More FMA drabble-age before class.

[moonsheen]

He scares people he meets sometimes. It took a while to stop being surprised by this. He’s never thought of himself as very intimidating, but then, on some level he’s never thought of himself as anything other than himself and that is certainly not a walking ton of metal. It takes a shadow on the wall remind him sometimes: He’s different than he used to be and he can see why people might be frightened. He’s become very large and imposing. Tall for a grown man--except he’s not, never was, never has been, would be in a few years--except he doesn’t grow anymore.

He’s a boy, he knows. He remembers in bits and pieces, or at least remembers remembering, nothing’s really so tangible anymore. Something like the taste of an apple or the texture of his brother’s hair or the slap of a girl’s hand over his knuckles. He knows he’s felt them, /he’s/ felt them, but he’s not surprised they don’t come clear. The body retains some things better than the mind. The body’s been gone a long time.

He’s still a boy, and not many others really know that anymore. He can count the ones that do on one large creaking hand---the ones who remember how quiet he used to be. When things didn’t rattle in his chest and his steps never thundered and his voice didn’t echo when he spoke. When he spoke, but never said the right things at the right times, looked his brother in the eyes, said ‘all right’, and his sin was silence, a stupid, frightened silence that cost so much. They remember him like that, they love him like that, they want him like that. Back like that. Far from what he is anymore. Far from what anyone else recognizes, when they hear his name or see what’s become his face.

He appreciates them for the memory. He doesn’t think he could keep track of it anymore on his own. It’s been a very long time now.

And he’s not always so sure of what he is anymore.

He watches his brother wake from a dream. Not /quite/ a nightmare, probably—his brother doesn’t lunge up, just jerks into consciousness; Eyes wide. Breath hard. Sheets twisted hopelessly. Panic is really very quiet though; a racing pulse is muted by the living, moving flesh around it.

He gets no answer in asking. Brother, what’s wrong? But the sound of his voice, loud and hollow in the dark room is enough to calm things down a little. He rattles coming to his bedside, he’s clumsy pulling the blanket back over his brother’s shoulder. It’s enough, though. It’s loud. But....

He doesn’t feel his brother’s hand, coming out to cover his at the shoulder out of bare, old reflex. It’s something he knows he should recall though, press of the palm.

“Al,” his brother says. Don’t go, his brother doesn’t say. don’t go don’t go don't-

And it aches, but it’s enough.