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your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
- pablo neruda
It’s the rain that wakes him, droplets of water plinking against the hotel’s shutters and sluicing over the window pane. He squints against the brightness of the moonlight spilling through the curtains, his eyes taking a moment to adjust before the rest of the room begins to take shape - the nondescript wallpaper, the parted curtains, and the night sky streaked with falling rain.
And his brother, knuckles curled close to his cheek and mouth parted to take in slow, steady breaths on the other side of the bed. The blankets have gotten mussed sometime during the night, leaving Alphonse’s shoulder bared to the elements, and Edward reaches over with sleep-heavy fingers to pull them back into place. His palm lingers for a moment before he pulls away, and as he does so, he catches the barest curl of his brother’s lips.
“”Supposed to be sleeping,” he rumbles, only to be met with a pair of brilliant golden eyes as Al peeks at his face, a soft huff of laughter falling from his lips and suffusing the space between them with warmth.
“I was,” he promises, his fingers stretching across the mattress and unfurling like a flower. Edward watches them, catalogs their shape and the ease with which they bend and curl, and feels his chest go warm.
“Rain woke you, too, huh?”
Alphonse nods sleepily, ducking his chin beneath the warmth of the covers. “Mmm. And the cold.”
“I’ll grab another blanket,” Ed tells him, already rising, but Alphonse shakes his head and reaches for Ed’s hand, curls their fingers together.
“I’m alright.” It’s said in the same honeyed tone, with the same sweet, patient smile that Al had worn for so long during those first endless weeks in the hospital, and again through the grueling hours of physical therapy they'd both needed to reacquaint themselves with limbs they’d forgotten how to use. I’m alright, Brother. Even when he wasn’t. Even when he was in pain, or afraid, or exhausted by the toll his recovery was taking on him. “Could you just - ?” Al trails off, but the soft tug of his fingers is enough to coax Ed back into bed.
“You sure this is okay, Al?” Ed’s voice is soft, his grip around Alphonse’s hand even more so. Half a decade without physical touch had left his brother hypersensitive to certain stimuli, flinching away from even the most clinical of touch, not out of fear or pain but for the sheer, aching unfamiliarity of it.
It would take time for his body to adjust. To adapt. To heal. But that was okay - time was all they had, now. Time and each other.
Alphonse huffs again, his face warm with exasperated fondness. “I’m sure, Brother,” he insists, and to prove it, he tugs Edward’s hand to his face and tucks his cheek into the bowl of his brother’s palm. “See?”
Edward’s glad for the rain, the din beyond the window hiding his sharp intake of breath as the warmth of Al’s skin settles into his.
It’s not the first time they’ve touched since the Gate; far from it, in fact. Al had used his shoulder as a crutch to make his first tentative steps into the world, and been scooped into Ed’s arms when his limbs finally gave out. They had barely gone a day inside the hospital without their hands clasped, Edward a constant presence at Al’s bedside and their fingers loosely curled around the other’s.
But this - this feels different. This is a touch bestowed not in the aftermath of a promise fulfilled or for the sole purpose of aiding his brother in his weakened form, but simply because Al wants it. Wants to touch Ed. To be touched by Ed.
Edward’s lips tilt into a smile, though it wobbles at the edges. They had fought for this, tooth and nail and so much blood, and yet still he woke some mornings sure it had all been a dream, certain that he would reach for his brother and find only steel instead of flesh.
And yet the cheek nestled against his palm is warm, real, and his fear smothers in the wake of Al sleep-mussed and sweetly smiling, whole at last.
His fingers curl against his brother’s cheek, fingertips dragging through the soft hair behind Al’s ear. It had grown long beyond the Gate, wispy-blonde locks darkening to a rich caramel as Alphonse soaked up the Central sunlight. He would probably want it cut soon.
Alphonse sighs beneath his curious fingers, eyelids slipping closed. “Your hand is warm, Brother,” he mumbles, and something in the vicinity of Edward’s chest pulls taut. A few weeks ago a touch from this hand would have chilled Al to the bone. A few weeks ago Edward would have felt nothing but a numb pressure against this palm, instead of the warm give of soft, living flesh.
“You’re warm, too,” he murmurs, and there’s a weight to the words that has Al’s brows furrowing, his body shuffling closer. Beneath the covers, his leg brushes against Ed’s, a shiver working through him at the sensation of cold steel against bare skin, but he doesn’t move away, and hooks his ankle around Ed’s so that his brother can’t, either.
“Because of you,” Al tells him, and there’s a sweet curl to his lips that loosens the tight knot in Ed’s chest, chipping away at the guilt that Ed knows will probably always live there. “You keep me warm.”
“Not doing such a good job at the moment.” Ed wiggles his automail ankle to prove his point, but allows it to remain dutifully locked with his brother’s. Truth be told, he’s enjoying the closeness too much to break it.
“You’ll just have to try a little harder, Brother,” Alphonse tells him primly, and Edward can’t help the laugh that bubbles up into his chest and spills between them.
“Is that so?” He shifts his arm until he can wrap it around Al’s waist, making sure to settle over his brother’s sleep shirt in case the touch proves too much for Al’s sensitive skin. His body’s still so skinny from its stint in the Gate, and though weeks of recovery have lent a softness to his chest and back, beneath the armor of his pajamas, his skin barely exudes any warmth. Ed resists the urge to tighten his grip and pull his brother even closer, eager for Al to leech all the heat he needs from Ed’s own body. It’s one of those instincts that won’t be going anywhere soon, he knows. “How about now?”
“Better,” Al mumbles, but with his hand tucked against the small of his brother’s back, it’s easy for Ed to feel the tremors that continue to work through him.
He tucks his hand more firmly against Al’s spine, following the subtle curve of it, up between his shoulder blades to the base of his neck before returning to the dip just above his waistband. He’s keen for any sign of discomfort from Al, and pleased to find no sign of it on his brother’s face.
Still, he asks, “This okay?”, even as his palm traces the same path along the length of Al’s back, slowly but steadily working more warmth into his skin.
“You don’t have to keep asking, Brother,” Alphonse scolds him, though any attempt at firmness is ruined by the way he seems to be melting into the bed, loose-limbed and pliant beneath his brother’s caress. “Mmm. Come closer.”
Edward laughs. “Any closer and I’d be on top of you.”
Alphonse seems to take that as a challenge rather than an obstacle, and shuffles across the tiny gap between them until he’s firmly tucked against Edward’s chest, his brow nestled in the dip of Ed’s throat and his hand curling loosely in the black tank Ed had worn to bed.
It’s the closest they’ve been since that terrible night without layers of cold steel between them, and Ed releases a reedy breath as he sinks into the embrace, his fingers trembling against Al’s back.
He’s not the only one. Alphonse is trembling too, though Ed’s pretty sure it’s not because of the cold this time.
“Al,” he says gently, his hand lifting to sift through his brother’s hair. “You don’t have to force yourself.” Though Alphonse had seemed better able to tolerate his touch over the endless stream of doctors and nurses, he had never taken offense on those rare occasions when Al would flinch from him, or gently extricate from his grip, his face apologetic and his body trembling from overstimulation.
“‘M not.” The words are muffled against his chest, Al’s fingers clenching in his tank. “It’s not… like that. Or, it is, but it’s also - “ He breaks off with a frustrated huff, and Ed sets about soothing him with long, sure strokes through his hair, the same way their mother used to do after a nightmare, or on cold, stormy nights when the world outside felt just a little too dark.
“Al, it’s alright - “
“No, listen, Brother.” His fingers go tight in Ed’s tank, and his face flares with heat where it’s pressed against Edward’s throat. Ed falls silent in the face of that reaction, curious and concerned all at once.
“It’s all been so overwhelming,” Alphonse confesses, his voice very small. “Every touch, every scent, every sound - I knew it would be, I’d spent five years in that armor forgetting what any of it meant, but it was so… so loud. And bright. And harsh. It hurt.“ Al sucks in a breath, his brow rubbing against Edward’s throat. “But it didn’t matter if it was you, Brother. Your voice, your scent, your touch. Even if it felt like my body was flying apart, I wanted them all, all of it, because it was you.”
Ed’s fingers go tight within the wispy-soft strands of Al’s hair. His heart trips over, stutters, and begins to race. “Al - “
“This was all I wanted in the armor,” Al continues, bulldozing over Ed’s voice with an insistence that verges on desperate, like he has to get this out now before he loses his nerve. “To touch you, to feel you, to be held by you. It’s all I wanted. I missed everything, but you… you were what I missed the most.”
There’s nothing Ed can do in the face of those words than to blink the moisture from his eyes and gather Al close, tucking his chin against the wispy bronze strands of Al’s hair. “I missed you, too.” He hasn’t said it until that moment, feeling half-ridiculous for the notion - his brother had been beside him the entire time, after all - and as though admitting to it would pry open the locks on much more than he wanted to admit, if only he gave it the chance.
But there’s no hiding from his brother’s trembling form, or his warmth, or the sensation of his fingers curled hard against Ed’s heart.
“This was all I wanted, too,” he murmurs, and in a fit of weakness, or maybe even strength, he presses a quick, rough kiss to the crown of Al’s head.
Al’s sharp intake of breath is as loud as a shot in Edward’s ears, even with his pulse hammering away at the base of his throat. When Al goes to lift his head from the sanctuary of Ed’s collar Edward almost doesn’t want to let him go, torn between anticipation and fear, fear that Al will see everything on his face and condemn him for it, hate him for it.
He braces for it, shoulders taut and gut hot with nerves. Alphonse’s eyes are huge and wet, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted on a breath that seems to stick in his throat, but he isn’t recoiling in disgust, isn’t squirming free of Edward’s arms, isn’t pushing Ed away.
He’s pulling Ed closer, reaching for him, bracing soft fingertips against his jaw until he can frame Edward’s face with his hands, palms warm against his cheeks.
“Brother,” he murmurs, and there’s never been so much longing and hope packed into one word, so much warmth, so much desire.
Ed’s not even sure who moves first, only that he’s helpless in the wake of Al’s lips against his. The kiss is soft, hesitant, but it’s also perfect, a gentle exploration that leaves Edward reeling, his mind awash with static and his body practically thrumming. He feels it in the tips of his fingers, in the heady rush of blood through his veins, and in his heart, pounding in his chest and at the base of his throat like a hummingbird taking wing.
Al’s holding him so gently, his mouth moving softly against Ed’s. Their inexperience fails to serve as a barrier, makes it sweeter that they’re learning this together, leaping headfirst into the unknown just like they’ve done with so much else, good and bad.
Oh, but there’s nothing bad about this. There can’t possibly be, not with Ed’s blood moving honey-thick and hot through his veins, Al’s voice hushed and wanting whenever he whispers his brother’s name, the moonlight lending an almost ethereal shine to their grasping fingers, their parted lips, their hungry gazes.
Their noses bump, startling a laugh from them both. Ed can feel his skin flushing with exertion, with want, the need simmering within his blood like a wick set to flame. The desire to catch Al’s lips in another kiss nearly overwhelms him, but it’s his brow that Edward finds first, pressing his lips to that swath of skin that their mother had so often tucked her goodnights and sweet dreams against, and Al’s next inhale, when it comes, carries more than a hint of wetness to it.
They lie in silence for a long while, their breath slowing, hearts easing into a lulling rhythm that, combined with the steady downpour outside, nearly puts Edward to sleep. It’s only Alphonse’s voice, soft against his collarbone, that pulls him back.
“Brother?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“I’m much warmer now.” There’s a playful lilt to his voice, a noticeable giggle to his words. Against Ed’s collar, his lips pull into a grin that his brother can feel, full and bright against his skin. “Thank you.”
Edward blinks, and then he laughs, soft breaths puffing against Alphonse’s brow. “Anytime, Al,” he murmurs, arm resuming its rightful place around his brother’s waist. There’s a lightness to his chest, to his voice and to his blood, that shows no sign of dimming anytime soon, and for the first time in years, he feels whole. “Anytime.”