Title: Mathematics
Edward Elric is a genius, as if that isn't fucking obvious.
Or at least, he'd thought it'd been obvious, had assumed that people could put two and two together. What, with all the 'child prodigy' rumors and shit going around, it didn't seem a stretch. Fuck, he's an alchemist prodigy, for fuck's sake, and that should mean something.
Not his fault it equates to shit. Not his fault people are morons, can't even follow basic arithmetic.
Hell, the method for determining IQ is simple enough for a toddler to grasp (he remembers teaching it to Al, as a distraction from the monsters lurking underneath his bed): IQ equals mental age divided by real age multiplied by a hundred. Not at all hard to comprehend.
But apparently, Edward really is a genius, that, or everyone is too deranged to be fixed. The latter is most certainly true. After all, if more people could think rationally, Mustang wouldn't be in any position of power. Not only does that shit bastard possesses the mental age of a five year old (Ed's done the math), he still requires a babysitter (please don't tell Hawkeye he called her that, please). Edward really has no idea how that man became a Colonel; most days it's like he can't even seem to operate a basic pen.
But Edward Elric is not Roy Mustang. Edward Elric is a genius, alright? He can do the math, and it would be fucking brilliant if people didn't try to do it for him!
Because he already knows, thank you very much. So everyone can stop with the staring, with the pity, with the heartbroken smiles and the sympathy. And while he can't exactly blame them for their moment's hesitation, for the look they adopt whenever all the pieces finally get slotted into place, he can very well say that he fucking hates it.
Enough that he wants to scream, to shout, to tear them to pieces and bury them and their damned math deep in the dirt. More than anything, he wants to punch that man in the goddamn face whenever he senses the waver behind that insufferable smirk. Because, damn it, not you too!
Edward Elric knows his math. He recognizes that the odds are terrible, even for a 'genius', even for a 'prodigy'. For anyone else, they would probably be next to nonexistent. But he knows better than to believe in the impossible, not where equivalency can be achieved. And so he knows, by mathematic definition: the possibility must exist.
He knows there's a deal to be made. Just a matter of finding the correct enacting process, of figuring out the proper currency exchange. Simple math. He's done it before; he's the one who bought a soul for an arm.
Really, he's done the math. So don't tell him the odds.
Don't dismiss him yet.
