Epilogue

The hotel room was narrow, shabby, and not entirely clean -- but it was cheap. With the money his parents had insisted on giving him, before he left, Al could have stayed at a nicer place -- but he wanted to be careful with that money, with no idea how long he would have to make it last. He'd saved some money by choosing only one bed, instead of two half-sizes, and at least there would be running water in their bathroom.

Ed didn't complain, nor did he have any money to help pay the bill. Thinking of the shabby gardening shack from the park, Al rather suspected it had been a while since Ed had slept in a real bed at all. Three days, at least, and possibly more. And that was a reminder...

"I've been wondering, Brother," Al said, hefting his suitcase up onto the small dresser and flipping open the locks. "What happened to your parole officer?"

"Damn, it's good to get off my feet," Ed groaned, plopping down on the bed; then he squinted up at Al. "What was that?"

"You said you were on parole, but you broke it. You stopped checking in," Al said. "Where did your parole officer go? I'm surprised he didn't stop you from traveling with me."

"Oh," Ed said, and turned a dull red. "Sergeant Harp. I, er, expect we'll see him again when we get back to Central. I kind of, uh, mentioned that I would be returning there, without saying when or how."

Al sighed, and shook his head. "You can't just go around ducking the rules like that," he grumbled. "Not when you're already in so much trouble. I'm sure what you said is true and Mustang will support you, and if so, the re-trial will go in your favor... but it won't look good for you or him if you do things like this."

Ed's mouth twisted up in a smile. "Al, when did you turn into a lawyer?" he said, amused.

Al turned a dull red. "N- I'm not!" he said indignantly. "I've read a lot about contemporary military law, that's all. There was a whole section back in the library -- it was fascinating."

He turned to face his brother, expression serious. "It's tricky, but the law's on your side, Brother," he said earnestly. "Half of the crimes held against you are falsified, and the other half took place when you were a minor. You never should have been charged with them in the first place, if they'd given you a decent trial instead of a mockery of justice!"

Ed just looked down at his hands, resting in his lap, and Al sighed, getting up to unpack their meager suitcase. "This time you'll be fine, I swear," he said. "Just so long as the new Fuhrer is halfway to fair -- although I can't be sure," he added darkly. "He sure played his part in last time's farce."

Ed blew out a breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then went back to working on his bootlaces. "Al, don't take this out on Mustang. It isn't his fault."

"He testified, Brother," Al returned, voice sharp. "He helped put you in jail. Why shouldn't I be angry?"

"All he did was tell the truth." Ed pulled off one of his boots, and shucked it into the corner. Al scowled and looked away, staring down into the depths of the suitcase.

"He kept silent for as long as he could, but then with Lior... and the Stone..." his brow pinched again. "It got too big. It was taken out of his hands. That's why I had to do what I did to keep you safe, Al. Mustang couldn't protect you any more from the consequences of my actions."

"You mean our actions."

Ed didn't answer. Al got up, crossed in front of him, and snapped his fingers in front of Ed's nose; Ed jerked back, startled. "Ours, Ed, ours. There's this little thing called the first person plural, please try and remember it."

"Yeah, yeah." Ed waved Al away, then used his hand to cover a yawn. "Are you gonna shower, Al? I'm tired."

"Yes, I think I will," Al said, gracefully allowing Ed to change the subject. No point in pressing the question now. "What about you?"

"Eh, I'll shower in the morning." Ed looked up at Al, and flicked a quick smirk at him. "Hope you don't mind sharing the bed with someone who stinks."

Al chuckled a little. "No, I don't really mind," he said. "If it really bothers me, I'll kick you out to go shower."

"You can try. Once my head hits the pillow I'll be dead to the world." He shed the second boot, then began to peel off his socks. Al shrugged, and dug through the suitcase for a towel; this hotel wasn't nice enough to provide towels, and he wouldn't trust them even if they did.

Pulling out towels and a change to sleep in -- and blessing his forethought in packing soap -- Al began to strip out of his clothes, packing them away in the suitcase rather than letting them sit on the dirty floor. Across the room, Ed was also preparing for bed, and it took Al a few moments to realize that Ed was surreptitiously watching him as he did.

He had a moment of confused, paranoid panic, before insight flashed into his mind. Oh. This body, he created it. It was ridiculous to feel self-conscious in front of Ed's eyes, as much as a child about his parents. But a lot has changed since then.

Watching Ed out of the corner of his eye, he soon found himself fascinated in turn, as Ed pulled the shirt over his head, leaving him in his black undershirt. Ed, too, had changed. Al hadn't really seen the changes before now -- at first he had only seen Ed as alien, with nothing to compare him with, and afterwards he'd been blinded with the familiar. But Ed was no longer the teenage boy that Al had known.

For one, he'd grown. He would never be a tall man -- even now he lingered at a height notably below average -- but he'd added enough inches that his size was no longer the most distinctive thing about him. His hair was shorter, for another; messy ragged strands falling to the bottom of his jaw, but no further. His shoulders had widened, his chest broadened -- but Al realized with a start that under the flat muscles, he could count Ed's ribs.

That shocked him enough that he abandoned all pretense, and turned to look at Ed full-on, still holding the towel in one hand. Not just his ribs, but also his shoulder and arm were bony and thin -- much more so than he remembered, even when Ed was just a skinny little kid. There was the familiar automail, and the scars from it, but there was another discolored streak of skin over his left shoulder, that topped his shoulder and disappeared under the black tank top. An unfamiliar scar. A new scar?

He realized he was staring, unabashedly, and flushed, but Ed didn't object. In fact, he was in turn looking at Al's body -- his smooth, soft, entirely unmarked body -- with an oddly pensive expression on his face. Comparing, maybe. That was nothing new, it was something they'd done all their lives, although it felt much stranger now; now that Al was left seven years behind, instead of the usual one. Or maybe it would be better to say he was left seven years ahead.

That scar bothered him. He padded across the room, wearing only his pants, to get a closer look. "Brother, where did this come from?" he asked, reaching out to trace it gently. It started out as a narrow line at the top of his shoulder, and widened as it traced down, the other end hidden under the shirt. This close, he could see others, of different colors and textures, tracing across Ed's skin.

Ed pulled away from his hand, then frowned at him. "I thought you were going to shower," he challenged.

"I am. In a minute." He rested his hand on Ed's shoulder, gripping just hard enough that he couldn't easily be brushed aside. "Please answer me. I want to know..."

"Well, I don't want to tell you," Ed said brusquely. He stood up, shrugging Al away again, and picked up his discarded shirt.

"Brother!" Al let steel creep in and stiffen his tone, the same way as when they were younger and Ed didn't want to drink his milk or take a shot. "Sit down and take your shirt off."

Ed did. Not grudgingly, but immediately; like a soldier snapping to obey a command, or a dog trained to do tricks. Al stared as Ed complied, pulling the black undershirt over his head, then looked up at him expectantly.

"Brother..." He struggled to find a way to put into words, just what was bothering him. "Why did you do that?"

"Huh?" Ed blinked up at him, scowling, and Al shook his head. Never mind. Never mind that now.

He sat on the bed beside Ed, sitting sideways to study him more closely. After a minute, he directed Ed to turn sideways, presenting his back to the dim light that the room provided.

"How did you get these?" he said softly, tracing his fingers lightly down a long ridge running crosswise down his shoulder blade. He saw Ed's back stiffen, and the line of his jaw set.

"Got in a few fights," he said tersely.

"That's all?" Al asked, dubiously, splaying his palm on the hollow between the shoulder blades. There were too many of them for that, he thought. And too many of them were too regular. There was a whole set of parallel lines running horizontally along his lower back, all approximately the same size and texture. Another, a line of small notches that Al couldn't quite fathom, marched up one side of his spine.

That spine twisted, as Ed turned to glare at Al over his shoulder. "What, you want a play-by-play?" he said tersely. "For God's sake, Al, I can't be expected to remember every stupid little scrape I've gotten for the last six years. It doesn't matter, all right?"

"Brother," Al said softly. "Don't lie to me."

Ed turned his head straight again, and Al heard him swallow. "I'm not," he said after a minute. "I got in a few fights. That's all."

Al thought about that, feeling the rough and smooth patches of skin alternate under his fingers. Thought about a life of constant battle, where you were under threat all day, every day, without a moment or a safe place to rest; until finally resistance gave out, and defenses caved, and you couldn't fight any longer. And you got up the next day and kept on fighting, and the next, and the next, because there was no other choice.

"Tell me about your life," Ed said suddenly. "Tell me about... your family. Your friends. What you've been doing. How you've been doing."

Al flushed, his earlier discomfort returning doubled. The contrast was painful and shameful, between his own perfect skin and Ed's, between his own idyllic, spoiled life and Ed's. "I'm not sure what you want me to say," he said uncomfortably.

"I don't know. Whatever. Say that you've been happy. That you've been well. That... something good came out of six years ago." Ed's breath was beginning to come a little faster, Al noticed. "Say that... that for the first time in my life, I didn't completely fuck up and ruin yours. Say that -- say that there was some point to... to all of this."

Hesitantly, Al began to talk. At first he just talked about general things, a one-moment status snapshot of how his life had been just before his brother reappeared in it. School. Studies. Friends. Arguments with his parents. Then, remembering Ed's wistful interest in Laurie -- remembering Nina -- he began to talk about his little sister. About her games stuffed animal collections and tantrums and birthday parties with friends, about their spot under the tree in the park. Her delight at getting a pair of puppies for Christmas. The smell of dog fur and grass stains when she hugged him.

All the while he talked about his old life, though, his fingertips kept tracing lightly over the scars on Ed's back, as if by some sympathetic magic he could heal them just by touching each one. At least, all those he could see. All those that could be touched.

Ed stayed quiet, and still, for a long time. Finally, Al faltered, and trailed off, daunted by the lack of reaction. He leaned forward, to try and get a sense of his brother's expression.

He was shocked to see that Ed's eyes were closed, and he was crying. Without fanfare or noise, just silent, steady tears spilling from under his eyelashes and over his cheeks. Worried, Al put his arms around his brother's chest and hugged him from behind, tight, feeling the sharp press of backbone against his chest. "Brother," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It came out a little choked, and Ed opened his eyes, still awash with tears. "I'm just... glad. So glad."

What did he mean by that, Al wondered. Glad that Al's life had been happy? That Al had chosen to give up his life, no matter how happy, to follow him? That he, himself, was free of his old life? Glad that Al was still willing to touch him, scarred as he was? Glad that they were here, together, for as long as it lasted?

It didn't matter which. Al tightened his arms, and leaned forward to place a kiss on his brother's cheek. "So am I," he said, and tasted salt on his lips.

fin

This is the end of the story In Living Memory as written by me; however, the story continues in Cryogenia's fic "A History of Violence" which can be found at scimitarsmile dot com/alchemy/hauthors.php.