A/N: So this idea just randomly popped into my head. I really wanted to write, but I wasn't sure what about until I started writing!
SPOILER ALERT! For the end of the FMA anime and a bit of the movie, CoS.
Anyway, this is set in the beginning of the movie, Conqueror of Shamballa, when Ed first arrives in Munich. I can imagine he would be quite frustrated with his situation at first, until he finds his motivation to keep going. Hope you like it! R&R please!
Edward sat in the creaky old chair by the window, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand.
He traced patterns in the layer of dust on the windowsill, sending little clouds of motes floating upward in spirals from his fingertip. A circle, a pentagon. He brought his finger and thumb together, separated them, and then placed them on the edge of the circle. More motes spiraled into the air. Foolish, he told himself with a chuckle when he felt his stomach drop an inch or two. What did you expect, alchemy?
Footsteps alerted him to another's presence. "Ed?"
Edward halted his tracing and sighed, his hand dropping from the sill to hang limply by his side. "Yeah, Dad?" he replied, his eyes fixed on the patterns in the dust.
"Um, I'm going to the market. Need anything?"
Before he could stop himself, Edward muttered, "An arm and a leg," gesturing to his own mechanical ones. He regretted it almost immediately as a pained expression crossed Hohenheim's face.
"I'll be back soon," was all the older man said as he left, closing the door behind him. The thud of the wooden frame seemed to jerk Edward out of his stupor. What in the hell was he doing here, anyway, living with his bastard of a father in Munich (which just happened, of course, to be on the other side of the Gate) of all goddamn places? He couldn't even use alchemy. Was Alphonse even alive after Edward's sacrifice? Alphonse…
Suddenly his frustration overcame him; he leapt from his seat, his fist colliding explosively with the wall and a few choice expletives spilling from his mouth.
His chest heaved as he pulled his hand back to inspect the damage. A few cuts across his knuckles and a splinter or two. Of course, he had to hit the wall with his real hand. Another sigh, this one much deeper and a little shaky, escaped him. Fuck, that felt good. He slumped back into the chair, his head spinning with thoughts of his little brother.
His eyes fell on the patterns again, clean lines smudged in layers of dust. Perfect circles and straight-edged pentagons intersected with a sort of grace that spoke of destruction and subsequent creation. Edward understood the language- he read and spoke it with his alchemy.
Problem was, in this world alchemy didn't exist. So he drifted, trying to learn everything he could about this world and its very different language -physics and astronomy- in hopes that it would be similar to his. So far he'd had no such luck- everything was so complicatedly bizarre. Maybe outer space held the answer, but it was just as likely that it didn't.
Who knows, anyway? Edward thought, his fingers returning to their tracing. Maybe I'm already dead and this is all a waste of time. He shook his head even as he thought it. It was just as likely that it wasn't a waste of time, that there really was a way to get home and that Al was alive, and that everything really mattered.
His finger and thumb came together again, separated, and fell on the edge of the newly drawn circle. The corner of his mouth turned up. Sure, physics was a pain in the ass, but so were Teacher and all those damn alchemy books. He'd mastered his language, so he'd learn this world's too, and get home while he was at it.
Don't worry, Al. I'll be home just as soon as I learn everything I need to know about this world. I'll learn this language, just like we learned alchemy, and then I'll find my way back to your side of the Gate.
He stood and swept a hand across the windowsill. The dust scattered, perfect circles and straight-edged pentagons disappearing with a stroke of his palm.
When Hohenheim returned from the market, he found Edward asleep at the window, his head resting on a rocketry book. Hohenheim smiled- every windowsill in the room was clean of dust.