agreement...
(and it's crazy, because he can't even remember what he would have said – what more was there?)
...and that's the end of it.