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It was close to overflowing.
The notebook in his hands was filled to the brim with blocky letters; ones that steadily got smoother, more refined as time went on, but never quite lost a clumsy edge. Letters and names and categories, so much that he’d considered asking Ed for color-coded bookmarks. But he didn’t need them. Not when he had so much of it memorized by heart.
Still, Alphonse flipped through his journal, careful not to tear the small pages as he did. Blocky, leather fingers could easily rip a page in two with too much force, force that he could barely properly gauge, and though he had the contents memorized to the bullet points, he wanted to keep the pages intact.
Meals in Central, the title read. The list expanded from one page, to two, to three, and it wasn’t until page five that he’d finally run out of room for the things he’d wanted to eat that were limited in central, as those were the only buffers he’d used between that and his next list.
Maria’s sweetcakes were the first things mentioned, right at the top. Maria’s was a little bakery near the train station, and they were the first thing his ten-year-old mind latched onto, the first twinge of jealousy (painfully un-painful, as he couldn’t feel the guilt over the childish emotion swell in his chest or gut but it clouded his thinking like a rainstorm) as he watched his brother happily scarf down the sweet pastries.
Center Circle steak was the second listed. This had been a small amount of time after the first, since Ed rarely decided to eat out and this was before they left the military dorms to follow their first lead. It was a celebratory gift from Miss Hawkeye, a “well done” for completing their first mission, and now that he thinks about it, it was probably an apology gift too. It hadn’t gone well- Ed wanted to solve things, well, the Ed way- and apparently military standards differed a bit.
Down the list he went. Sweets from the Heathstreet Market, spicy chicken from a foreign restaurant, even teas from a little shop that Ed had helped fix in passing.
He closed the book, and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes drifting to the moon in the open window. It glimmered, bright and happy, like it wasn’t bathing Alphonse in a wash of sour loneliness. His eyes then drifted to his brother’s hunched, sleeping form. Normally Edward would sprawl out, his shirt would ride up and Alphonse would have to fix it, but apparently the cold had convinced even his sleeping body to curl in on itself for the sake of warmth.
He wished he could help, as he stared at his gauntlets. He wished he could snuggle under the blankets too, back to back with his brother like they used to in Risembol, when summers were bright- if sad -and staying up at night was an exciting alchemic adventure and not a soul-crushing empty prison.
But even if he did join his brother, he’d only make it worse. Metal was cold, colder in cold weather- (briefly, Alphonse wondered if his brother’s stumps were alright. Surely the automail didn’t help his temperature) -and he would probably break the bed.
He let out a noise that mimicked a sigh- mimicked, it wasn’t even a proper huff, he had no air to exhale because he had no lungs to exhale with -and picked his journal up. He couldn’t tell if it were a comfort or a torture to read through the thing again and again, picturing all the experiences he could only picture visually because he’s forgotten what feeling feels like, but whatever it was, it made the hours not so long, and the air not so crushing. He’d wait this never ending night out, just like the others, and when his brother rose with the sun he could distract himself from the sheer weight of the emptiness resting in his hollow body, collecting and spilling like cold sand.