Disclaimer: I don't own the world of FullMetal Alchemist: Hiromu Arakawa is the creator.

A/N: Story 17! About time too; I've been working on this for what seems like forever (or, more accurately, since the middle of October). I got the idea to do this story from one of the lines in another on my fics involving the Elric brothers, What Healing Is:

Even during Alphonse's first week at the hospital, the week his body had been so wracked with fever and chills, Ed had stayed beside him, always pushing his sweat-dampened hair away from his face, murmering soothing words that he'd be fine, and Al had found that to be the greatest comfort he needed.

So this is part of that week, part of what went on inside Edward's head as he watched Alphonse getting sicker and sicker. I thought this would be a fun idea, but the problem was that whenever I tried to work on this, I couldn't think of anything. I mean, I had things in mind, but I couldn't get the writing style the way I wanted or convey Ed's emotions the way I imagined them. After much rereading and editing, I'm happy with the way it turned out, especially the last few sections.

Feel free to let me know how you thought I did or if you liked it, and I hope you enjoy.

StarKatt427

Edward stood leaning against the wall, dim fluorescent light flooding over half his face and casting a harsh shadow as he glared at the doctor expectantly and crossed his arms, the right one tingling at the recovered sensation of touch. "So," he began, building himself up for the man's prognosis. "What's going on?"

The doctor, a middle age man with steel gray hair named Trent Kitchard, released a breath of air as he pushed his back to the wall opposite Ed, hands shoved in his white coat pockets. He stared at the linoleum floor for a few seconds, then looked up to Ed, brow knitted. "With the strain his body's had put on it for such a long period of time, it's no wonder he's so weak. This is pretty much the body trying to readapt to the outside world and adjust to not living off the nutrients you've been providing him the last five years."

Ed scowled at the description the doctor gave, almost like Alphonse was a parasite, but he understood what the man meant and knew that he wasn't trying to be rude. Besides, he was indebted to Kitchard for taking part in doctoring his brother alongside Doctor Knox; he couldn't afford to lose his temper with this man. "That's why the fever hit?"

"Yes." Kitchard's brows remained furrowed.

The expression the doctor wore made a weight settle in Ed's stomach, and he knew he wouldn't like the answer to his next question. "Then how long do you think this will go on? A few days?"

The doctor looked up at Ed with pale blue eyes, his mouth drawn into a tight line. "Hopefully."

"Hopefully?"

"The thing is, I've never had a patient with your brother's…symptoms," he said, clearly unable to think of a better description. "No one has been brought back the way he was, and that's what makes his case all the more precarious."

Edward gritted his teeth, arms dropping to his sides as he formed fists out of natural habit, and his stomach twisted slightly, their conversation about Alphonse increasingly trying to yank him back toward the younger boy. "Could you be a bit less technical and just come out and say it?" he asked, voice harsher than he'd intended.

The doctor seemed unperturbed by Edward's reaction, having grown used to his harsh demeanor over the last several days, and instead lifted his head and straightened his back, staring Ed in the eyes. "This is what I'm thinking: You're brother has had a lot of stress put on his body, and it's trying to handle that in the way you'd react to a virus. He's trying to fight it off, but there's nothing he can fight off, which explains the fever and chills. Nothing's definite, but I figure that this should pass over soon enough."

Over the course of the doctor's explanation, Edward had steadily grown colder and colder, the lead in his stomach turning to ice, and he felt his chest tighten. "You figure," he repeated.

"I hope. Edward, this…isn't normal, and there is nothing for me to refer to; no medical records on past patients, no one to consult, anything. There's not anything wrong with his blood or bone marrow, nothing unusual with his brain function, so this is the only thing I can figure."

"That makes sense."

Kitchard raised an eyebrow. "You expected this, didn't you? At least to some extent."

Edward reached over with his hand and gripped at his right shoulder nervously. "Yeah, more or less. I knew it would probably be hard on him, but…"

"You still weren't prepared."

Damn doctor, Edward thought as he frowned but remained silent, not liking how Kitchard seemed to understand what exactly he had been thinking; at the same time, though, he appreciated it somewhat because at least that meant he didn't have to elaborate. "You said hopefully earlier. It won't last long, right?"

"There's no way for me to tell, honestly. It depends on your brother."

At the mention of Al, Edward once again felt that infinite pull toward the boy that lay in the neighboring room. "And by that you mean…?"

"His willpower. Medicine can only get you so far sometimes, Edward. Often, it's the person that pulls himself through, because he's determined to get better." A twitch of the lips, almost a smile, passed over the man's face. "Like with you with your automail."

Edward grumbled softly, deep in his throat, as he wondered how much Knox had informed this man about his false limbs, the one he still retained and the one that was no longer with him. He said nothing though, too concerned about Alphonse. "But that won't do very much right now. If this turns out like you think, he's gonna be sick for a few days, a week. Maybe…maybe longer," he forced out in a slightly unsteady voice, looking away for a moment. "What all can you do for him now?"

Kitchard's lifted his hand and gripped the back of his neck, exhaling heavily. "Keep him hydrated, for one. We don't have to worry about the feeding tube, so he should be fine there. The main thing I'm worried about is the fever and it's side affects. I'm hoping nothing will be serious, but I can't say for sure." He looked at Ed, eyes softening slightly. "You need to be ready for anything."

Edward gave the doctor a small nod, then put his head to the wall and stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing wildly around and making him feel jumpy, like he had ants crawling inside his veins. Alphonse couldn't be that sick, right? He hadn't even been too unwell the afternoon before when Edward had noticed the way Al seemed especially pale, ever paler than he already was, yet his face was hot to the touch. The nurse had told him he'd had a slight fever, said not to worry too much. But, just a few hours ago, that fever had turned into Al being covered in sweat, skin hot and clammy, his breathing coming in soft pants, and Edward had immediately called for the doctor.

Now, here he was in the hallway, the knowledge that Al's body was being rejected by life and still fighting for it like a hot brand to his soul. He didn't even hear when the doctor left, but he soon found he was alone, trying to keep himself from shaking.

You need to be ready for anything.

Anything as in the worst, which, to Edward, was death. But that was stupid, because Al couldn't die. Not now, not after he'd just gotten him back, gotten him normal again. Not now that Edward was with him, really with him. Not now.

Ed shook his head, trying to dislodge the doctor's words and his own morbid thoughts as he pushed himself off the wall, turning to walk back into the room he shared with Alphonse. He lifted his left hand to grip the door handle, but quickly caught himself just as the cold metal brushed his palm, and, somewhat timidly, Edward placed his right hand—the hand that was pale and small, bony and already somewhat sore from the therapy he had begun to strengthen the newly recovered limb—on the handle, griping it firmly. The coldness of it hit him, causing his hand to prickle, and it spread up to his elbow, the shock of being able to feel forgotten but not undesirable in the least. He curled his fingers, their tips almost hurting from the cool metal, and closed his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, eyelids lifting almost defiantly to reveal fiery gold pools, Edward turned the handle and opened the door.

The first thing that greeted him was the heat of the room as it flowed out the open door and over his skin, a starch contrast to the cold of the hall. Pale light flowed in from the windows, blinds having earlier been raised by himself to allow a softer, more natural glow to enter the room instead of the bright ceiling lights. This room, where he had practically lived for the last five days, had seemed so bright, so full of promise, barely a day ago; now, it held a sense of dismay that infused itself into Edward, and he couldn't shake it no matter how he tried. Ed glanced around, at the sink where the nurses and doctors would wash their hands, at the medical cabinet filled with bottles and syringes, to the bed that was to his immediate right, unoccupied, covers in disarray as they hung off the mattress and touched the floor. Finally, he turned his gaze to the bed where his little brother lay, and that fire that had been in his eyes for the last several days slowly simmered into a small flame, then to barely even an ember, as he looked at Alphonse.

The boy was lying still, almost unnaturally so, but even from a distance, Edward could see the rise and fall of his chest. As Ed walked toward him, a sharp pain hit his stomach as his eyes traveled over his brother's body; Al's skin, already pale from his time in The Portal, was now bleached of what little color he still possessed, a definite sign of the sickly state he was in, and long, pale gold locks were strewn over the pillow beneath his head, lengthy bangs stuck to his cheek. Ed stood beside the bed, looking down protectively at his brother, hands itching to push away that flaccid hair but fearing that if he barely even touched Alphonse now, he would shatter, though he knew that wasn't really possible. Although there seemed to be no sign of sweat pooling on the younger boy's sleeping face, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his neck look thinner, the hollow at the base of his throat more pronounced. Sharp cheekbones jutted out against his skin, almost grotesquely, yet Edward could see nothing but beauty in this wounded creature, and he felt that tenderness associated with his brother and the deepness of his devotion grow more pronounced in his chest, making it swell until it was dangerously tight.

As he slept, Alphonse's face was serene, yet there were traces of the fever underneath; the way his eyebrows would draw down ever so often, his lips parting, and the brief, dipping movements of his head. Edward glanced down at Al's hands where they lay, nails no longer extended and gnarled and now cut into smooth crescents, his fingers bony. He looked at the blue veins along his brother's arms and inside his wrists and covering the back of his hands, a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. The veins were visible everywhere, even along his neck and temples, and it made Edward's heart ache to Alphonse like this.

But he was alive. He was back in his real, flesh and blood body, and he was with him.

Quietly, Ed sat down in the chair beside Al's bed, the same place he had been sitting all morning, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping cold hands between his legs.

Keeping watch over his baby brother had always come naturally to him, a duty that he did not take lightly and considered a great honor, and so he sat, watching Al's chest move with soft, somewhat too deep breaths. Edward's gaze moved from his chest to his arms once again, namely to his left one, where IVs and tubes pierced the fragile skin, supplying his brother's body with nutrients and fluids and medicines. One on the back of his hand was covered by tape, and Edward tried not to wince; the puncture sights were no longer dark and as noticeable, but it still looked painful, the way the needles were stuck in his skin. Edward had fervently denied the use of an IV on his own arm, but had ultimately ended up with one in his hand due to the demand of Doctor Kitchard and, more than anything, the look Alphonse had fixed him with; the softness of his eyes, the way he'd looked beseechingly at Edward, wanting nothing more than for his own brother to heal completely, had broken Ed's resolve, and he had relented, even with his slight fear of needles.

Carefully, Edward reached out and placed the tips of his fingers to his brother's cheek, brow creasing at the heat that seeped into them. He moved the digits up to Al's forehead, which was even warmer than his cheeks, and he gently swept away the honey colored bangs, just as he'd wanted to do only minutes ago.

Against the touch, Al stirred slightly, and Edward froze, afraid he'd woken him. But Al simply turned into the coolness of his palm, and his expression grew softer as he slept. Edward smiled.

Drawing his hand back, Ed felt his eyes burn with fatigue, having not slept exceptionally well the night before, and he closed them for a few moments, just enough so that the stinging would subside. He blinked them open, then looked back at his brother.

When Al got over this fever, how long would it be before he was strong enough to go home? A month, two? But, then again, what if he didn't get better? What if that when was an if? Ed ignored this small part of his sub consciousness, focusing on the fact that Al was actually alive. So what if he didn't know how long it would before they got back to Resembool? He honestly didn't care at the moment; as long as Alphonse was safe and in his true body and was with him, he was content.

Without his knowledge or even his awareness, exhausted eyes had slowly slipped shut once again, his thoughts steadily growing more muddled and less coherent, and he propped his chin up on his palm. He was faintly aware of the fact that he was thinking about Al, that nervous pull still present in his chest, as he gradually fell asleep.

"Well, at least you're finally getting some sleep."

Edward's eyes jerked open and he sat up straight, gaze immediately locking on Alphonse, who was now awake and watching him with somewhat dull, feverish eyes, a tired smile on his face. His voice sounded smaller than usual, softer, yet there was still amusement in it, and when Ed blinked at him, Al's smile grew a little bigger.

Edward was a person who was able to sleep almost anywhere for long amounts of time, but when he looked up at the clock, it drew a surprise out of him: he'd been asleep for over thirty minutes. His gaze turned back to his brother, giving a small, slightly shy smile that held relief. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not too long, a few minutes," Alphonse answered in a quiet, slightly rough voice, resting his cheek on the pillow as to watch Edward better. He looked weary, Ed noted, his face white with traces of heat from the fever cropping up along his cheeks, and his eyes were still drowsy from the medication he'd been receiving.

Al cocked an eyebrow slightly, smile curving up on the right side of his mouth, and Edward realized his brother knew he'd been examining him and found it humorous, maybe even appreciated it at the moment. Under normal circumstances, as Edward had recently rediscovered, Alphonse would normally have full out grinned at this action, or even laughed; now, however, Ed understood that he was too tired to do more than this, and it made his throat grow thick, even as he gave a husky laugh in return, smiling back somewhat apologetically.

Alphonse's smile gentled out, and he sighed, head sinking back in the white pillow slightly as he closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them. "You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"

"Not really," Ed admitted.

"You feel any better now?"

"Do you?"

For just a moment, a look crossed over Alphonse's face, one that was distant and a little unsure, and then he gave a halfhearted smile. "Yeah, I do."

But Edward knew that expression, the glassiness of fever and pain that had just filled his little brother's eyes; he knew it better than anyone, especially after enduring automail surgery. He frowned, annoyed and slightly angry, though it was born more from sadness than irritation. "Liar."

A weak laugh from Al was all he got, or had time to get, because as soon as he laughed, it turned into a thick cough, one that seemed to rattle Alphonse's entire frame, and Edward watched as his brother tried to bring a hand up to over his mouth, unable to because of all the tubes. Ed was on his feet faster than lightning, an arm slipping up behind his brother's shoulders and carefully lifting him into a sitting position as Alphonse continued to cough, a harsh, hoarse chocking that refused to abate for almost a minute.

By the time Alphonse's body collapsed back into Edward, his face was a violent red, chest heaving unevenly and breath coming in rattling pants, head resting against the older boy's shoulder while Edward nervously traced circles over his back. He felt Alphonse tremble slightly for a few moments, and then he seemed to gain control of his inhalations for the most part, breath coming more steadily, only slightly strained. But he didn't make a move to pull away from Edward, and Ed continued rubbing over his back, his head resting against Al's.

"You okay?" he asked softly, voice betraying him when it was apparent just how scared he was, how he sounded more like he was six rather than sixteen.

He could tell Al wanted to give another laugh, but he managed to settle for smiling into Ed's shoulder, and he murmured, "I guess so. I don't really feel good."

"What hurts?"

"My head, a little bit. And my chest. And I'm cold."

Edward, still holding Al up, twisted his arm around to pull the sheets up more, but he felt the faintest of movements against his shoulder: Alphonse shaking his head.

"It won't help," he said, not looking at Edward. "It's just the fever."

Ed inhaled deeply, biting at his lip. "Do you need anything?"

"Yeah. You not to leave."

Edward snorted thickly, rolling his eyes warmly as he pulled Al tighter to him, careful of his grip on Alphonse's gaunt body, and the younger boy turned his head to face Edward, his eyes downcast and a slight smile on his lips, breath warm on Ed's neck. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Al's condition remained unchanged that afternoon and night; fever still high, coughs shaking his frail body, and chills constantly creeping up on him, whether awake or sleeping. He was constantly cold, even with his skin flushed and pyretic, and he slept off and on throughout the day. Kitchard came in twice that afternoon, a nurse at his side to check Alphonse's fluids and IVs and inject more medicine into his drip: antibiotics and drugs to help numb whatever pain he was in.

The whole while, Edward was in a state of mild panic, nervously standing by his side until his worn out body demanded rest and he would have to retire to the hospital chair, never to his own bed, constantly watching his brother's sleeping face and brushing his hand over the boy's sweaty forehead. He was fidgety, unable to pay much attention to anything besides Alphonse or the words the doctor gave him, and found himself possessing a gentleness he'd couldn't remember ever having whenever his little brother would blearily blink up at him with weak eyes. He would speak soothingly to Alphonse about nothing in particular, his low voice going husky with tenderness and so soft that Al would fall back asleep quickly, unable to stay in a lucid state for long.

Right after midnight, Doctor Kitchard came in for the last time that night—or the first time the next morning—and, once finished examining Alphonse's heart rate and blood pressure, he walked over to stand against the wall beside Edward, choosing not to say anything for the moment as he discretely ignored the exhaustion and worry he saw in Ed's eyes. And Edward, once again, was tremendously grateful for his tact, too tired to even consider hiding anything.

"What do you think?" the former alchemist asked after a minute of silence, voice gruff from how long he had been silent.

He heard Kitchard bite back a sigh. "There's really no telling what could happen. We're keeping him hydrated as much as possible, but what worries me is his fever. If it doesn't break soon, things could…" He stopped, looking at Edward somewhat uncomfortably.

Edward was too drained to even growl a reply out and instead nodded for him to go on.

He watched the doctor tap his fingers against one of his thighs, looking away once again. "Things could go downward really fast. He's already had it twenty-four hours, and they usually break after three days. I don't know for sure how things will work his body being so emaciated, but I've got a bad feeling that circumstances change drastically in his case. Most fevers last around ninety-six hours before they get really bad. I'm betting Alphonse's will be at that state in anywhere between forty-eight and seventy-two hours, which gives us another day or two, depending on how his body holds out."

"And if it doesn't break?" Edward asked quietly, only the faintest of trembles apparent in his voice, and he couldn't even find it within himself to be mortified by it.

Kitchard looked at him, sympathetic but direct. "You might lose him."

Edward's heart dropped somewhere below his stomach, almost to where it was falling onto the floor in a shattered, bloody mess, everything the doctor had just said circling through his mind in a malignant mass. No. It wasn't possible that Al could…could die. Not after all the crap they had gone through, after everything they had done, just to get him back to normal. Edward had dreamed of this, longed to have his little brother in his actual body once again, able to feel and smell and laugh without that horrid echoing of metal. But what if all that was taken away from Edward? What if Al was?

Ed's hands shook. "So what do we do?" he whispered, somehow keeping his voice calm even though his terror was trying to consume him as he looked over to his sleeping brother.

Kitchard's gaze followed his, and if Edward had been watching, he would have seen a trace of sorrow in the man's features, worry; he had grown fond of Alphonse over the last few days. "Give him plenty of fluids, keep him comfortable, and put as little stress on his body as possible. Honestly, Edward," he said, and Ed could feel the doctor looking at him, but he didn't acknowledge the gaze, "you're probably the best medicine for him."

Too shocked, he was unable to keep his eyes off the man at his side. "What?"

The doctor sighed quietly. "You're his brother, and he clings to that bond. You've already been with him his entire life, and especially during the past five years, right? It's just a theory, but think that your presence might have some affect on him." Kitchard, though looking worn out from the long day of work, gave him a small smile, and Ed blinked, slightly taken aback for a moment. But then he gave a smile of his own, deciding that he really did like this man and could see why Doctor Knox did as well.

With one last knowing look at Edward, Kitchard pushed himself off the wall and, after once again quickly checking Al's vitals, began walking to the door.

"Thanks," Edward called, voice soft, still halfway smiling.

The man did not turn or say anything that showed he had heard Edward's gratitude, but Ed knew he had, and the doctor lazily lifted a hand in farewell. "Try and get some rest," was his reply, and then he was walking out into the hall, leaving Edward, once again, with his brother.

Raking a hand through his bangs and sighing, Ed deflated slightly. He did not want to sleep, even though his body was craving rest; his head was dully aching, eyes burning from lack of sleep, and his limbs felt cumbersome, like they were made of lead. Edward knew that if he allowed himself to relax, he would quickly fall asleep, and he didn't want that, more determined to stay conscious and by his brother's side in case he awoke. But he also knew that he was useless to Al right now, too tired to be of any help, and he had a very strong feeling Alphonse would be chastising him if he were awake. So, after gently brushing his fingers over his brother's flushed face and quietly lifting the chair, placing it against the wall, he sat down and rested his head back, looking after Alphonse until his eyes grew so heavy that he could not keep them open.

Edward woke to the sound of screaming monitors and dry, broken retching an hour before dawn.

Alphonse hadn't eaten in five years. When you were a suit of armor, there was no need to, and so his physical body, trapped in The Portal, had remained unfed and malnourished, becoming nothing more than white skin and fragile bones that were unnaturally visible. Once Al had actually been returned to his body and had been taken to the hospital, the idea of food was out of the question, his weak stomach unable to handle anything, and Edward had been unable to hide the guilt at this diagnosis. But Alphonse had just smiled, a small, grateful smile that was expressed more by his eyes, completely undeterred.

So when Edward jumped to Al's side and supported him as he leaned over the edge of the bed, gagging and dry heaving, it came as a relief to know his brother hadn't consumed anything for years. His body was rigged as Edward held onto him frantically, terrified and completely at a loss for what to do, loud monitors screaming in his ears and the sound of painful, choked gags battering his heart. Alphonse was tensed, trying to battle against the heaves that tore at his stomach, but it only intensified in the pain they racked on his poor body.

"Al, you gotta relax! Come on, you have got to relax," Edmund murmured in a unsteady voice, hand on Alphonse's back as his brother's chest jerked for breath.

A quick motion, barely the shake of his head, and then Al pulled away from Edward to gag harshly. He shook until Edward felt his body relax, and then Alphonse lay halfway sprawled over the older boy, unable to pull himself back up.

Ed sighed as he carefully lifted Al, pushing the hair out of his face as his brother wheezed, stomach free of spasms for the moment. "Breathe, Al. It's okay now."

Another cough, and Alphonse opened his eyes just long enough to look at Edward and nod before falling into his chest, unconscious.

A nurse rushed in as Edward supported him brother's limp body, followed by another, and he felt hot anger boil up in his chest as he wondered just what the hell had taken them so long. But then they were telling him to lay Al flat, and, deciding to chew them out later, he complied, heart thudding in his ears and something deeper than fear squeezing the organ as he watched his little brother inhale shallow, rattling breaths, eyebrows knitted in pain. One nurse left the room, and Edward could faintly hear her as she spoke to someone on the phone across the hall, voice low and pressing, while the other tended to Al, touching her hand to his throat and then to his wrist, checking his pulse.

He was scared. He'd known it would be rough, but this? Alphonse didn't deserve to hurt like this, not when Edward was willing and ready to take away any pain he could and have it inflicted upon himself, not when he was the one who deserved it. At that moment, all traces of fatigue left him, and he hovered at his brother's side until, after what seemed an eternity, a very grave Kitchard walked into the room and went straight to the invalid's bed, the nurse who had called him several paces behind.

Ed watched intently as the man felt the pulse at Al's neck, saw his eyes tighten, and the doctor looked to one of the monitors. "Up his dosage," he said quietly, calmly, to the nurse, then murmured something so softly Edward couldn't hear, and the nurse immediately set to work at the task given her.

Edward was unable to ask what medicine they were increasing due to the fact that his heart was lodged in his throat, and he swallowed thickly as he looked from his brother to the doctor with distressed, somewhat wild eyes.

Kitchard, as if understanding that he was trying to speak, said in a soft, serious tone, "I've put him on a morphine drip and upped his fluids. That spell dehydrated him more that I thought it would, so this should help some. But I'm worried about his chest, so I've got him on antibiotics for pneumonia."

"So he…?" Edward closed his eyes, lips drawing into a rigid line before his emotions got out of hand and he completely lost it.

"No, not yet," the doctor assured. "If this keeps up, though, it might develop, so that's why I've got him on the drugs now."

Pneumonia. That word burned at Ed's soul and taunted him, just like Truth had once, ready to take away the most precious thing in the world from him and leave him broken and scarred. And the worse thing was that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do. This wasn't like before, when he had searched for and had finally found a way to get Al's body back, to make things right, when he had finally gotten back the thing he'd wished for most. No, this time, he was completely helpless to fight against the sickness attacking his brother's body from the inside, and it made something well up in his chest that he refused to believe was a sigh ready to turn into a sob the moment he opened his mouth.

The doctor turned away, to which Edward was immensely thankful, and fiddled with his stethoscope. "I'm ready at a moment's notice, so call me if anything else happens. I have a feeling you'll be quicker than the nurses," he said, the last somewhat softer and completely sincere, not once looking up.

Instead of answering, Edward nodded, knowing the man would see.

Kitchard sighed, then looked back at Alphonse with an expression Edward rarely saw on the man's face, one that looked suspiciously like compassion, and he watched as the doctor quickly brushed his fingers over Al's pale forehead, pushing back long bangs. Then he turned away, said a quick word to the nurse, and vanished.

Ed stood there, anxiety eating at him, monitors beeping in his ears, his eyes fixed solely on Al. But a soft knock pulled his attention away, and he looked to the door, where the small nurse that had called for the doctor stood. "Would you like to be alone?" she asked gently.

Ed looked up at her, then gave a soft, appreciative nod to the woman, who smiled slightly before departing, leaving the door ajar.

Once she had left, Edward sighed shakily and, moving with a slowness that didn't suit his fiery personality in the least, slid the chair up right against Al's bed and sat down, one hand curled over his mouth. He watched silently as Alphonse slept heavily, pain evident in his every feature.

The last time Edward had watched over someone so sick had been when he was five and had sat at his mother's sickbed, aware that something was seriously wrong yet not quite able to grasp the fact that his mother was slowly slipping away from him, too young to completely understand death at the time. He had been diligent then in his watch, only leaving for meals or when he had grown too sleepy or when Pinako Rockbell had dragged him out to get some fresh air, the old bat swatting at him with her broom when he disobeyed, even then firm and unyielding in her commands.

But Edward wasn't five anymore, and nothing would ever get him away from Al, not even that harsh spoken, gentle old woman; not even death. He understood that concept now, having watched his mother die, having lost Hughes, having seen enough death over the last few years to last him lifetime. So it was scarier now to see Al looking so utterly small and breakable, hear his irregular breathing, than to have watched the woman who had given birth to him decline into death.

Love was something fierce inside Edward, an emotion he did not give away generously, but reserved for a few special people, the ones that firmly took hold of his heart and made him want to give them everything he was. There was no greater devotion inside him than that to his brother, and so he sat, tapping his foot softly on the floor so that he wasn't completely still, eyes hardly ever leaving the white face and so intense in their vigil that it either would have intimidated or fascinated most. Yet there was a quite softness to them, one of fear and love that made him look far older than sixteen.

And so began the longest day of Edward's life.

Alphonse's sleep was restless, and he often stirred, his breathing turning shallow one minute and smoothing out the next. The coughs that shook him were harsh, dry things, and Edward was thankful to hear them instead of fluid filled ones, knowing that dreaded illness had not yet taken hold of his brother. When Al would open his eyes groggily and look around the room in a daze, Ed would be over him in a flash, a calming hand placed to the child's feverish forehead, words spoken gently and affectionately. Alphonse would watch him with dull gold eyes and his face would lose any lines of pain it had previously held, not yet having drifted too far away that he couldn't recognize Edward, something Ed was immensely grateful for, as he managed to lull Alphonse back into some state of sleep.

Kitchard came in every two hours or so, sometimes to check over the charts the nurses had written out, other times to quickly glance in at Edward, to which Ed would either nod or shake his head depending on how Al was doing.

Unfortunately, there were more shakes than nods as the morning wore on, and by seven, Alphonse was lost again to painful gags that stole his breath and reduced him to a trembling skeleton, the morphine having helped for a while but his body too weak to take on any more than was already being administered. Edward was always holding him up so that he didn't choke, the whole time feeling like he himself was being strangled, chest tight and so far beyond exhaustion that sleep completely evaded him and rest was out of the question.

This went on all day, Alphonse sleeping fitfully and waking for short periods of time, whether coherent or not. Horrible stomach contractions caused more empty retching that weakened his body even further, but this lessened in the afternoon and left him unconscious for the most part. This also resulted in Edward always being on his toes, ready to leap up at the slightest sound, his nerves a bundle of livewires. Whether he was washing the sweat from Al's face with a damp rag or simply speaking to him as he slept, Ed never stayed still for long, always keeping his brother as comfortable as possible and trying to act as if nothing were wrong, that everything was normal and that Al was just sleeping, not falling deeper and deeper into sickness.

But nothing was normal, hadn't been for a long time, even as Edward tried to give life some sense of familiarity, both for his sake and Alphonse's.

When it grew close to ten that night and Ed was beginning to feel the side affects of going with sleep for so long, he heard one of the monitor's beeping slow. Shaking himself awake, Ed leaned over his brother, watching as Alphonse's chest barely rose and fell, breaths unnaturally slow, and a hot panic swelled up in him as he felt the frantic desire to grab his brother and shake him by the shoulders until he woke up. Somehow, Edward restrained himself just enough to yell for a nurse, voice an uncontrolled scream. She ran in faster than he thought possible, the doctor right behind her, and Ed was left standing on quaking knees as he watched them quickly regulate the younger boy's breathing. He heard the choked gasp from Alphonse as he sputtered for air, his little brother's eyes unfocused and wide, then saw him sink back down into sleep.

Kitchard said nothing, but gave Edward a tight, worried look, and Ed felt all the strength flee his limbs and something snap in his chest at the silent information: if this kept on much longer, the chances of Alphonse pulling through were slim.

When Kitchard took the nurse into the hall and Edward was once again alone with Alphonse, he could hear their whispers past his racing blood. But he couldn't make himself care at the moment; he was too tired, too focused on Al to even consider thinking about what they might be saying, even though he had a pretty good idea thanks to the doctor's intense stare. Shivering, his legs finally gave out, and he collapsed into the chair. Cold dread wasn't something new, already settled permanently into his stomach and chest, and he knew that this wasn't as far as it could extend, that it could weigh even heavier on his heart. His skin felt tight, like the fear was gnawing at him so much that his insides were trying to break free and escape this world, escape the terror he felt as he looked at his brother, reached out and touched his sunken face. Ed bit down a shuddering breath as he felt his brother's skin beneath his shaking fingers, unnaturally cold for the fever that consumed him. Like he was close to death.

Death.

Dead.

Alphonse dead.

No.

Something sharp and hot and glowing burned him from the inside out, and he swallowed down whatever was trying to break out of his chest. It was painful, but not in a bad way. It was a good ache, and Edward closed his eyes and relished this burn, knowing nothing could make his heart throb with this fire but Al, nothing but the pure, constant love he felt for him. Alphonse was so utterly bound to his soul that Edward felt like he was the one dying, not his brother.

He was beyond scared, and it was because Alphonse was slowly being taken away from him, pulled into some world that Ed knew was impossible for him to reach in this life.

Edward leaned forward and covered Al's thin hand with his palm, brushing his fingers over the boy's fragile knuckles. He cleared his throat, blinking back damned moisture, but didn't let it stop him. "Al, I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, listen up," he began, too engrossed to even feel the slightest bit self-conscious or realize the door was still open. "You're not weak. You're not a quitter. You're strong, stronger than me, and you are going to get through this." He swallowed again, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to steady his voice. "I'm gonna be right here until you get over this crap and get so sick of me pestering you that you try to kick me out, so you'd better get used to this because I'm not going anywhere, not ever. So don't you even consider leaving, because you can fight this, and you're going to get better. Everyone's waiting for us. Winry, Granny. Hell, even Mustang," he said, laughing wetly. "You're not going to leave them waiting. Or me. Alphonse, you are not allowed to leave me, got it? I'll kick your butt if you try."

He laid his head down on the edge of Al's bed so that he was looking up at his brother, and then he promptly buried his face in the sheets and closed his eyes, emotions raging and choking him. "So get better soon, okay?"

Trent Kitchard had heard the soft pleas as they'd been uttered and, knowing that Edward was probably the last chance the younger boy had, he softly closed the door with a smile and told the nurse not to disturb them unless needed.

Edward's eyes shot open from sleep, the orange light of a lamp not quite enough to make him squint. He knew he'd fallen asleep, his head on Al's bed, but he blinked a few times, confused, knowing something had woken him but unsure what it was. The beeping of Al's heart monitor wasn't loud, neither flat lining or racing out of control, simply sounding a little faster than the pace he'd grown used to. But something was off, something that made the ice in his stomach shard out and pierce everything inside him.

He felt a slight pull, a soft moan, and then everything was still.

His eyes widened.

Shooting upright, Edward found himself looking at Al's back, his brother having managed to turn onto his side and curl up, body shaking as soft, mewling sounds exited his lips and shattered the quiet. His shoulder jerked quickly, painfully, and Ed saw his hand grip the sheets harshly, heard him muffle a whimper.

God, this was too much. Edward's eyes smarted, a lump in his throat at what he was seeing, and he lifted his hand, trying to keep it steady, as he gently placed it to the middle Alphonse's gaunt back, right between his shoulder blades and on top of his painfully evident spine.

Alphonse stiffened, and Edward heard his breathing catch, felt his chest twitch as he fought off sobs.

Oh, Al, Edward thought, so amazed and touched and annoyed all at the same time with this little boy—this young man. He was actually trying to hide that he was sick, and Edward understood instantly that it was because Al didn't want him worrying.

It broke his heart, knowing his brother was trying to be strong by himself when he was so utterly weak.

He sighed shakily. "Al."

A repressed whimper.

"Alphonse, look at me," Edward commanded softly.

Slowly, careful of his tired body, Al looked over at him.

For a moment, Edward couldn't say anything; his chest ached, breathing became even more difficult, and his throat felt like he'd swallowed cotton. Alphonse's eyes were bloodshot but clear, filled with subdued pain and gleaming with wetness. Sweat beading on his forehead due to the fever, lips parted as he took in ragged breaths, he looked at Edward with melted eyes that were begging for solace without even intending to.

Edward was not affectionate by any means; he wasn't comfortable with physical contact and found himself at a loss whenever someone was crying. Rare was it that he spoke soft, heartfelt words, but they were honest and very raw when said, and he found it easier to avoid giving and receiving touch most of the time.

This wasn't most of the time.

There was no such thing as restraint when it came to Alphonse, not any longer. Yes, he had tried to keep a safe distance between himself and his brother over the last five years, ashamed of his mistake but never of Al. But now, when every boundary had been broken and all defenses crumbled and Edward found he was just able to actually hold his brother, he felt himself craving to have his arms around him, to remind himself that he was real and Al was real; that they were both alive and breathing, with beating hearts and thinking minds that were so alike at times Edward wondered if they were meant to be one person long ago in their mother's belly.

The only way to explain any of this was that Alphonse was half of his soul, and Edward gladly accepted this truth.

So, somehow, Ed managed a tiny smile. "Get over here."

As soon as he had finished speaking, he moved, standing up and placing himself on the bed, just in time for Alphonse to release a fragile cry and fall helplessly against him as great, heaving sobs shook his frame.

Mindful of the tubes, Edward positioned Al so that he was cradling him, his brother's thin figure curled against him as he wrapped his fragile arms around his wasted stomach tightly, as if to repress the hurt Edward knew was there. Ed's hands were on his back, in his hair, clumsy and comforting, the whole while feeling like his heart was breaking at how defenseless Alphonse was, an instinct inside Ed screaming to take care of him, to protect him from every harm. Al's tears were hot on his skin, soft wails hurting Edward nearly as much as his brother's screams before he was pulled into The Portal had, and he wrapped his arms around his brother with a little more force, scared he might break if he squeezed him too tightly.

Al coughed, choking, a hand grasping weakly at his chest, the other tight on his stomach, and Edward realized that his brother was having difficulty breathing, once against being harassed by sickness that refused to come.

Moving quickly, Edward had his brother's wet face cupped in one of his large hands, leaning down to press his forehead soothingly to Al's, nearly cringing at the scorching heat of his skin. "Alphonse, listen to me," he said softly, firm and somewhat desperate, as he saw his little brother slipping, eyes growing dull. "Come on, stay with me. It'll be over soon, but you have to let it come."

Alphonse's eyes slipped shut, and he shook his head feebly, biting back a retch as tears leaked from under his eyelids and clung to his lashes. "Hurts. Really bad," he whispered, hands sliding to hold Ed's shirt. "I c-can't breathe."

"Yes, you can," Edward argued, his right hand moving to grasp Al's, their hands almost the same size, both pale and body. "Please, Al."

"Bro…brother…" A sharp hiccough.

"You can get through this," Edward continued, reassuring himself more than Alphonse. "I know you can."

And then Alphonse jerked away and gagged to Ed's side, body a convulsing mess as he clung to Edward like a lifeline.

Ed exhaled shakily, tired and fearful as he listened to Alphonse dry heave, one hand resting on Al's scrawny shoulder and the other gentle as it supported his brother's back, mildly surprised at the strong grip Alphonse had on his shirt. With his free hand, Edward twined his fingers in his brother's hair, still holding onto him as he gagged. The feel of Al's bony back, hearing him gasping and coughing, tore at him, smarted and ached and made the back of his eyes feel tight, and he buried his face in the long, messy mane, whispering soft nothings to Alphonse.

After several long, agonizing minutes of empty gags and strangled coughs, Al, exhausted and spent, managed to pull himself back upright, and he buried his face in Ed's shirt as he fought for breath, his chest moving spasmodically.

"Shh, you're fine, you're fine. It's okay, it'll be over soon. I've got you." Edward rubbed awkward, calming circles over Alphonse's back, every shudder from the boy's body hitting him like a sledgehammer, and he exhaled shakily as Al muffled a sob.

"I-it hurts!" the younger teenager whimpered, face buried in Ed's shirt front as he gripped the material firmly and tried and relieve his aching body of some of its misery.

"I know, Al. I know. I'm sorry. Just breathe, brother." Ed rocked him, positioning Alphonse so that he was leaning into his left side, his free hand over his face as he peacefully brushed his fingers over the younger boy's sticky cheeks, tracing swirling patterns over his forehead and around his eyes, still amazed that he was actually able to do this.

Minutes passed, the only sounds being Al's painful whines, Edward's soft words, and the monitor's steady beeping.

When Al began to move, Edward was reluctant; he kept his hands placed on his shoulders, trying to gently push him back down so that he'd hopefully fall asleep but unable to actually force him to. Ed watched him, his baby brother's face somehow still pale even with the hot flush of fever, body trembling with exertion and pain as he sat up, dizzy with exhaustion and blinded by tears, trying to find him through his blurred vision. Alphonse released his shirt with one hand, slowly bringing it up to reach out, placing it hotly on Edward's jaw.

And Edward, who had watched silently, excited and anxious, immediately had his own hand back against Al's face, reassuring him better than any words ever could. He wrapped an arm round his brother's waist, holding him up as a few stray coughs and sobs tore from his chest, his hand brushing hair away from Alphonse's forehead and mouth, palm skimming over his cheeks as he pushed away tears mingled with sticky sweat. Alphonse let him, sitting flaccidly in his lap as he continued to sniffle, eyes swollen and heavy as his shoulders shook with chills that refused to release him.

Thankfully, it didn't take as long as Edward had feared for him to get Al back under control; soon enough, his body was beginning to slump, inhalations deepening and eyes slipping shut with sleep, even as he clearly tried to fight it, and Ed laughed softly as he carefully lifted his little brother and positioned him back into the bed. He pulled the sheets up just below his chin, taking one last moment to look into those eyes, eyes that he had missed almost as much as Al's touch, then pushed his hair away. "Try to sleep, okay? I'm right beside you," he whispered.

He looked at the chair and was about to sit down when a hand gently wrapped around his left wrist. Inhaling quickly, Edward looked back down to see Alphonse watching him, slightly fearful and pleading, gazing up at him with large, adoring eyes, the same way he had when they were little and he'd wanted Ed to sleep with him because he'd had a nightmare. And Edward could see the question in his brother's eyes, and it wasn't even required, because he was instantly slipping his shoes off, then carefully climbing in beside Al on the side that was opposite the monitors, chest fit to burst and feeling so warm that he found it was possible to forget about the cold fear in his stomach for at least a little while. The whole while, Alphonse gave him a weak, gentle smile, and as soon as Edward had situated himself as to not crush him, he found Al turning toward him, forehead against his shoulder, and Ed couldn't help but smile as he brought up his arm and wrapped it securely around his brother's back.

"I'm sorry," Al croaked a few moments later, burrowing in closer as he inhaled a tough breath.

"Don't be. This isn't your fault."

"Ed…"

Edward smiled crookedly down at him, quickly pressing a finger to his cracked lips. "Stop."

Alphonse blinked at him, then closed his eyes, clearly too sleepy to argue, to which Ed was thankful. Right after, though, he felt Al shiver and pull closer to him.

"You okay?" he asked, trying to force the panic down that sprouted in his chest.

Al sighed in his throat. "You're warm."

Ed moved his arm and heard Alphonse whimper softly at the lost warmth, and he fought against the smile that tried to work its way onto his face at the little sound. Quickly, he grabbed the sheets and pulled them up over his brother's shoulders, then slid his arm underneath to hold onto him again.

Alphonse didn't open his eyes, but Edward saw his brother smile softly and felt a small hand latch onto his right one, his sign of gratitude.

"Brother?"

Edward did smile this time, unable to feel exasperated at Alphonse right now for not going to sleep, even when his body was fighting him for it. "Hmm?"

Al opened his eyes and looked up at him softly. "Thanks."

Edward felt his face grow warm, and he closed his eyes, pushing back the tears he'd managed to tame over the last several minutes. He shrugged lightly, like it wasn't the earthshaking comment that it really was, then gently pushed Alphonse's face into his neck. "This is what brothers are for," he stated simply, but he was unable to stop the quiver in his voice.

He felt Alphonse smile, and then his brother stilled, his chest rising quietly against his own. In less than a minute, his breathing evened out, and Edward knew he was asleep.

He had no clue what was going to happen to them. He didn't know if Al would be any worse and any better when morning came, or if he was going to sleep through the rest of the night without waking up. But Edward had to trust that Alphonse would be alright; maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but eventually. Al was strong. He had to have faith in his brother's strength.

As Edward closed his eyes, a solitary tear slipped past his eyelid and down his cheek, and he was safe in the knowledge that Al was in his arms for at least tonight, and nothing was going to change that.

When Doctor Kitchard was called to go into Alphonse Elric's room at eight-fifteen the next morning, he couldn't help the fear that bubbled up. But the nurse was smiling, eyes bright, as she motioned him forward and told him to do so quietly, and when he was in the room, he realized why.

Both brothers were sound asleep in Alphonse's bed. Somehow, Edward had managed to twist himself in beside the younger boy, and now he was curled up on his side, forehead against Al's hair, one arm protectively, gently, thrown over the smaller boy's stomach, cradling him to his chest. Alphonse was in a loose ball against Edward, one of his hands twined with his brother's, his face without pain lines or fever flush, lips parted as deep, even breaths exited them.

Tentatively, Kitchard placed his hand to Alphonse's forehead, then felt a tired smile spread across his features.

The boy's fever had broken.

Deciding there was nothing that needed to be done at the moment, Doctor Kitchard silently left them to sleep, the whole while grinning and trying not to laugh.

After all, he had told Edward he would be Al's best medicine, hadn't he?