This is for the LiveJournal users known as cornerofmadness and fmanaylst, as a joint belated birthday present, because they made me think.
It had been such a long day at the clinic that when Al tried to unlock his apartment door and found the bolt already thrown back, his first thought was, Damn, I hope he's eaten. One box of pork-fried rice, even with a side of potstickers and a fortune tea cake, was nowhere near enough to feed two hungry Elrics.
His next thought was simply Damn! as the keys slipped from his grasp and jingled to the floor. He bent, left elbow clamping a sheaf of advertisements and bills against his ribs, and hooked the ring with the tips of his fingers. The sack of food came perilously close to dumping its contents onto the hall carpet, but Al straightened with a muscle-straining twist that brought everything into momentary equilibrium. Quickly stepping across the threshold, he dropped the mail to take a firmer grip on his dinner.
"That you, brother?" he called.
Ed's voice grunted Uh-huh, or possibly just Ugh, in response. Al pushed the door shut, swept the envelopes and flyers aside with his foot, and hung the keyring on its hook above the umbrella stand. Then he shucked his coat and shoes and padded down the hall toward the lighted kitchen.
Ed was seated at the table, breath whistling through clenched teeth as he attempted some kind of one-handed maintenance on his automail. The travel toolkit lay dismembered beside his forearm grille on the board, whose surface bore dark streaks Al hoped were only grease. Refraining from immediate comment, he set his sack on the counter and leaned against the sink. Ed's forehead twitched into a deeper frown; then his flesh arm jerked sideways as the zeta key in his left hand lost purchase on whatever he was trying to adjust in his right. "Shit! They can't all be stripped!"
"What's the trouble?" Al asked, reflexively adopting the level, calming tone with which he addressed agitated patients.
"Damned if I know!" his brother growled, unmoved, and flung the key with a muted clink into the jumble of screwdrivers, picks and wrenches at his elbow. "The knuckles are sticking again -- hell, you'd think this wouldn't be a problem by now!"
Al thought he knew what Winry would have said to that: No, it wouldn't be, if you didn't keep transmuting parts of the mechanism and smashing it into things! No need to share her likely opinion with his brother, though; Ed had endured the exasperation of his mechanic frequently enough to quote her himself if he wanted. I can only make your arm so robust without sacrificing control, you idiot! The actuators that mimicked a human hand's flexors and extensors were especially finicky, requiring the kind of preventive maintenance Ed had never been all that inclined to provide; by the time they stuck sufficiently to annoy him, they were often beyond field repair. Often, but not always. "Have you tried -- " Al began.
"Yeah, I've tried," Ed interrupted, his tone caustic enough to burn. "I've been trying since I got here!"
Al bit back an automatic Sorry! and an equally unhelpful Yeah, you are! and attempted to stay focused on the problem. "Let me have a look, then," he offered, tilting his head to squint at the balky joints.
"Are you deaf?" Ed retorted, folding both arms across his chest, left over right. "I said I'd already tried everything!"
Al understood that he should just let it go -- walk away and give his brother a chance to cool down -- but damn it, Ed was a guest in his home and he wasn't going to be chased out of his own kitchen. "Don't be an ass," he said impatiently. "Let me give you a hand."
He realized as his mouth formed the words how unwise they were. Ed yanked his chair around to put his back to his brother and snarled, "I've got a better idea -- go fuck yourself with it!"
Al felt the rush of warmth to his face and became aware that he was gawping at Ed's pony-tail like a startled sheep. He grabbed the tea kettle from the stove to give his fingers something to do besides curl themselves into fists and ran water into it full-bore from the tap. Why can't you just grow up? Behind him, he heard the snap of the grille being fitted back into place; afterward the tools rattled en masse into their leather case. You're a fucking slob, brother. He slammed the kettle onto the burner and lit the gas, turning the flame up high. Then he opened the tea canister to measure out the loose leaves into a mug; the pungent, dusty smell tickled his nose and he sneezed. "Excuse me," he added stiffly.
A pause, after which Ed mumbled something that might have been Your health, and then there was silence but for the whisper of the gas ring and the susurration of water coming on to boil. Al spooned loose tea into his mug and closed the canister.
"Sorry," Ed remarked abruptly.
Al said nothing.
The toolkit hit the linoleum with a clank. "It's been fifteen years. Sometimes -- " Ed broke off as his brother turned to look at him, refusing to meet Al's glance.
Al wished he weren't so tired. As the only Amestrian practitioner of Xingese healing alchemy in East City, he saw a lot of patients whose conditions were chronic or apparently intractable. Many came to him expecting miracles, and sometimes he was hard-pressed to find the right words to convince them that he had none to offer. He'd been screamed at, wept on, propositioned with money and sex, accused of quackery and reported to the authorities. That he understood their desperation and despair in his gut, in his soul, didn't help: he still shook with rage over the insults and ached with pity at the tears. Yet his brother's refusal to ask for anything -- help or forgiveness or license -- frustrated him more than all of his clients' pleas. "Why didn't you just go to Winry?" he asked.
"She'd kill me," Ed responded glibly.
Then your troubles would be over, Al thought. Fifteen years since their great failure -- ten since his own restoration -- and Ed was still combing the continent in search of a remedy, like a wandering monk pursuing enlightenment. In Xing, they achieve it by sitting. Go to Winry, Ed -- dammit, let her help you ... The kettle whistled and Al switched off the gas. "Tea?" he asked.
"Yeah. Thanks."
While Al transferred the tea leaves into the pale green porcelain pot he'd bought in Changnan, Ed attempted to wipe away the mess he'd left on the table. "Uh, I don't think this is coming up," he admitted. "Mind if I ... ?"
"Go ahead," Al answered as he began pouring water into the teapot.
Ed clapped, and the faintly discordant hum of western alchemy buzzed along Al's teeth. He shook his head, careful not to spill any of the hot liquid on himself, and heard Ed sweep something off the table and dump it into the garbage pail in the corner. "That's got it," he announced.
"Good." Al left the tea to steep and tried not to imagine what his master would have said about brewing dragon pearls, even the stale, cheap ones exported to Amestris, in tap water. At least his brother didn't know any better -- not about that nor most things, he thought with familiar exasperation, and realized that the quarrel was over.
Ed hadn't eaten, but his noble protestations that he wasn't hungry at all, honestly, lasted only as long as it took Al to open the container of fried dumplings. "Mm-mmf," he approved, forking up two at once. "Where'd you get these?"
"The Lucky Salamander, on Eighteenth above Mulberry," Al replied as he poured tea for his brother. "It's new."
Ed swallowed and burped. "I'll tell 'em you sent me," he promised, and took a swig from his mug. "Got any sugar for this?"
"Here." Al pushed the bowl across. "Want the lucky cookie, too?"
"Nah, you eat it," Ed replied magnanimously as he plopped three lumps into his drink. Al rolled his eyes: the entire Xingese nation would have something to say about the barbaric custom of sweetening the infusion itself, instead of enjoying the contrasting taste as an accompaniment. He sipped austerely at his own cup and then broke open the fortune cake. Of course, they don't have these in Xing, either ... Extracting the narrow strip of paper from the shards of crisp dough, he peered down at the crooked red print.
Keep a green bough in your heart and singing birds will come.
"Well, what's it say?" Ed asked.
Al took another, larger sip of tea to scald the chill from his stomach. "It says," he answered, when he could trust his voice again, "'I'm trapped in No. 1 Fortune Factory, East City. Send help.'"
Ed snorted. "That one just doesn't get old, does it?"
"No," Al agreed.
He crumpled the paper and pushed it deliberately down into the garbage pail.
Author's Note: In the early part of the twentieth century, fortune cookies were known as "fortune tea cakes." The fortune Al reads is a version of a purported Chinese proverb recommending optimism; the one he quotes is a joke of lesser antiquity but equal fame. The title of this piece is taken from a line in Matthew Prior's early eighteenth-century poem Solomon on the Vanity of the World.