Summary: "I've always heard that the dead receive more flowers than the living...and I think now I know why. It's because regret is stronger than gratitude, and while gratitude may last a day, or an hour, regret can last a lifetime." - Edward pays an extended visit to his mother's grave while waiting for repairs on his automail. One-shot.
Inspired by Anne Frank: "Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because the regret is stronger than gratitude."
Set after Edward's first battle against Scar; can be seen in either Brotherhood's universe, or 2003's. Slight spoilers for both series. NOT an AU.
"Hey, Mom."
It felt casual - almost too casual - but Edward honestly didn't know where else to start. The cold wind of the dying day sent leaves dancing through the rolling hills of Risembool, and the setting sun cast shadows across parts the town while bathing the rest of it in a warm, orange glow.
Edward stared at the gravestone, marking the place where his mother's body rested below the earth. He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and offered a small, fake smile, shutting his eyes.
"Long time no talk," he said.
He opened his eyes. The words Trisha Elric, 1878~1904 stared back at him, and he sighed, sinking to the ground until he was sitting, right before his mother's grave. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his flesh arm around them; his automail arm was with Winry, getting some much-needed repairs.
"So," Edward said slowly, after a breath, "um...yeah. It's been a while. So..." He drummed his fingers against his knee, feeling both incredibly stupid and incredibly moved at the same time. The alchemist, scientist part of him said there was no way his mother could hear him, and while that was true, the sentimental, more human side of him nagged otherwise.
And besides, it couldn't hurt either way, right?
"So, we have some new leads on how to get Al's body back," Edward said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "That's...that's always a good thing, and...um...well...Winry's doing well. So's Granny. And Al...I think he's doing okay. We both are."
He paused for a moment, drawing absentmindedly in a patch of dirt with a stick.
"I've been looking after Alphonse," he told her after swallowing hard, "just like you always told me to do…" He smiled, but it felt pained. "Well, actually, we've been taking care of each other. I've tried telling Alphonse that I'm fine on my own, but...I think he knows better than that."
He paused, as though waiting for a response. The grass shimmered in the wind, rolling green pastures stretching as far as the eye could see. Edward rested his forehead on his knees for a moment, thinking.
"So...I'll be turning sixteen pretty soon," he murmured, raising his head once again and offering his mother's tombstone a small, frail smile. "Guess that's a little strange to think about, too. It's...it's been almost five years since...since we tried bringing you back."
He sighed heavily and dropped his head back to his knees again. This time, he left it there. "My smalltalk sucks," he muttered. "And...I guess it sucks, because I never know what to say. I'm still no good at sentimental stuff. Nothing has changed."
That's right, he wasn't. He'd never been good with sentiment. Still wasn't.
He shivered and pulled his trench coat tighter around him when a particularly could bout of wind blew through the countryside. It would be dark soon; he'd have to start thinking about heading back.
"...Anyways...we miss you. Both of us. A lot. That hasn't changed, either."
He paused, looking up at the sky, watching the orange hued clouds drift by, not a single care in the world. The sun had almost set, and darkness began to creep in.
He really had to start thinking about heading back…
But then, as soon as the thought entered his mind, he sighed and looked back at his mother's name, engraved on that gray stone. The more he thought about heading back to the Rockbells' home, the more realized he didn't want to leave. He smiled faintly; this time, it came easier.
"I guess I can spend some more time out here; I've got a lot to tell you, after all. A lot has happened these past few years," said Edward, lowering his knees so he was sitting Indian style. "Well, that, and...and I'm not ready to leave just yet."
...
Major Armstrong trekked down the road, a dark canopy of stars hanging in the sky overhead. When Edward didn't show for dinner, Alphonse worried, and Armstrong offered to go look for the young, pint-sized alchemist himself.
He headed straight to the graveyard, where he knew Edward would be. But at the very last moment, just before entering, he paused. From where he stood, at the entrance of Risembool's graveyard, he could see Edward, resting against the back of a headstone which could only be his mother's. He was saying something, and when Armstrong intently heeded the voice, he could make out the words.
"...And then, he says, 'Don't you go dying before me. The paperwork would be too much for my brain to handle.' Okay, so he didn't say that exactly, but that's basically it. And I was like, 'Oh well excuse me Colonel Idiot. There's no way I'd die before you; I, for one, use my brain.' ...But I didn't say that out loud, either."
Edward laughed mirthlessly, but it died early on in his throat. "Yeah, Mustang's a pain," he said, "but he's actually okay. I mean, I think he cares about us, you know? Sort of like a father, but I guess I wouldn't actually know what that looked like, because Hohenheim left pretty quick, the nerve of that…" He muttered the rest under his breath, so quietly that not even Armstrong could make it out.
Edward sucked in a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and clamored to his feet. "Well...sorry I kept you for so long," he said, stretching, making his way to the front of his mother's grave. "I can talk for hours, you know? Well, um," he rubbed the back of his neck, "of course you know, you, um...you're my mom."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Thanks," he said, "for being there for us. Even though that little…" He muttered under his breath again, "...Hohenheim left us, you never did. You love...eh...loved us, and we loved you. We still do."
He waited a beat, contemplated whether or not to keep going, and then, having made his decision, spoke once again.
"You know, I've always heard that the dead receive more flowers than the living," he said quietly, "...and I think now I know why. It's because regret is stronger than gratitude, and while gratitude may last a day, or an hour, regret can last a lifetime. And I do regret, you know...I regret everything I didn't do for you...I regret any lack of gratitude I ever had...it's a little late, I know, but...but..."
A sigh. "You know what I mean."
And somehow, he knew that she did.
"I'll never forget you," Edward said. "Me and Alphonse both. We'll remember you always, Mom. Forever and ever."
He was about to pivot and head back to the Rockbells' residence, when a heavy weight suddenly landed on his shoulders. He jumped involuntarily, his head shooting up; Major Armstrong now stood beside him, eyes looking onwards, burly arm wrapped around his shoulders.
"Major?" Edward blurted, before he could stop himself. "What are you…?"
And then he noticed the tears in the man's eyes, and Edward looked away quickly, turning his gaze to the rolling grass.
"How much did you hear?" he asked quietly.
The arm around his shoulders tightened. "Enough," Armstrong answered, and Edward sighed heavily.
For a few moments, they stood there, silently, looking at the grave of Edward and Alphonse's lost mother, the black sky littered with thousands upon thousands of twinkling stars.
"...We should head back," Armstrong finally said, breaking the long silence.
Edward lowered his head, shut his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "...We should head back…"
...
Don't forget. Oct. 3. 11.
I haven't forgotten my promise to Alphonse, Mom. And I never will.