The Memory of Rust

by Angela

03-09-04

 

The rain was heavy.  Ridiculously heavy.  Edward felt waterlogged and half-drowned by the time they reached the inn.  His feet sloshed within his boots and his braid hung like a wet rope, heavy on his shoulders.

 

Al stepped through the door after him and the pinging sound of rain pelting metal stopped.  Water streamed over every smooth surface, causing him to stand, uncertain, in the doorway, eyeing the carpet warily.

 

Ed didn’t care about the carpet.  He was cold and anxious and wanted to get to their room.  “Come on, Al,” he said brusquely, leaving damp footprints across the floor.  They registered quickly, and in less than five minutes they were tucked into a cozy bedroom, complete with a working fireplace and a mountain of towels.

 

Al fumbled with the fireplace, getting a warm blaze started as Edward stripped off his dripping coat and shirt.  He pulled off his boots and tossed his brother a towel.  “Make sure you dry everything,” he warned Al sternly.  “Especially the joints.”

 

“I know, I know,” Al said softly, already rubbing the soft cotton over his chest and shoulders.

 

Rust.  It was its own kind of alchemy.  Iron and oxygen--when the oxygen was part of a water molecule--would automatically form rust.  Solid, dependable iron would flake away like so much decay, and it didn’t require a transmutation circle.

 

It’d been almost two years earlier that they’d discovered rust.  Edward had thought his brother’s body indestructible.  As long as the seal was protected, Al would be safe, he’d thought.  Then one night, as his brother twisted around to look at something, he’d heard it.  A vague crumbling, like the sound of dry toast against a knife.

 

At first he thought he’d ignore it--who could say what weird noises a suit of armor could make--but he’d been unable to sleep for thinking about it.  It wasn’t right.  Nothing in Al should crumble.  He’d gotten up in the middle of the night, lighting the lights to blazing and shaking Al out of the trance-like stupor he fell into at night.

 

It was rust.  The edges of his armor at the joints, patches in his legs where his damp cloth fell, unheeded, after a storm, they were all tinged brown with rust.  When Edward lifted Al’s helmet, his heart nearly stopped.  The rim of his neck, dangerously near the seal that kept his soul in place, had disintegrated into a jagged red infection.  The rust flaked even as Ed inspected it; tiny pieces of his brother falling like dust to the floor.

 

It hadn’t taken much to transmute what was there back into iron, but a lot of the rust was long gone--Al would forever have rough edges in his joints and around his neck.

 

Now Edward pulled his hair out of its plait and began drying it off.  He peeked out from beneath the towel from time to time to check his brother’s progress.  Even after two years he hadn’t forgotten the sinking panic of seeing parts of Al deteriorate, and in spite of his brother’s insistence that he could handle it, he was skeptical of Al’s ability to reach every crevice in the armor.  Every time it rained his heart would beat faster and his stomach would twist with the anxiety that came with the memory of rust.

 

“Tonight’s a night for oil, Nii-san?” Al asked in his little voice, already pulling the bottle from their knapsack. 

 

A pile of damp towels had grown on the floor, and Edward tossed his wet clothes on top.  He slid into a pair of drier pants--nothing was completely dry after that cloudburst, even in their water-resistant bag--and climbed onto Al’s bed.  Winry and her grandmother had been resourceful in developing his auto-mail, making it out of stainless steel.  He flexed his metal hand, seeking but never finding the brittle stiffness of rust.

 

Al clambered onto the bed after him, laying facedown on the blankets and handing the bottle to Ed.  It was baby oil.  Hughes had been the one to suggest it, finding it an excellent way to keep his daughter’s skin soft and moisturized.  Every week for two years Edward had poured the stuff onto a rag and worked it into the metal that was his brother’s skin, forming a barrier between him and the elements.

 

Tonight was no different.  Edward straddled his brother’s waist and tipped the helmet away from his body, oiling the all-important seal first.  He worked at a steady pace, first slicking Al’s neck and shoulders with the stuff, then working down his huge arms and into the crevices of his knuckles.  He made quick circles with the rag, making sure that no measure of iron was left untouched.

 

“Nii-san?”  Al’s voice was quiet, almost timid.  “Are you okay?”

 

Edward grunted, half-growling as he poured more oil onto the cloth.  “You know I hate rainstorms,” he answered after a while.

 

Al seemed to think about this as he went through the routine of raising arms and legs for oiling.  “But the rain can’t hurt me,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Not with you watching out for me.”  He sounded satisfied that his older brother would be able to prevent any further damage.

 

Edward cringed at the trust in his brother’s voice.  In a way he was right--his proactive defense against oxidation really did rule out the possibility of future damage--but Ed couldn’t help feeling that he’d already let Al down.  Every week when he saw the jagged edge around his neck, only centimeters from his seal, he thought about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t noticed the rust.  If he hadn’t been able to save him.

 

Al rolled over and Ed began to oil his front.  He abandoned the rag and poured the oil directly into his hand, using his palm and fingers to work the liquid over his brother’s metal torso.  “You know,” Al began in a cheerful voice.  “I always thought this would feel pretty nice.  I mean, if I had a real body that could feel things.”

 

Edward stopped rubbing mid-stroke, his face coloring at his brother’s innocent observation.  He was straddling his waist--his auto-mail hand braced on the mattress while the other rubbed circles over Al’s chest.  He imagined that it would feel pretty good to have someone rub lotion or oil into his skin, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he thought Al ever thought about.

 

He coughed.  “If you had a real body, you wouldn’t need oil,” he said gruffly, looking away as he resumed his task.

 

Al agreed.  “But it’s still okay to imagine, right?  Sometimes if I try really hard, I can pretend I can still feel you.”  His voice wavered.  “Of course, I have to really try, and it doesn’t always work. . .”

 

Ed’s throat constricted.  Sometimes he forgot, too.  Sometimes he got so used to the cold iron against his skin that he forgot the feeling of being touched by a human hand.  “Even if you can’t feel me, Al,” he said tightly, “I’m always here.”

 

Al seemed to smile, though Ed knew it was impossible.  He reached with his big metal hand and touched Edward’s cheek.  “I never forget that, Nii-san.” 

 

Ed reached with his oily fingers to grasp his wrist and leaned his face against his brother’s cold palm.  He smiled slightly, in spite of the storm and the rust and the chill where there was once warmth.  “And I won’t let, you.”