All we can do is make him comfortable

Those were the words the doctor had used. Ed hadn't had much of an ear for the silence that followed, though he could somewhat imagine the faces of the people whom the doctor must have been talking to, most likely Mustang, as Al was still just a kid and the hospital staff would prefer Mustang to break the bad news to him. Also, Ed was Mustang's subordinate, which meant he was his responsibility, which meant he should be the first to know that all hope was lost and Ed was going to die.

And back to that detail.

They thought him unconscious, was Ed's conclusion. After all, if they had thought he was awake and lucid, they probably would have told him to his face that he had no chance to live. At least, that's what Ed would expect from them. But if he'd had the energy to open his eyes, he would have been able to read it in their faces. So then it wouldn't have mattered.

But he didn't, so it did.

Of course, if Ed had had the energy to do much of anything, he wouldn't be lying on a hospital bed in some kind of creepy, coma-like state, which apparently, in some twisted way, gave people permission to talk of him and not at him. If he wasn't practically paralyzed in everything but some kind of cruel immunity to falling completely into oblivion, then he would probably be one of those people with good luck.

But of course, he didn't believe in luck.

But, he would have killed for some right about now, if he were honest with himself. Of course, fate had always been stingy with him. So "lucky" for him at this point would probably constitute the ability to open his eyes and speak, while he would still be dying, of course.

For some reason, he kept coming back to that.

Yes, being able to see and talk would be a blessing at this point. Anything that he could use to somehow convey the emotions that he was feeling at the fact that his life was ending would be. He would have loved to rant and rage, or perhaps wallow in self-pity, maybe even throw in a good pout. But of course, when Al was there he would have smirked and laughed and told him it was okay, and avoid serious, emotional moments until such a time came that he would have to tell Al everything he needed to know before Ed was gone. Stay alive, keep searching for a way to get your body back, love, be a thorn in Colonel Bastard's side whenever the opportunity presents itself, laugh, and a whole lot of other mushy stuff. Because even though the black haze over Ed's eyes and mind was giving him a better sense of philosophy about the situation than would normally compound itself, he was still understandably upset. Even though he was unresponsive, as the nurses said, falling in and out of a gauzy, black oblivion like a static tide.

In a bad way. Those were the words Mustang had used when explaining Ed's condition to a very distraught Al, who Ed had caught the impression of having barged into the hospital room, soul voice panting and scared, making something inside of Ed hurt through the fog of drugs in his system. For some reason, those had been the words that hit Ed harder than the stream of medical lingo which came after. All he could really gather from the pretentious gibberish was that he'd sustained a nasty blow to the head, and had subsequently been reduced to a practical vegetable, clinging onto life by the very skin of his teeth. Not exactly dignified for the famed Fullmetal Alchemist, especially when he couldn't remember at all how he'd ended up with a rending gash in his head. Sometimes, it seemed he couldn't remember anything aside from this darkness. Maybe that was another sign of him losing his grip on the world.

But once again, Mustang's first words had really been the only ones which stuck. Because they were such small words, but yet ironically apt in describing the way he was feeling right now, genius in their simplicity.

It hadn't been so bad at first. He'd drifted up from the darkness of utter nothingness into something that was only worse. At first, he'd been able to sense a few things: the faint traces of antiseptic filtering in through his nostrils, the steady drip-drip-drip of the iv, the stiff, starchy contact of the hospital sheets against his limp fingertips that, no matter how hard he tried to move them, remained still. The weak feeling that brimmed at the back of his mind, he knew, was only a fraction of the panic he would have been feeling if it weren't for the pain-killers pumping through his blood. It had still been there, though. It had still been there.

But as time passed, time that was nigh on impossible to estimate, the physical sensations began to dull, and then, eventually, disappear altogether. Only his hearing had remained, like some sort of torturous gift from the heavens, like a nail filer tossed to a man behind iron bars. He probably wouldn't really have realized that this slow slide downward into darkness was a bad sign if it weren't for the voices of nurses, gently warning his friends, ever-present in their different separate forms, that they should be prepared for the worst.

Al had begun to cry at some point. Beyond all possibility, Ed's heart rate had climbed.

Just a stutter, the doctor said, not a sign of activity.

Apparently, activity was what everyone was searching for, waiting for. Activity was the miracle word, the forbidden hope. Activity meant recovery. According to the doctors, Ed's brain was not functioning as it should.

He couldn't help but take offense at that.

Ed hadn't been very concerned, at first. After all, he was the Fullmetal Alchemist. He made his way out of everything. He always managed to make it out alive, perhaps a bit worse for wear. But alive.

Not this time, his brain said.

Screw you, you're not working right anyway, was Ed's reply.

However, denial had become something of an obsolete when the doctor had finally said those dreaded words.

All we can do is make him comfortable

At first, Ed had been frustrated. Somehow, he believed, with every fiber of his being that he should know, dammit, if he was dying. He should feel it. Another part of him thought that if somehow he were aware of it, he should be able to prevent it. He could somehow will death to walk away from his door, to stop lingering in the shadows of his brain, waiting to strike.

And then Al had begun to cry again.

No stutter, this time. No matter how badly Ed wanted to wake up, to make his brother better.

Ed had gone through many emotions after his initial anger. Denial, again. Fear was a big one. That still wasn't gone, either. Curiosity, the scientist side of him wondering what came after. Trepidation, the atheist side in him wondering what was waiting for him in the after. Excitement, wondering if he would see his mother again. Guilt, knowing he shouldn't be wanting to leave Al, not for anything. And then denial again, realizing that he was considering death too seriously and should stop now before it became real.

Dumbass, it's real whether you want it to be or not.

Denial became especially hard the day Mustang said goodbye. And no matter how hard Ed tried to sit up and tell him to stop, there was no halting the curt speech. It was an odd confession of stuttering words. It was a strange, conflicting conglomeration of orders, apologies, reluctant almost-pleas and prolonged silences. Ed had been rather annoyed at one point, than deeply confused at another as Mustang went from demanding he fix himself and get back to his brother and quit being a selfish brat, to promising that he would look after Al with his life.

Ed hadn't known whether to be touched or irritated. But following Mustang's pattern of inconsistency, he decided to be both. And he was grateful to the man for swearing he'd protect Al, so the least he could do was not be completely angry with him. Even if he was a bipolar bastard. His hand must have been in Mustang's, because when his fingers twitched, the man nearly had a heart attack.

A muscular spasm, the nurses said, nothing to get excited about.

Ed had been almost relieved. He didn't want Mustang to know that he'd been trying to touch him, to somehow show his thanks through contact.

But then he'd felt guilty again, when Mustang's disappointment had been palpable enough to feel without sensing.

After that, acceptance had started whittling away at the fear and denial, despite Ed's attempts at stopping it. But then he'd been grateful for acceptance. If it hadn't been for the small traces of it, he wouldn't have made it through the next few visits.

He hadn't realized how hard it would be to hear someone say goodbye to you, when you couldn't say it back.

Hawkeye didn't say much of anything. She cried a bit, the sounds so soft and quiet that it was only because the hospital room was utterly silent Ed was able to hear. She told him that she felt honored to have known him, and to be a good kid.

Hughes was less forthright. Ed listened to him pace and make lame jokes and laugh humorlessly. He talked to Ed in a shaky voice, proffering an honest confession that he would miss him, that he cared for him, that he had touched him, and Ed could hear the tears in his voice. Ed was almost embarrassed. And then Hughes left, and it was over, and Ed hardly realized how much he would miss the jabbering until it was gone. He wished more than anything at that moment that his eyes were open. He would have begged Hughes with teary eyes to let him see Alyssia one last time in one of those dumb, stupid pictures.

Ed would never know if more people would have come. And it almost hurt him, knowing that they still had lives and jobs to attend to, and couldn't possibly prioritize coming to see him. They didn't notice like Ed did how near the end was. They couldn't predict that. The doctor had just said soon.

Soon.

And then Al came. And Ed thought that the pain in his voice would have been enough to raise him from the grave. But it wasn't. It only broke his heart, shattered it into a million icy shards.

"I'm going to miss you, Brother. I can't even…even tell you how much."

Oh, Al.

"It-It hurts so much. I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can do it without you. Please, please come back."

And Ed would have. He would have waded through molten rock to get to his brother. He would have taken on an entire army of immortal soldiers. He would have traded his remaining limbs and any other part of himself to be burned in white fire, for just the chance to answer Al's cries, to open his eyes and make him stop sobbing in agony.

But he could feel it now. He could feel the cusp of death snaking in through the machines making him breathe, could feel the sinuous hold on life slipping through his cooling fingers. He could feel himself tipping backward into darkness.

"Please, Brother,"

He felt it when the last breath passed slyly through his lips, and his chest ceased to rise.

"Please!"

He felt it when his heart coasted to a silent standstill.

"Brother, NO!"

He felt it when the last thread of life unraveled from his still body.

"BROTHER, PLEASE!"

He felt it when he died.

.

.

.

.

.

And he felt it…when he decided no.

And he heard when the monitor flared back to life in a series of rapid beeps, when a rush of hot air collided with his lungs.

His eyes flew open.

...

A/N: Hope you liked! Please review and tell me what you thought. :D