He could see the fever flush on Edward's face, but he could not feel the warmth. From the look of it, the gold hair falling across his eyes was damp, the sweat sheen of his skin was salty--

But all that Al could feel was the hammering heartbeat, as he gathered his brother into the shelter of his broad metal arms. The pulse that moved through Ed's veins tapped rapid measures against the armor hull that was Al's chest. Some small comfort, that measure of humanity, though he did not fool himself into believing the heartbeat was his own. It was enough, almost, that he could feel the movement.

Restless in his illness, Edward curled his hands around Al's arms, drawing closer. Alphonse guessed that his brother's hands were cold, or at least the skin one would be; he didn't have any experience to judge by for the temperature of automail. Would it be warm from within, from the careful mechanical workings of it? Or would it be cold and smooth like tempered steel, like father's suits of armor in his alchemical lab?

He wondered how he could feel like weeping when there were no tearducts, no eyes, no throat to tighten with the weight of unshed tears. He was that suit of armor now; he remembered, he must always remember. It was his brother's greatest gift to him-- he would not think of it as a burden.

"Al," Edward murmured, and something changed in his face-- only a soft sigh that Al might believe the fever had broken, the worst of it passing through.

And Alphonse was content to hold him there, his overlarge hands surprisingly gentle as he eased his brother into restful sleep; a cradle of iron and silver, conducting heat so well he kept none for himself.