Chapter Seven: Sickness

The next day, back at the apartment, I got a call from Mustang saying the garage would be closed until Tuesday of next week.

As I hung up the phone, I noticed Al looking at me. "What?" I asked.

"Is that a bruise?" he asked me, pointing to my chin. I raised my hand and pressed softly. Grimacing, I nodded. He frowned. "What happened? Did Winnie punch you?"

"No," I said, smiling. "I just got into a little argument last night."

"With who?"

"I think he was the owner of the speakeasy two streets over," I said nonchalantly. "He sure acted like he owned the place."

"Speakeasy?" asked Al. "Why did you go to a speakeasy?"

"To relax," I replied. "You and Becca were talking here, and I didn't want to interrupt, so…"

I trailed off at the look he was giving me.

"Ed…" he whined.

"What? What do you want from me, Al?" I asked.

"If you get arrested, then it could-"

"Arrested? What are you talking about? I'm not about to go get myself arrested!"

"Alcohol is illegal," he said, stressing the last word. "Don't get mixed up with the wrong people."

"It was one time-"

"Please, just do this for me," he said, his eyes huge. I rolled my eyes. "Come on! My reputation is unsteady as is-"

"Your reputation? Is that all you care about? What about-"

"Don't make this about you, Brother," he said, sighing.

"Why not?" I grumbled.

"Because it's not," he said matter-of-factly. "I have a life here. This is my chance. Please, please, please, please don't mess it up for me."

I thought about this. Then, I shrugged. "You're right," I said. "I guess I should forget those plans to rob that bank, then."

He looked uncertain. I laughed and said, "I was kidding, Al."

He smiled, then. A big smile of gratitude and relief. I shook my head, but I couldn't help a grin coming to my own face. I reached out and ruffled his hair. "You're way too easy to fool, little brother."

"You're the only one mean enough to try, big brother," he replied with a grin.

There was silence for a second, then I asked, "Don't you have a class to go to or something?"

He nodded. "Great Works of European Literature," he said. "It's a fascinating class. I could probably slip you in if you felt like coming one time."

My smile faltered a little. "No thanks, Al," I said. "Literature isn't exactly my thing." His face fell. "But if you have a science class you can get me into…" I added, hating to see that disappointed look on his face.

He immediately looked happier. "I'll see if I can find one," he said cheerfully. Then, he glanced at the clock. "Well I have to go. Don't go back to that speakeasy while I'm gone, okay?"

"I don't think I'm ever going back to that particular one," I said. "That owner seemed pretty angry."

Al looked like he was about to say something, then he sighed and shook his head. "I'm not even going to ask."

I chuckled. "'Bye, Al."

"'Bye."

He left.

For a minute after the door closed, I just sort of stood there, in the apartment, thinking about nothing in particular, but also not really paying attention to anything.

I shook my head and brought myself back to reality. I realized what I had been staring at: Al's painting that he had given me yesterday. It was still amazing.

I lost myself in that painting for a moment. That family…. That was what we could have been. Should have been. But things didn't turn out that way. Why? Because our father left? But then again, would we have stayed with him if we – if she – knew the truth?... It would be so easy to blame everything on my father and be done with it. But then I would have to hate him, and, for everything he's done, I can't do that. It was in this world that he really became a father to me. He left too soon, in our world, and I had too little of time to really be his son. But when I crossed the Gate…

I only wish Al could have been there. For that short time when my father actually played the part of my dad.

To think, he had lived for hundreds of years before he met my mother. That's something I don't ever really think I'll be able to comprehend. And, also… to think he died right in front of me. He killed himself while I watched. Crushed in the jaws of his first son…

No. I can't start thinking of that bastard as his son now. Because when I start thinking of that thing as his son, I begin to realize that that means Envy was almost my brother. There could have been three Elric boys instead of two.

There could have been, but there wasn't. I shook my head. I was being stupid.

I had a whole day ahead of me, with nothing to do. But hey, this was New York we were talking about… there had to be something.

I turned on the radio. Only vague Christmas music and a few news bulletins. But I didn't feel like news at the moment – everything was just mindless blabber right then.

I put my coat on and left. The air was clear and cold – I took a deep breath. It smelled clean and pure. The snow on the ground was fresh, but the sky was a light blue. It must have fallen during the night. I thought maybe a good play, or one of those movies would be nice. But I had a measly amount of money in my pocket and I didn't want to waste any of it. But what is there to do in New York without any money?

A group of three scantily-clad ladies waved and giggled at me. There was a man and a woman sucking each other's faces on a bench down the street. I wondered if they all had always been there, or if they were just participating in some sort of Make-Edward-Elric-Awkward Day. Because that's definitely something that would happen to me.

And so, the days passed. One, then two, then three, and soon enough I was back working at Mustang's Mechanics, six days a week. I honestly can say that it was a dream job – to be surrounded by familiar faces, but not having to make uncomfortable conversation with any of them. I enjoyed working on the cars; for the most part, it was something I could focus in on and not have to think about anything else. And when I got home Al could tell me all about his lessons, and he could recommend books to me, even though that stack next to my bedside was getting pretty tall. Sometimes I only skimmed through a book, and other times I just skipped a chapter or two. Al would ask me how I liked the book afterward, and I'd only have to mention a specific part for him to go off on the symbolism of that scene, and what this was supposed to represent, and what the reader was supposed to infer from that…

Once in a while, Rebecca would show up. She usually brought Winry along, but every so often she'd come by herself to talk with Al. I think Al knew that I wasn't really interested in his books, because he began to lend some of them to Rebecca, and my book pile gradually shrank. He left his favorites for me to read, though, which was a pain, because his favorites were like a slow and painful torture to me. He loved symbolism in books. I thought it was ridiculous.

It snowed harder and got colder. We had to buy at least two more coats, but Al still looked like he was freezing all the time. He may have been wearing two long, fur-covered coats, a pair of thick gloves, and ear muffs he had bought for himself, but his face was still pale and his teeth still chattering. I told him to eat more. He was just skin and bones.

One day, near the end of a frigid January, he had an evening class that ended after I came back from the garage. Since I knew where he was, I kicked back, took my boots off, and relaxed. At first I attempted to read one of the books he had recommended, then I gave up and set it down, open, pages facing down. Al hated it when I handled books like that. "Books are like tiny women that you violate every time you lay them out like that!" His words, not mine.

Anyway, I was just about drifting off when the door opened. "Oh, hey Al," I said as he stumbled in. I looked at him once, then did a double take. "You look like death warmed up," I said, getting up. "I'll make some hot tea."

He just nodded, blinked tiredly, and staggered into the bedroom. After a second, I heard a muffled thump.

Frowning, I paused in boiling the tea and went over to check on him. "What was that?" I asked, but then I glanced through the door.

Lying, crumpled into a heap on the floor, in an eerie apparition of my past, was Al, his eyes rolled into his head and his books strewn about the floor.

He wasn't moving.

I was at his side immediately, shaking him, maybe a little more violently than I should have. "Al…Al, come on, wake up, come on Al, look at me, say something, come on, Al!"

His eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, and two words slipped out of his lips, quieter than the wind. He whispered, "I'm fine."

"No you're not," I muttered. "Obviously, you're not."

I lugged him onto his bed, which I am ashamed to admit was somewhat of a challenge. He was just so much taller than I was.

I called a doctor after that. When he arrived, he looked over Al for a few minutes, then said, "Well, it looks like a simple case of the flu," he said, taking off his glasses. "With plenty of fluids and rest, you should be back on your feet in no time."

Al, who was almost completely conscious by then, murmured, "Thank you, Doctor."

I followed the man out of the room, where he turned to face me. "He's in pretty bad shape. He must have been sick for at least a week before this. But he should be fine. Just make sure he doesn't overexert himself for a while. Also, make sure he takes a tablespoon of this every evening for at least five days. If he gets worse, call me." He handed me a bottle of thick liquid.

"Right. Yes. Thanks, Doctor." He nodded and left. I stood there for a second, then slowly returned to Al's bedside. His eyes were half open, and I couldn't tell if he was trying to sleep or not.

I sat down on my bed. "You said you felt fine," I said quietly. "When I asked you, you told me not to worry. Why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't lie," he said, his voice hoarse. "I did feel fine. At least, I did for a while. And I just, I didn't want you to worry."

"Hmm. Pretending that you weren't sick at all until you finally faint from the pain. Doesn't this sound familiar."

He grimaced. "It's not like I was going to die or anything. Besides, I would have told you if it got that serious."

"Really? You would have? But wouldn't I have worried then? And isn't that just the opposite of what you want?"

"Stop it, Brother," he said, and he yawned. It was enough to make me shut up. "The doctor said I was going to be alright, you heard him. So just calm down."

I said nothing, only walked out of the room. He had no idea… no idea how much he looked like her, sprawled out on the ground, eyes closed.

For what was not the first time, I cursed the part of Al that made him so much like our mother. If he was so much like Mom, then that made me like Dad. Not that there was anything wrong with that – I know my father was a good man – but Mom was so much…better.

Except for, you know, the fact that she hid the fact that she was dying. Guess that could be seen as a flaw.

Anyway. Despite my protests, Al convinced me to go into work the next day. Roy glanced up, then said, "You're late."

"My brother's sick," I replied. He nodded.

"So's Becca."

"Oh. He probably gave it to her. Sorry."

"Don't be. She gets sick a lot."

I nodded and got to work. At our lunch break, Roy said to me, "You feeling alright, Ed? You're real quiet."

"I'm fine," I said. "I just get fidgety when Al's sick."

He nodded and took a bite out of his sandwich. When he was finished chewing, he said, "I know what you mean. All of us used to feel that way about Becca. But it faded with the years. Now we're all sort of okay with it."

"Speak for yourself," said Winnie. We both turned to look at her. I hadn't even realized she had been standing there. "You're the only one in the house who stays calm when Becca isn't healthy."

"Becca's never healthy."

"My point exactly."

Roy sighed. "Maybe I should explain something to you," he said to me. "After all, Becca's been spending a great deal of time at your place lately."

"Oh – well – Al and her just sort of hit it off, you know?"

He smiled at me, but the smile was heavy and laden with something I couldn't place. "Tell your brother I appreciate what he's done for her. She definitely deserves some happiness." He stared at something beyond my shoulder. "But I'm warning you. Don't let him get too attached to her."

"What? Why?"
"She's sick." Winnie said this. I looked at her.

"Sick? What? What are you talking about?"

"The doctors say she has fifteen years left. Twenty if she's lucky. Ten if she's not."

"She's far too flighty because of this," said Roy. "She thinks she needs to live life recklessly to fulfill whatever reason she has for being alive."

I noticed his fists were clenched and he was grinding his teeth. Winnie continued. "What Roy is trying to say is that if your brother lets himself fall for Becca, she'll break his heart. She's done it before."

I looked at her for a minute. "No…" I said. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious," she said, a glimmer of something dark flashing in her eyes. "She did the same thing to Mi-"

"Enough, Winry," said Roy, his voice firm. She glared at him. "I mean, Winnie. I'm not paying you to gossip."

She shook her head. "Lunch break's over," she murmured, turning and disappearing back into the office.

I could only assume that she almost said Michael. His was a name I had heard several times, but I still didn't know who he was. "Roy," I said. "Who is Michael?"

Roy froze. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Rebecca said something about him once. And Winnie has, too. I just thought that-"

"Get back to work," he said, cutting me off. He threw a wrench my way and I almost didn't catch it. Luckily, I had better reflexes than he gave me credit for.

I sighed inwardly. Could they be making me any more curious? Now that he had flat-out refused to answer my question, I was intent on learning more about this Michael character. He definitely had something to do with Winnie, and since I'd never seen him… maybe he moved away. Or maybe he died.

I almost gasped. Why hadn't I seen it before? Of course I couldn't charm Winnie into liking me…

Michael must have been the name of her boyfriend. Or…or her husband. And he must have died. Recently, even! Dammit… why hadn't I seen this before? It was obvious now. The look on her face when she was thinking of him. What had Becca said about her? She doesn't like Christmastime. Maybe… maybe Michael had died last year, around Christmas! Yes, of course! It made so much sense.

When I got home, Al was sleeping. I thought that was good. The doctor had prescribed lots of rest.

I couldn't stop thinking about Winnie and Michael. With every breath of mine, every heartbeat, their names were drilled into my head. Winnie… Michael… Winnie… Michael… Winnie… Winry…

I shook my head. Don't go there, I advised myself.

I must have dozed off on the couch, because the next thing I remember is opening my eyes and finding Al, yawning, taking a glass from the cabinet.

"Al!" I exclaimed, jumping up. "You should be in bed!"

"Relax," he said. "I'm just getting myself a glass of water."

"I could have done that for you!"

"You were asleep." He filled the glass with water and took a sip.

"So were you," I said. He smiled.

"I can take care of myself now, thank you very much," he said, taking another sip and heading back towards the bedroom. I grimaced after him.

Then, the telephone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Ed? It's Roy."

I glanced at the clock. "It's midnight."

"I know. Oh – did I wake you?"

"No, actually. So what is it?"

There was a pause on the other line, then Roy's voice said, "I've been asked to take a private job in Massachusetts. You up for it?"

"What kind of job?"

"Government rockets."

"I'm in."

When he spoke again, I could hear his smile. "Great. We're leaving on Friday." There was a click and the other line went dead.

"Who was that?" called Al, from his bed.

"Roy," I said, going in and sitting on my bed. "I'm going to work on some rockets with him in three days. Is that okay?"

Al laughed, and it was a weird, feverish laugh. "Ha ha…rockets…hah… sure. Fine by me."

"Good. Now go back to sleep."

"Yessir."

Thirty seconds later, he was snoring.

I smiled, rolled over in bed, and thirty seconds later, so was I.

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