"Breakfast"
by Acey
Disclaimer: Not then, not now, not ever.
Ed had never really thought much about food before the accident. It kept you going, got you fat if you liked it too much, made you a rail if you didn't have enough of it. You chewed and swallowed and washed it down with whatever drink was there, and that was the size of it. He had a soft spot for noodles but not many other things; sweets were good but he could probably go through life without them without too much pain.
Al, though, had enjoyed sweets—it was obvious; he'd always been the one that would beg their mother to make cookies more often, or get out the battered ice-cream maker and spend an hour or so on the porch on hot summer days cranking it to get it cold. He'd cajole Ed to help with the mixture began to get stiff and harder to turn by himself, but eventually Ed tired of cranking and their mother smiled and finished it for them, back before she had gotten weak. Strawberry was Al's favorite.
Strawberry had been Al's favorite.
Alphonse hadn't gotten a chair for him to sit in for breakfast that first day, either hadn't thought about it or didn't want to think about it. He had just quietly put a table by the bed, and a tray on that. Considered, then moved it less than two inches away from the bed so Ed wouldn't have to move too far to reach it, and maybe, maybe wouldn't need help to do that.
As it turned out that first morning he didn't, just half-dragged, half-forced himself into a sitting position with his arm, and scooted himself over to the edge of the bed in a series of motions that had once been effortless, now trying, pitifully trying on the broken body. Al started to say something, ask him if he wanted any help, but Ed pulled himself the last bit toward the table as he was about to. He carefully leaned. Once he held the fork (awkward, unwieldy thing it had become), Ed nearly relaxed.
The pancakes were cut neatly in small rectangles, almost bite-sized, syrup long since doused on them and soaking through. For a second Ed stared at it dumbly, not comprehending. Then the moment passed and he realized with a bitter obviousness why.
Of course. Can't cut things with one hand, can you, because the other hand had to steady the fork while the knife—how could he have thought any differently?
Because he had forgotten for that stupid moment. He had just dragged himself up from bed and struggled all two feet of the way just to reach his breakfast, and once he could actually see the food on the tray he was actually surprised.
He could have laughed at how ridiculous it was, caustic, angry laughs, and he almost did. But Al was there, right next to him, and if he laughed at himself like that…
He had no reason, compared to Al.
"Pancakes," he said instead, managing a too-wide grin as he carefully embedded the fork in the nearest piece, left-handed, slowly bringing it to his mouth.
"Winry made them."
"Winry? Then I bet they're poisoned," he tried to joke, but Al didn't reply and so Ed left it at that.
On day two he hadn't managed to sit up in bed as fast, so Al had to pick him up and set him on the edge of the bed humiliated. It was oatmeal today, the stuff floating like a bizarre island on the hated sea of milk. There was really more milk than oats, Ed realized as he looked down into the bowl, as if it were practically an afterthought. Ed considered complaining, an Al-you-know-I-can't-stand-milk, but Al began before he could start.
"I was thinking… you ought to drink it more anyway, maybe it'll help you out some… you're healing all right but maybe milk will speed it up…"
Al's voice was almost as apologetic as it could get.
Ed, still glaring into the bowl, doubted anything would help and almost said so.
"This once," he said with a grimace, but only made it in about three bites before he dropped his spoon.
Alphonse instantly bent over and picked it up, as if it was a bizarre timed race, and for once he was completely guileless, unsuspecting.
"I'll get you another one, Brother, hold on…"
Ed nodded, hiding his smile until Al had his back turned and was headed the other way. He'd faked it, partially because he didn't want the food in the first place, and, mostly, because it meant that it would give him a small chance to think.
He'd decided when he had first woken up that the moment he got auto-mail would end all dependency. Al would never, never have reason to look at him as a burden, someone to wheel around from place to place, someone that people would look at apologetically and whisper in solemn tones about. The auto-mail would make it where Al wouldn't have to feel sorry for him. It would make it where he'd be able to do alchemy again, go and become a State Alchemist so he could get them both back to how they were before.
But with and during that, he would have to ensure that Al never had a reason to feel jealous over him, envious, because he'd made it through that night with half his body intact, even if the other half was gone and blood was their only grisly replacement. Envious because he, Ed, still looked mostly the same, could still do things, could still feel and hurt…
And eat.
Ed had never in his life thought to ask his brother the food he hated most of all but he was sure that Al would have preferred that for breakfast every morning as opposed to never eating again.
He'd made it hard on Al without realizing it, hadn't he? Al had brought meals on the tray every day without complaining, things he would have enjoyed himself, the pancakes yesterday morning and sandwich that lunch and whatever he'd eaten that dinner. Al could have been the one to cut those pancakes. Al—
Edward thought fast, brow creasing. There was some way of avoiding his brother. There had to be.
A glint lit up his yellowish eyes for the first time in two days. There was. Oh, yes, there was.
And as he saw his brother rushing back with Winry, spoon in one hand, he made his plans.
Lunch was out, because he knew from his stays at the house when he was younger that Pinako prepared it at noon every day as the cuckoo in the clock burst out of its hideout. Dinner even more so; Winry and Al both had encouraged him to come down, either have Al carry him or get a spare wheelchair last night, and he knew his resolve wouldn't survive their nagging. At dinner everyone obviously was up and moving around, too, and that would make his sudden presence killingly apparent.
It would have to be breakfast, and early at that. Five-thirty, maybe? Anything later seemed to be pushing it. He didn't know if Al could really sleep and he wasn't sure if he would manage to keep anyone else from waking up even if he did make it without breaking the bones he had left.
Have to risk it, then.
But have to risk it without too much attention. He made it a point the rest of the day to act normally as he was coaxed into Al carrying him down for dinner even though he was glancing around the hallways and rooms throughout, like they had changed, deciding what would be an obstacle, what he'd have to have in mind to avoid. Ed wasn't surprised when he saw his dinner was cut up, and talked as he ate about the weather or something nonsensical like that, but it made Winry smile a little and Pinako look relieved.
Al sat at dinner too, but with no plate or glass. He carried on the conversations amicably, almost cheerfully, like he hadn't realized his new status—or didn't want to.
Ed pushed away what was left of his food then, excusing himself out of tiredness, and when a concerned Al took him to bed he fell into a restless, guilty sleep.
He was relieved to find the next morning that he'd woken up early. He pulled the covers off gingerly, considered using them as leverage for a second but gave up on that as soon as he thought it. Paused before rolling over a few times, carefully stopping at the edge of the bed, then grabbed one of the bedposts and slowly let himself drop.
Ed hit the ground surprisingly lightly, and bit his lip as he started to half-crawl, half-drag himself across the floor to the kitchen. The back of his mind noted that it was an incredibly good thing that Pinako for all her years kept the floor clean, while the rest of it concentrated on getting there quietly. The sun had just barely begun to come up and unless he stayed going straight forward he'd crash into furniture eventually. This would be the easiest part of the ordeal, but that said almost nothing at all.
After more than fifteen minutes he had made it into the kitchen, suddenly thankful for all the times he'd spent at the Rockbell's and the fact that they'd never moved anything around. The kitchen hadn't changed much, either; he was pretty sure the same glass bowl was even on the table, full of fruit too large and dusty to be real.
And the five chairs, amazingly, still in their proper places, as though they were still waiting for the Rockbell doctors to return.
He reached for the nearest one and pushed it towards the pantry while still holding onto it. Two dozen tries later and he was on the chair itself, up by sheer determination of will, exhausted but still eager.
He'd made it. All he would have to do now was open the pantry door.
With a grin on his face he pulled it open hard, not expecting it to give as easily as it did. It did, though, presenting its showcase, jars of preserves, sacks of flour and dried vegetables.
He decided the nearest one, not particularly caring what it was so long as it meant that morning he would have already eaten breakfast before Al could come with the tray. Ed was through hesitating for things; he'd made it dragging himself along this far, hoisted himself on a chair to even reach the pantry. Getting the food itself wouldn't need to be cautioned.
Ed touched it and had barely moved it from the shelf before what seemed like the entire contents of the pantry crashed down around him. The little balance he'd had was gone and he fell down from the chair with it, cursing his luck mightily as he heard some of the jars shatter on the floor, their contents pooling into murky puddles.
He couldn't move now, not even if he dragged himself to do it—he'd cut himself up on the glass no matter how he tried to avoid it.
"Brother!"
It was Al's voice.
Ed heard his clogging steps toward him before he saw him, before he appeared in front of him. His tone was as devoid of emptiness as he could manage now, worried, completely worried.
"Brother!"
"Al."
"What happened? What were you trying to do? Are you all right?"
The jars and sacks had somehow escaped hitting him as they'd fallen. For a second the shadow of regret remained on Ed's face, quickly forced into submission as he looked up at Al.
"I'll—I'd be fine if you could help me up."
finis