Alphonse’s Tale
Wonderful artwork by @mortemshipping
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Teaser behind cut
Alphonse wakes to the cold light of day; it falls weakly over the couch, where he eventually succumbed to sleep. Dust motes dance in the air, spinning like the snowflakes falling outside. Winter is eternal here; it’s unpacked within his fragile bones, made a home amongst his organs, the foundation starting in his chest, spreading outward, a disease, a cancer that can’t be cut out. He won’t think about that, won’t tug at the loose threads until they unravel. He’ll get up; rise with the break of day.
The house shifts and moans, waking from its slumber, bones stretching to shake off the frost. The floorboards creak beneath Alphonse’s socked feet; above, there is only silence. Father must still be asleep, unless he left early again, chasing leads to dead ends. Alphonse won’t think about that either. He’ll boil the kettle, feed the cats, and put a slice of bread in the toaster. A mug, a tea bag, a teaspoon of sugar. Homemade plum jam. The kettle whistles. Ember and Shadow curl around his legs in gratitude, purring. He pours the boiling water, inhaling the floral scent of earl grey. Fingers clasp firmly around the mug, cold hands seeking long-forgotten warmth.
Dead ends aren’t always dead ends. False hope isn’t always false. Perhaps today will be different, perhaps someone found a clue that was overlooked, or Riza received an encrypted message from General Mustang saying that he’s found Ed; they’re on their way to Drachma. Perhaps the phone will ring, and Ed’s voice will crackle through the line. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Alphonse lives suspended in tension, in the crosscurrents of hope and desolation. Ed is alive, and he’s coming home. He’s dead, and Alphonse will never see him again. He’s alive but dying inside, brutalised and raped, pregnant, for the first time, for the second. Enough time has passed for Ed to have been pregnant twice. There could have been miscarriages, a stillborn, an unbaby, a healthy one, growing within his womb, put there by force.
Bile rises in the back of Alphonse’s throat, acidic floral. He rushes to the downstairs bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet, retching into the bowl. He shouldn’t go chasing such thoughts around his head. It never ends well. He climbs to his feet, flushing the toilet. Alphonse makes his way to the sink, rinsing his mouth and splashing cold water onto his face. It stings like a slap, the shock chasing all thoughts from his head. Shivering, gasping, he lifts his head, lashes fluttering to clear the water from his eyes.
He freezes, grimacing at the reflection staring back. His face is growing hollow, cheeks gaunt, skin greying. Tawny hair grazes the tops of his shoulders, wispy strands falling around his face. He looks like his mother. He looks like a poor imitation of Ed. He looks like the ghost of Alphonse Elric.