I Don't own FMA
III
When Jean was small, he always dreamed of flying. He looked up at the sky, staring out at the horizon, wondering what it would be like to be a bird. How would the air smell, the breeze feel against my skin? He watched birds with envy, wishing he would be able to soar through the skies. He, like every boy in his elementary school class, tried jumping out of the tree behind the swings. At least he wasn't the only one that got in trouble, or a broken wrist.
As he got older, the dream faded, rationality set in, and he soon forgot that want, the desire to fly.
It only returned after he was forced to retire from the military. In his dreams, he was finally free. Free from the confines of his chair. The wind always ruffled his hair. Always stretching his toes like in sand; always smiling.
"Come on man! Quit being a chicken shit!" Jean gritted his teeth, arms strained, staring straight ahead, focusing on his voice. "Come on!"
His mind screamed as he strained, and it happened.
His knees locked.
He hoisted himself up, almost falling into the smaller man.
Breda caught him, helping him up. He looked down at the small man, laughter erupting from his throat as they both laughed until they cried.
He stood as straight as he could, clutching the other man's shoulder. As the wind blew, ruffling his hair, he inhaled deeply. This must be what it means to fly.