Winry supposed Edward thought he was being funny the first time he did it. That he just up and stood from the kitchen chair, humming some strange, foreign tune that he had heard in his westward travels as he neared her. He slid his hands around her waist while she was busy washing dishes and rocked to the sway of his own music.
"…Ed, dear, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice limboing between two worlds of dry unamusement and happy confusion.
Edward merely set his chin on his newlywed wife's shoulder, smiling, lips pressed to her ear. "Hm? Oh, I'm sorry; I just can't seem to help myself. There must be something wrong with my automail; my body's completely acting on my own. Maybe you should take a look at it."
"Ed." Now, dancing between serious anger (for how dare he blame her automail she had made for him) and helpless desperation. "Only your leg is automail, now. And that's not what's hugging me right now."
"Oh," he chuckled, deep and husky—and how that made her legs suddenly weak. "So it's not."
But he didn't let go. Nor did he stop humming. She could make out the tune, now—some lilting, romantic Vitelian song. Something he definitely picked up on his couple-year trip out west.
At a loss, Winry sighed, placing her sudsy hands back in the water. "Seriously, Ed. What brought this up?"
"Nothing," her husband replied. "Nothing at all. Just, whenever I see you, my heart starts to sing."
And for someone who proclaimed to not be very good with words, well—Winry thought those were very touching, aptly-strung-together words indeed.
It was a tune Winry began to hear all around the house—especially once the kids were born. First it had been a boy—almost identical in every aspect to his father, except for Winry's shade of blonde hair—and then, two years later, a little girl, every manner like her mother except for grayer eyes (her namesake's trait, Edward noted with fondness) and her father's color of locks.
Hughes and Trisha.
(Because "Maes" had already been claimed by Mustang and Hawkeye's only son.)
And there was another little girl on the way, now, four years after Trisha's birth. This little girl, they already agreed on, was going to be named "Nina." And they took to calling her that around the house as often as possible.
The most amusing sight of this would be 6-year-old Hughes racing up to his pregnant mother, placing his hands on her belly, and warmly greeting, "Good morning, Nina. How is it in there today?" To which his mother would reply: "Hughes, dear, please don't ask such awkward questions" with as straight a face as possible.
The first time Edward saw this conversation, he spewed out his morning orange juice, laughing until his sides hurt.
It promptly earned him a flying wrench to the head.
But life was beautiful. And Edward sang to them quite, quite often, which only reminded Winry even more of just how good, now, they all had it. (Finally.)
"Che bella cosa na jurnata 'e sole,
n'aria serena doppo na tempesta!
Pe' ll'aria fresca pare già na festa..."
Trisha giggled madly in her father's arms, swung about as they spun gently to the song. The grass tickled Edward's feet—flesh and automail alike—as they circled and bounced, gently lost in the tune of the wind and it's leaves, matching marigold hair reflecting the sun.
"Che bella cosa na jurnata 'e sole."
Winry loved this part about laundry day. Hughes, ever his mother's "little helper," would willingly hover by her side, handing her shirts and bedsheets that were then hung up on the clothesline.
And meanwhile, while they settled into their chore, the song of the father and daughter behind them would reach their ears and make the warmth of the day spread through bone, marrow and veins—reaching the core of their hearts. It was the same song every time—but it somehow served to make the memory stronger.
Edward did have a rather nice voice, which was one thing his daughter seemed to have inherited, they noticed, as she tried to match his pitch and sing along.
Winry decided, as she heard them sing—Trisha had almost learned the entire song, by now, and was belting it with her sweet soprano to her father's melting tenor—that it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.
Dumbstruck at this, she closed her trembling eyelids and lowered her hands, fisted in one of Edward's white button-up shirts, into her lap.
Hughes noticed his mother's breaking composure and instantly became overcome with worry, genuine and heartfelt concern, as needless as it was. "Mom? Mom, what's wrong? Are you okay? Is it Nina? Do you need to go inside? Is—"
Winry shook her head, silencing her firstborn effectively. She sighed wistfully, shakily. It took her a moment—a pause during which Hughes began to get even more nervous and then asked tentatively, "Mom…?"—before she could bring herself to whisper, "…he told me he couldn't help it because his heart sings." The smile that slid onto her face was beautiful and tender. "And now I have two singing hearts within my household." She sighed. "Oh, Hughes. If only the majesty of mountains could even hope to compare."
Edward sang the loudest whenever Alphonse came home.
"Ma n'atu sole
cchiù bello, oje ne'."
"Brother," a laughing, hardly serious response as he half-heartedly tried to pull away from Edward's arm around his shoulders. "Please…"
"O sole mio
sta 'nfronte a te!"
Mei giggled as she listened to the two, helping Winry set the table as Hughes was busy playing with his sister.
"You'd think," the younger wife said, leaning in to her sister-in-law. By this time, the two had grown close—not just by the brotherhood of their husbands—but also by being simultaneously pregnant, and sharing that part of womanhood together. "That by now, the neighbors would be banging on your door, asking for him to shut up."
Winry laughed. "Oh, don't worry. We're far enough out here in Rezembool for our only guests to be clients or family. I don't much have to worry about strangers. Thank goodness."
Mei shrugged her petite shoulders. "That's good…but doesn't it ever get lonely?"
Winry smiled, glancing through the doorway and seeing the two brothers engaged in excited conversation. It had been almost a year since they'd last seen each other—at Alphonse and Mei's wedding—and there was so much to catch up on.
Almost too much.
She tried not to hum the oh-so-familiar Vitelian tune as she bowed her head over her work, straightening the forks. "Oh, I don't know. I'd thought about inviting someone to move over next door…y'know, so our kids could grow up together and husbands could remain as close as they ever were…but I didn't want to be too presumptuous…"
Mei and Alphonse had moved in just in time for the two babies to be born, and both of them delivered within a week of each other.
Marta had her mother's hair and Xingese features—but her father and uncle's striking gold eyes.
Nina was Winry.
There was no other way to describe her; she was simply her mother's daughter in every way.
(But they would find out in a year or two that the only thing she had retained from her father was his personality—something Edward was ecstatic about, but Winry groaned. After all, one was hard enough to keep in check. Now, she'd need to carry around two wrenches.)
"O sole
O sole mio
sta 'nfronte a te!"
As Winry lay in the hospital bed, tired, spent—she couldn't help but smile as she listened to her husband welcome their long-awaited Nina as quietly as possible into the world.
She didn't need to open her eyes to know when the door squeaked timidly open, nor who it was whose socked feet padded into their hospital room, joining her father in quiet song as they sang to the newest member of their family.
What shocked her, though, was the little boy's voice who joined into the other two—quiet, shaky, not near as strong and confident as his father and sister—but heartfelt all the same.
"Sta 'nfronte a te!"
The tear of joy and love that trickled down her cheek made Winry wonder how it was possible to love anyone else so much as she did her family right then and there at that point in time.
And all this because two people decided to fall in love.
No wonder hearts could sing.
Two years later, Edward collapsed.
It didn't scare anyone as much as it did Alphonse—because sometimes the lines would blur and where he saw Edward's golden hair, it would instead be Mom's tuft of brown just for a split-second before reality righted itself again—but when the former alchemist finally woke up, he tried to assure everyone that it was nothing.
No one believed him. Especially not his wife.
"Edward."
She hardly ever used his full first name. "Ed" was commonly used. "Dear" meant potential bodily danger due to a wrench. But "Edward" meant something else entirely.
Her husband, cornered in their own bedroom after the children had been put to sleep, winced and knew.
"…Winry…" he began, sighing. After a moment, he turned around, facing her. His gold eyes, darkened by the shadows showed the age and wisdom he had far beyond his years. They were pained. "…don't…don't ask. Not now. Not when things…"
Not when things are as good as they are.
Winry frowned, but shook her head, long blonde hair swinging with the movement. Two people could play at being stubborn. "No, Edward. If you know what's going on, then you tell me now what it is. I mean it. I'm not playing this game with you—this stupid self-sacrificial thing you always did before. We made a deal—at least, I thought we did—at the altar, and I intend to keep that deal now."
Silence.
Edward remained hesitant, but something finally gave way in his golden eyes after a lengthy, timid pause, and with a soft sigh, he moved forward.
"Quanno fa notte e 'o sole se ne scenne…"
"Edward—"
"…me vene quase 'na malincunia…"
His hand was on her chin, now, cupping her jaw and cheek as his thumb traced circles on her soft flesh. Yet to Winry's unbelieving eyes, after an even longer pause, he finally nodded again, sighing.
"You remember…that scar you saw the first night we made love?"
Winry's breath hitched. The memory alone stirred deep, warm feelings through her—but she could remember his words through the brief pleasure haze. She had asked, fingering it, what it was, and he had blamed it on…on…something.
She suddenly remembered with a gasp. "You said it was from a fight."
Edward nodded. He could do no more than whisper, as taxing as it was to already divulge so much burden on his wife. "…it was during a fight with Kimblee. While we were in the North. He…caused an explosion; I fell. It was—" A heavy sigh. "—it was a pole, broken off from the building in Kimblee's explosion. When I fell—it impaled…" He cleared his throat, making up for the awkward silence. "…me. It impaled me."
Winry's eyes widened, the images her mind conjuring too horrifying to have been actually real. Acting on subconscious, her hand darted towards his side, where she knew by memory the scar was. "S-straight through…? That's why there's a matching one on the other side—isn't it?"
He hesitated, the nodded, wincing as if her prodding was summoning back the old pain.
Winry lifted her husband's shirt the slightest, the darkened scar where the pole had entered him—visions of the terrifying sight flashed through her imagination—allowing her fingers to softly press where the damage had been done. She whispered reverently, voice trembling on the words, "…oh, Ed. H-how…? How did you…survive that…?"
He swallowed, his free hand not on her jaw travelling down to nervously tug his shirt back over his side—but Winry refused to move her wrist, waiting stubbornly until he responded hoarsely, "…I used…my own life force…as an alchemic amplifier, similar to a philosopher's stone…and performed transmutation on my cells…to patch myself up. It was only—only a temporary fix, of course, until I could see a doctor. But…but it was the only way…"
"So that's why."
Winry's voice was horrified, scared. Victimized.
Edward winced, blame swallowing him whole. He bowed his head, unable to meet her bright, once-so-happy-and-trusting-but-now…
"You sacrificed years of your life…you're…you're dying."
He could only respond in the slightest of nods.
Winry began to cry.
And just when your heart could finally sing without restraint.
She pulled him close toward her as she clutched him to her, crying tears after tears into his black shirt.
"Oh, Ed. Oh, Ed."
He hugged her close back, pulling out her ponytail and running his fingers through her straw-yellow hair in an act of comfort. His rumbling tenor, murmured to her ear, for her only, made her cry all the harder. Because what will it be like once that voice is gone, now—forever?
"Sotto 'a fenesta toia restarria
quanno fa notte e 'o sole se ne scenne…"
It grew hard to watch him become so weak. Her sun—her light—her glory—was fading before her eyes, and before she knew it, Winry found herself tentatively singing for him, wondering why she hadn't ever before. Why wasn't her heart a singer, too, her voice a force by which the earth could shake and the sky tremble? Because it most certainly wasn't—not on its own, like her husband and daughter's were.
Yet when the words grew too hard to sing, as always, his heart sung louder, stronger—enough for the both of them when her voice gave out, so overcome with sorrow and longing.
Even after they moved him to the hospital, his condition still steadily worsened. By that point, it was already hard to cope with; yet placing him under the constant care of others augmented it, somehow. Increased the reality of his helplessness. And suddenly, the entire situation became so much harder to bear for them all.
After three years of declining health, Edward Elric was finally bedridden, too weak and too frail to walk on his own anymore.
But yet still, he sang.
"Why?" Winry asked, alone at his bedside as the tears gathered in her eyes for the millionth time that night. "…how? How can you still…?"
Her husband didn't answer, merely reached forward and wiped a gentle tear away as a breath slid past his lips. He inhaled again, quietly, golden eyes—bright and glassy from fatigue—watched her with fascination and oceans of sorrow. Pressing his lips together in a quick line, he decided not to answer, and instead, muttered conversationally, "…you know, while I was in Vitelia, I also saw a Vitelian play. One I'm not sure you would have enjoyed—but still."
Thinking this was not the place—not the time—to be discussing such unimportant things, and yet unable to deny her dear dying one this single pleasure, Winry dryly laughed. "Oh, did you? And I imagine you got bored halfway through?"
"No, actually," Edward responded with a tired grin. "I kind of liked it. In fact, I memorized this one part."
Winry closed her eyes briefly—hard—because oh, that dam was close to breaking once more. "I…don't suppose then, you would mind singing it for me, would you…?"
Perhaps it was unusual of her to ask such a request. Perhaps it was outside of her character—something so absurd and strange—who was this blonde woman claiming to be "Winry Elric," and wasn't throwing wrenches or screaming or scolding her children—husband included?
Who was this woman suddenly reduced to a weeping spectator at the deathbed of her husband?
Me, that's me.
Edward merely smiled, every bit of understanding passing through his eyes as he began, his voice soft and shaky—but oh, still soul-wrenchingly beautiful, Winry couldn't help but think. The minuet of the morning doves cannot hold a candle to your heart, my love. Its song…oh, its song…
"Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
il nome mio nessun saprà!"
Winry closed her eyes, overcome, taking her husband's hand in her own tightly as she laid her head down on his chest, feeling it rumble with the tremor of his voice, sweet and haunting. And oh, oh, please, dear Heart, don't stop your song ever. Don't—just don't. Live on, sing on, be mine—please be mine for just a little longer.
"No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,
quando la luce splenderà!"
A tear slipped down her cheek, cold and familiar. It was soon followed by several, silent others. But a hand—his free hand, unheld by hers—softly lifted her face by the chin and wiped them free. Bidden, her blue eyes opened and gazed into his gold—I'm sorry—I'm sorry I'm crying—I love you—don't leave me. Please sing—sing on—don't mind me and my pathetic tears. They're all for you, but I know you don't like me crying out of sadness. You promised me so long ago to make me cry tears of joy.
Those fingers on her chin drifted to her lips, soft and caressing.
And you did. So do it again? Live? For me?
"Ed il mio bacio scioglierà
il silenzio che ti fa mia…"
Leaning up the slightest—as much as he could—Winry took the hint and softly kissed him. Tenderly, lovingly—oh, my love, my love.
Yet after they parted, his song reached its crescendo, burst into being and strong and loud and oh—oh, if the stars could ever hope to be as bright. If only the birds could fly as high as my soul is at this very moment.
Because her heart, most certainly, soared into flight with his.
"Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincerò!"
Her free hand brushed the bangs free of his face as his voice lowered a moment, before regaining strength and vitality.
"Vincerò!"
And Winry understood his promise.
"Vincerò!"
She lowered her forehead to his, as he closed his eyes and tenderly, chokingly, began to cry.
He probably won't live to see the morning.
Winry clutched Alphonse's hand as the entire Elric family—every single living member, extended and immediate—huddled in the hospital room. 11-year-old Hughes clung to his mother's other hand, his 9-year-old sister Trisha clinging to his free hand, too, with 5-year-old Nina at her side. Looped around by Alphonse was Mei, and holding onto her hand, 5-year-old Marta.
They almost completely encircled Edward's bed.
And clinging to each other's hands, braced like a protective shield—they wished they were strong enough to ward off the coming death of one they held most dear.
And, Winry thought with pain, it's not as if he can somehow perform alchemy on himself anymore—to see if he could negotiate with Truth the rest of his life back. And he wouldn't ever let Alphonse dare to try such a thing…
So then, this was it. The end. Without alchemy, how…how could this change…?
This was it.
The final chord of a sweeping ballad, the finishing notes on the ivory keys of a beautiful life.
And suddenly, Winry found herself praying—begging—choking—pleading that Someone—Anyone—please let this bird sing for me a few years longer—with every thread, desperate ounce and thrumming fiber of her trembling being.
When she opened her mouth to sing for him, the last gift she could give him, she found it hoarse—even though she hadn't, really, out loud, been singing at all yet.
"Do you think there's Someone above Truth?"
Winry blinked, looking down at her side where 6-year-old Nina sat propped up against her side, alchemic textbook spread open on her lap. Just like her father. Oh boy.
But the question, most certainly, was not one he would even think about asking, Winry noted.
"Perhaps," she answered carefully, frowning. Turning her suspicious, narrowed blue eyes on her daughter's identical ones, she asked threateningly, "What, why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing!" And there—that mischievous grin—that was entirely Edward-like, too. Too much so. I'll definitely have to do something about that, Winry couldn't help but think. But on her daughter babbled, closing her textbook quickly and crossing her wrists over it as casually an inconspicuously as possible. "Just…just wondering. While thinking about stuff. Y'know. Normal…stuff. And all. It just crossed my mind."
Winry narrowed her gaze, dropping her voice. "Uh-huh…"
Nina grinned up at her innocently, shrugging. "So, like, say if there was Someone—think they could override Tru—"
The door to the porch decided to bang open at that precise moment, shocking both girls into a startled jump.
"Ma n'atu sole
cchiù bello, oje ne'."
Smiles soon overcame their startled faces. They shared an amused, dry glance.
"Ed, dear, what are you doing?" Winry asked as she turned to face her darling, who spun and tottered forward towards them, sweeping and elegant and vibrant as he grinned and neared them.
"O sole mio
sta 'nfronte a te!"
Nina giggled madly, hiding her red face behind her alchemic textbook as her father neared his face to hers and sang to her specifically for just this wondrous, happy and exclusive moment while her other two siblings were still at school.
"O sole
O sole mio
sta 'nfronte a te!"
Then he turned to his wife, pressing nose and forehead to hers tenderly, affectionately—gold hair meeting sunshine in a blend of dawning light.
"Sta 'nfronte a te!"
Winry sighed through the kiss they shared, though her smile gave her secret joy and relief away. "Seriously, Ed, what brought this up?"
"Nothing," her husband replied calmly, smoothly. "Nothing at all. Just, whenever I see you, my heart starts to sing."
And Winry smiled.
What a wonderful thing, a sunny day
The serene air after a thunderstorm
The fresh air, and a party is already going on…
What a wonderful thing, a sunny day.
But another sun,
that's brighter still
It's my own sun
that's in your face!
The sun, my own sun
It's in your face!
It's in your face!
When night comes and the sun has gone down,
I start feeling blue;
I'd stay below your window
When night comes and the sun has gone down.
But another sun,
that's brighter still
It's my own sun
that's in your face!
The sun, my own sun
It's in your face!
It's in your face!
But my secret is hidden within me,
No one shall discover my name!
No!...No!...
I shall speak it only on your lips,
When daylight shines forth.
And my kiss will dissolve the silence which makes you mine!
Oh night, depart!
Stars, set! Stars, set!
At dawn, I shall win!
I shall win!
I shall win!
Crystal's Notes: …not sure how this thing came into being. I suppose it started on a whim—when I suddenly thought, "Whenever I see you, my heart starts to sing." And then—boom. I was like, "Romantic Italian song? Romantic Italian song."
Somehow, Pavarotti got involved. And then opera immediately followed.
And I couldn't stop myself.
I know it's a bit awkward to imagine, because, hey—let's be honest. Vic Mignonga, while a fantastical singer, is no Luciano Pavarotti by any means. So imagining Edward Elric singing a song that this wonderful tenor made famous is a bit…of a stretch.
But bear with me. I did try.
The two songs involved—in case any are curious—are "O Sole Mio," and the latter part of "Nessun Dorma!". And to be honest, I would highly suggest listening to "Nessun Dorma!" especially during the "Nessun Dorma!" part of this song. Oh, by Puccuni, those chords! I have never heard anything like it; it's simply extraordinary—and how Pavarotti sings melts my soul and heart until they're an icky, cohesive blob of gush.
So yes. Go listen.
On another note, I don't own anything.
I truly hope you enjoyed my crazy imagination and this trip I have taken you on. If you did, please let me know. Kind words serve to make my day and keep me writing.
But besides that, have a blessed, blessed day.