It was of those days, cold and wet and dark and moody, casting shadows over the entire office so that everyone was cross and mean and bitter. Havoc's cigarettes smelled more pungent and sickening, Hawkeye's tea cup rattled more and more loudly every time she set it down, and Mustang...well no one wanted to talk about him. It was a lousy day, depressing and the color of the sky on his way home reminded Ed of the color of the Gate and he just felt helpless and sorry and lonely and bad.
On days like this when it was hard to remember who his friends were or who he even wanted to be friends with, and when Al worked late at his own job and there was no special person to listen to him wail about how much everything sucked, there was only one remedy, one thing that would make him able to deal with the world again.
Arriving at their little house, Ed quickly stripped off his wet clothes, lest they drip all over Al's polished floors, pulled on his old black tank top and crawled onto Al's side of the bed. It felt the same as his side, of course, but with the special difference that the pillow smelled like Al, Al's almost-sweaty under soap-clean scent, and it never, ever failed to comfort him or quiet his mind.
If there was nothing else in this world that was good today, Ed thought, snuggling into the remnants of his brother, at least there was this, and the promise that Al would come home and crawl into bed with him and he'd be utterly ensconced by that scent—and more importantly, warm arms.
It was still raining and it was still a bad day, but being able to come home to this scent and this certainty was enough.