Author's Note: Happy FMA Day! :D At first, I was afraid I wouldn't have anything to post this year, but then I got this wonderful idea. This is at the tail end of my little AU idea where Ed and Mustang are sent to fight in the seemingly-inevitable war against Drachma. The rest of what I've written in this vein can be found in various chapters of my fic Till I'm a Hundred, You Idiot. Writing about Ed's return home was inspired by some unfinished writings that NewMoonFlicker really needs to finish and post *sharp nudge in the ribs* I also wanted to try out a different style and experiment with second person, which I don't think I've ever used before. I took inspiration for the feel of this from "Rome Burning" by The Lady Avaritia. I also drew a little bit on my experiences of the first year my brother was in college, as I adjusted to him not being there and then felt awkward and shy when he came back for that first Christmas break. Obviously, those experiences were blown way out of proportion for this fic, because no Elric ever does anything by halves. Oh, and I also felt the need to explain why, in this little AU, Hawkeye didn't go to war with Mustang. Hopefully this explanation will suffice ;)

So we just hold on fast
Acknowledge the past
As lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted
To carve us as instruments
That play the music of life
But we don't realize
Our faith in the prize
Unless it's been somehow elusive
How quickly we choose it
The sacred simplicity
Of you at my side

- "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng

You've been waiting for this day for so long that when it comes, everything feels like a dream.

Every day for the past six months, you've run over in your head what it was like the day he left. Sometimes you think you're just secretly a masochist, or maybe you're trying to punish yourself in some sort of twisted Equivalent Exchange for everything he's endured for you. But when you're really honest with yourself, you know you do it because you're afraid you'll forget what he looks like.

It's been so long that your memories of him are worn and brown, like the faded photographs Granny keeps in a special album. Photos of her husband, of her children. Still-life portraits of the dead.

And for so long, you've had no idea if he is dead or not. You'd like to think that your souls are so tightly entwined that you would know if he was gone, that you would feel some awful wrench in the very core of who you are. But the rational, scientist side of you says that's impossible. He called you on the phone every night since he got the orders and left for North City. But after the week of gathering the troops together and getting everything sorted out, he called you from Briggs fortress and said goodbye for the last time.

You haven't heard anything since except for brief, impersonal reports on the war from the radio.

How many times have you woken, drenched in sweat, heart still pounding from another nightmare? How many times have you shed tears in the silent privacy of the apartment you once shared with your brother? How many times have you sent prayers, threats, desperate pleas up to that same corner of the ceiling?

The hardest part is knowing that even if he does get killed, there's nothing you can do about it. It's completely out of your hands. You've never had to trust anyone with your brother's life before.

But you can put that all behind you now. None of it matters, because he's coming home.

He didn't tell you directly, because he was too busy trekking back over those mountains and riding trains to Central. But Mrs. Mustang came and found you in the library, even though she had to huff and puff up all those stairs and sit down in a chair to catch her breath. As soon as she could speak, she folded her hands on the oblong bulge of her belly and smiled. "I've just heard from the Fuhrer," she whispered, like a schoolgirl with a much-coveted secret. "The troops are on their way back to Central."

You leapt to your feet, dropping your pen and forgetting to whisper. "Brother? A-And Colonel Mustang?"

She nodded, beaming so wide it looked like her face would split in half. And then you were hugging, and crying, and making the librarians glare at you because you weren't whispering anymore.

After helping Mrs. Mustang down the stairs and back outside, you started to ask her, but she already knew what you were going to say. "Three days. Three days until they come home."

The train station is more crowded than you've ever seen it. It feels like the entire city is packed into the building, everyone jabbering excitedly and craning their necks expectantly to look for the trains. There are three due to come in at noon, but the only one that matters is the one that will pull up to Platform 5.

You wait with Mrs. Mustang, doing your best to keep the crowds from crushing her. She grabs your hand when a sudden, piercing whistle cuts through the frigid air. All heads turn to the shiny black engine that smoothly slides up to the platform. Everyone cheers as the engine lets out a final sigh of steam and comes to a halt. The small, warm hand around yours squeezes so tightly your fingers are crushed together.

A mass of blue bodies swarms out as soon as the doors are opened, and the crowd only becomes more chaotic. Holding to your previous agreement, you stand your ground with Mrs. Mustang and wait for the crowds to thin. But your heart is pounding fit to burst as you look around at the soldiers greeting their loved ones. Men kiss their sweethearts, mothers fling themselves sobbing on their sons' necks, children are swung up onto broad shoulders.

As the crowds begin to thin, a man steps around a small, tearful family and faces the two of you. Colonel Mustang looks older than you remember—now he has grey streaks at his temples, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that weren't there before. He hesitates for a moment, taking his wife in, and then they throw themselves at each other. They've always been modest about showing their affection, as a holdover from the days when they had to keep it secret. But now they cling to each other and kiss with the desperate ecstasy of a dying man in the desert flinging himself at an oasis.

You avert your eyes, wanting to give them at least a small measure of privacy, and turn away. And suddenly...there he is. He's standing just a few feet away, the brother who left six months ago, alive and well and whole. As your eyes meet, a slow smile creeps across his face almost by itself.

"Brother!" you cry, and you throw yourself at him as tears sting your eyes.

He catches you easily, enveloping you in the warm, strong arms you know so well. For so long, all you can do is clutch at the back of his shirt and cry, burying your face in his warmth and saying his name over and over again. You breathe him in, and it's the same scent you've always known. Sweat, oil, and a dusky smell like sun-warmed dirt. You can almost catch a trace of blood as well, and your heart clenches as you realize just how many times he probably got hurt, and you weren't there to help him.

All too soon, he pushes you away, and you feel the sudden shock of cold air between you. He holds you at arm's length, looking you up and down. You hope he notices how much you've filled out in the past six months, eating everything in sight until you don't look quite so much like a skeleton anymore.

As you wipe your eyes and beam up at him, you notice for the first time that he's different too. He's always been strong, but now you can feel the hard, firm strength in his hands from long days of grueling work. He's smiling now, but it's a far cry from the open, ecstatic grin you were expecting. And then you look into his eyes, and you see...weariness. A sadness that wasn't there before.

The cold breeze seems to settle in your lungs. It's like he grew up and left you behind.

But then he claps you on the shoulder and says, "Hey. Let's go home."

You dare to think everything will be all right.

Somehow, you always thought it would be different when he came back. You'd been longing for this day for so long, dreaming about it, imagining everything you would do together, all the things you would tell him to catch him up on the past six months of your life.

But now that he's really here...you find that you can't say a word. You look into his eyes, and you see days and weeks and months of untold experiences that he's had without you. And suddenly, you realize how silly your life is. Why should he care about the book you read or that pretty girl you always hope to see at the corner cafe? He's seen death, and blood, and weather harsher than anything you've ever seen before. You can see starvation in the hard lines of his chin, trauma in the way he twitches whenever a car backfires outside.

It's like a stranger came back in your brother's skin.

You try to banish such a traitorous thought—he's your big brother, nothing can change that—but it keeps sneaking back. You find that you don't know what to say to him, and he sits there quietly, losing himself in his own thoughts and memories, and you listen to the ticking of the clock.

And he goes to Central Command a lot more than he used to. When you were still searching for a way to get your body back, he avoided that place as much as possible, because it reminded him that his freedom was only an illusion. But now that the State really had called on his services, now that he'd gone through the draft and become a soldier for real...it's like he can't go back to the way he used to be.

He spends a lot of time with Mustang now. They were both promoted to Brigadier General for their excellent services in the war. Your Brother became a Colonel when he was drafted, and it seems that he and Mustang will remain equals from now on. No longer are they superior and subordinate. They'll probably stay on equal footing until Mustang finally achieves his goal of becoming Fuhrer.

You hate yourself for this awful jealousy that creeps up on you when you least expect it. Of course he would spend time with Mustang. There's a lot of business to take care of now that Drachma signed the peace treaty, and besides, they've relied on each other to get through the war until now. They're not just going to abandon each other now. You should be happy that they've worked past the stage where they thought they hated each other. This friendship is so much deeper, so much more mature, for everything they've endured together.

Only...it used to be you that he relied on. He used to say, We're all we've got, so we have to stick together. He used to look at you with those warm, vulnerable golden eyes and tell you every last struggle in his heart, because he had no one else to tell.

You know you're only making things worse, but you go back to spending most of your time in the library or walking aimlessly around the streets of Central. When your brother was gone, it was to take your mind off the pain of missing him. Now...it's because you want to escape the awkwardness. If it's this awkward for you, he probably feels just as awkward. So it's much better if you don't force your company on him, and let him do what he wants.

But it hurts when you see him going to a bar with a group of soldiers that must be his war buddies. You stand on the curb, feeling like a stupid little kid who knows nothing of the world. You go back home, and lie awake late into the night. Your brother stumbles in at three in the morning, and falls asleep before he can do more than kick his shoes off.

He used to tell you everything. Now you just wonder.

You always used to say that the only reason you rarely lost your temper was because your brother always beat you to it. For you, anger is a slow, simmering pot that gradually builds up pressure until everything explodes in an ugly mess. You wait for the pot to boil over now—half afraid, half eager. But nothing happens. This odd, uneasy stalemate continues day after day.

Eventually you realize nothing's happening because you're not angry. You're just sad, and lonely. Maybe a little scared too. Everything is slipping through your fingers, and you don't know how to salvage what little you still cup in your hands. You can't even say your worst nightmare is coming true. Not even in sleep had you entertained the notion that something like this could happen.

You feel like you're standing at a crossroads. You could let things progress as they are, and slowly drift away from the only family you have left. Plenty of people do this. They say it's natural to grow apart as you get older. You should pursue your own dreams, and let him pursue his.

But then there's the other option. You haven't tried this yet, because it terrifies you. You're paralyzed, because if it goes wrong... If he pushes you away, or explains calmly that he's different now and you don't know him anymore... It will be like he really had died up there in the Briggs Mountains. And he'll never come back.

The sun is setting on a brisk day in March. Bands of gold-red splay across the living room, glittering on the abandoned glasses sitting around on various tables. Your brother never did like cleaning up after himself. He walks towards the door now, dressed in civilian clothes after a long day in the office.

You stand as he reaches for his coat, like so many times before. He'll be gone in a matter of minutes, fleeing the awkward silences that break up your dinners together. On most days, you let him leave. But now you put down your book and walk up to him. He stops, lets his hand fall back to his side. Looks at you.

You're standing on either side of a vast chasm—bottomless pit, no way across. Every moment you stand still, it hurts more. But how can you hurl yourself across that endless black expanse? How can you be sure you'll reach the other side, and not plummet into that abyss? Your brother stands tall and straight, like he's been trained to do, like none of this matters. But then you look into his eyes and see the same uncertainty in them. The same pain.

So you do the only thing you can do: fling yourself across the chasm and hope that he'll catch you. You lean against him, burying your face in his shirt and wrapping your arms around him.

"Brother," you say, your throat constricting around your words. "I love you."

Despite everything. Even if nothing will ever be the same again. No matter what happens, no matter what changes, I will always, always, love you.

He stiffens, draws in a breath, like he heard the unsaid words whispered in your heart. The first words he says take you completely by surprise. "But...I thought...you were ashamed of me."

You draw back just enough to look at him. "What? What are you talking about?"

When he looks away, you shove his head back around to face you. This is important, and you're not going to let him say it to the wall. He looks into your eyes, brows drawn together into a tight knot. "I...I've failed," he finally admits. For the first time since he's come back, tears shimmer in his eyes. "I went back on my promise to myself. I've...killed...lots of people."

You want to argue that he was just following orders, that he did it to protect his men, but you know he'll just think those are excuses. They're the kind of things he'd expect you to say, because you've never seen war firsthand. So you get right down to the heart of the matter instead.

"Did you honestly think I'd love you any more if you kept your hands clean?"

He's so shocked he even forgets to look guilty. He tries to pull back, but you grip his arms and don't let go.

"I would love you if you became a serial killer."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he lets out a snort of laughter. The tears build up on his eyelashes, threatening to roll down his cheeks. "Al, that's the weirdest thing you've ever said to me."

You frown, but inwardly you're glad. It's been so long since you've heard him laugh. "My point is, nothing you've done is going to change the way I see you. I'm so proud of you, Brother, for everything you've done and everything you've suffered through. You're a hero. You're my hero."

He crumbles like a piece of bread in a cup of water. One by one, the layers of Brigadier General Elric fall away, until you can see the core that you always knew. Once again, you're just two little boys all alone in the world, and he has to be strong enough for both of you because he's the older brother. But you also give him strength, because you're all he has too. You're the only one he can turn to and trust to understand the words he can't say aloud.

Pulling you close, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, he whispers, "Alphonse." His flesh hand rests on the top of your head, his cheek is warm and wet against yours. Everything is as it should be. "I'm sorry, brother. I-I shouldn't have... I should have known..."

"Shush. You've always had this weird problem of thinking I hate you for some reason. And you're always wrong."

He chuckles, obviously thinking back to the time he'd been afraid that you hated him for putting your soul into a body of steel. Then he pulls back and looks you in the eye and finally, you're on the same side of the chasm. "I'm sorry. For being so stupid."

"It was pretty stupid," you concede, "but I guess I can forgive you."

You both grin, and suddenly everything is back to normal. It's almost as if he never left, or maybe as if he'd just come back. You suddenly realize just how much there is to catch up on, and he seems to be thinking along the same lines.

"Hey," he says, eyes lighting up with excitement, "why don't you come with me tonight? I want you to meet my team. They're really great people, and they've been wanting to meet you for a while."

A sun explodes somewhere inside you, and you beam up at him. "I'd like that."