Summary: There is but one fact: Edward Elric never cries willingly. Pre-CoS.
Warning(s): Bits of language; hints of pairings if you jump and squint by the angle of arc tan 37/177.
Exception
- Though the azure has changed, their journeys would last forever. –
There is but one fact: Edward Elric never cries willingly.
When he does cry, it is usually because of the circumstances around him that force him to. And his cries don't last long, because he thinks that it is a sign of weakness. Grown men do not cry, he believes in it. Has believed in it ever since he burned down his house and left with his brother.
However, somewhere along his journey and various missions assigned to him by the courtesy of Colonel Bastard (he knows that the man is probably a Brigadier-General by now, but he doesn't care), Edward learns that crying is not always a sign of weakness; it is, sometimes, because someone cannot contain his happiness enough, or that the past is back and haunting and one cannot forget enough.
Still, he prefers not to cry if he could – he would rather yell and storm and fight rather than cry. At least then no one can see his eyes – tears would dry up while he snarls, it's a good façade to hide behind – and though it has caused people to think of him as a child with an anger management problem, Edward knows better.
He did cry, after failing his mother and Alphonse by a failed attempt at Human Transmutation, but he has an excuse: he was not even 13 by the time.
Through painful lessons that life itself has inflicted upon him, Ed learns. From his mistakes, from his successes. He had stepped beyond human's domain into God's, had earned his punishment; but he did not relent. If he had given up, how was he supposed to keep his promise to his only sibling?
It is hard, Edward acknowledges it (albeit a bit grudgingly); but hey, he's still alive and walking. That alone should be a bright sign – he once thought that he wouldn't live to see past 18. What with all the beasts, manic alchemists and murderers dropped upon his shoulders.
And it is now, in this garden, that Edward thinks that he has never faced a bigger challenge that life has been providing aplenty.
He sits on a wooden bench, suitcase beside him; and watches as the leaves fall around him in browns and reds and yellows. There are other people, mulling around the place, busy laughing and whispering and some just enjoying the sight.
Edward includes himself to the third category, but with an addition: he is enjoying the sight, but has tuned out his surroundings, a natural skill that came to him whenever a good book catches his attention.
What he sees isn't what he literally sees; now that he remembers it, he has never seen Fall in Amestris. Summer, check; Spring, check; Winter, check – Drachma is Winter all year anyways.
The older Elric is alone in Englisch Garten, well, he doesn't expect Alfons to come and accompany him by just sitting there, brooding like an old man.
Heh. Old man. Edward snorts.
But as the wind blows, tousling his hair and twirling the falling leaves, he concedes to himself – just for himself.
He denies it, every time Alfons calls him one, again and again – that it has sort of become an automatic response from him every time he is confronted by that accusation.
(He's exaggerating. Maybe. But Gate, let him be. Just this, once a year.)
His right hand tightens its grip on the book just a fraction, and he forces himself to inhale, exhale, and inhale – slowly.
It is on this day, that Edward does not want to be found by his flat mate, because he will not be able to deny it – he feels like an old man, has seen far too much for his age, given too much to bear, and, and—
Edward misses home. Amestris. Of joyous laughter, of wrench hitting the head, and of a manipulative smirk.
Of the familiar surge of energy through his body, even his automail, which ends on his palms, and the blue crackle of alchemy.
He feels like someone has torn a part of himself, and attaches one that does not fit.
The silver pocket watch that resides in his pocket suddenly feels like lead, dragging himself to the ground and beneath, down and under, to a place where he can no longer split white from black and gray.
His throat constricts, his breath hitches, and Edward swallows back a dry chuckle – or a sob, he doesn't want to find out. This is an adult's place, and with the threat of global war around the corner, he cannot afford to show his weakness.
Yes, the blond knows it – that crying isn't a sign of weakness. But it has been etched deep inside him, and he cannot forget that easily.
One second later, and Edward pretends to yawn, pretend that a single wet trail on his cheek is because his lachrymal glands are pressed.
Silence. Winds ruffling the leaves, making them dance on a stage under the vermilion glow of the late Sun.
When the huge clock that serves as the center of the garden chimes seven times, Edward stands up, grabs his suitcase – and leaves without turning back.
He ignores the sudden howling of the wind that seems to whine for his absence; and with shoulders rigid and back straight, he heads back to his flat.
As he had expected, Alfons is not in their flat, probably gone somewhere (library) to delve into some more information to feed to his theories.
It is always like this; these four years.
He is always alone on this day, from afternoon until the middle of the night. Alfons seems to understand this with one look when he first arrived here; as he left a small note on the table that dinner only needs to be heated.
Edward is grateful, he really is, for the young German to care for him…
…He just does not trust himself enough to not break down before the man whose appearance is almost like the copy of his brother.
As he hangs his brown trench coat, Edward picks up his suitcase and grabs a glass of water along the way, and closes the bedroom door with a soft click.
After a moment of consideration and hesitation, the door is opened once again, and the blond reappears to take a bottle of wine into his room from the fridge.
He doesn't bother to turn on the lamp; he just makes a beeline for his desk and flings his suitcase to his bed. The window provides him with a view of Englisch Garten at nightfall, even if it is obscured by fog sometimes. Edward opens it, just slightly, so that he can smell the Autumn wind, fresh from the Garten. The bottle of wine is settled in front of the wall, just beside the glass of water, in case he needs a distraction.
Today is an annual routine that he began after arriving on Earth, albeit unwillingly.
He produces a key from his chest pocket, and unlocked the first drawer… but stays silent for a while, unmoving, right hand still holding the key.
The street lamps provide enough lighting for the room that another source of light will only destroy the situation.
Edward pours himself a glassful of wine, mesmerized by the twirling of the red liquid. He doesn't usually drink – the farthest he'll have is beer with colleagues – but on this occasion, always on this occasion, he prefers wine… red wine.
The red liquid… red, swishing and whirling around the center…
...Screams of agony, of raw flesh ripped apart and bones pulled out from the socket; barely audible under the roar of untamed transmutation and giddy crackle of energy, yet so piercingly loud on his ears…
A splash dropped from the glass to his glove, Edward sees it, but doesn't make a move to wipe it away…
…A drop of red, then two, then three; and when he looks down there is a puddle of crimson and sticky substance, staining his shorts which seems to be missing something…
The whirl halts, and Edward watches it intently as it slows down to a stop…
…Another scream, bordering on shriek, that sounds distinctive even to his own ears; excess energy whirring all around him, confuses him of where is up and down, where is left and right, when is dark and light… Is it right or wrong.
The blond brings the edge of the glass to his lips and finishes its content with one gulp. It burns down through his throat, creating a shiver that runs down his spine and reinforcing his senses.
The effect fades after not even a second.
One.
He pours another glassful, but leaving it untouched this time – not yet.
His right hand blindly searching for a book inside his drawer, and pulls it out carefully.
Edward takes the glove off of his left hand, and let his fingers trace the dog-eared and slightly wrinkled black notebook, with papers sticking out from all edges. Then he places his silver pocket watch above the book, leaning back into the chair.
The pocket watch, dented and tarnished from years of journey throughout the land, still reflects some of the light from outside.
Edward smiles dryly, sipping the wine and emptying the glass.
…He claps his hands, places it on the ground and pulls out a spear, he can feel eyes trained at him on his back and it unsettles him – some sinister, some curious, some bored, some amused; he does not know if those stares are for him all alone or for the man that recruited him…
Two.
Again, he pours the red wine and closes his eyes.
It is then, that he feels the most vulnerable. In his dreams he is defenseless against the nightmares that keeps plaguing him, disturbs his sleeps and jerks him awake from his restless slumber. Faces of people he has met, helped or, Gate, accidentally killed; more than often keeps him awake and stays there with the sole purpose of keeping him company… a company which he does not want to be there.
There has been many, too many people that follow him here, and he sometimes wishes that they would leave him alone, to pick up what is left from almost five years of endless journeys; his sanity, his soul.
Three, and counting…
Slowly he opens the black notebook, relishing in the familiar texture of the paper and the handwriting that is illegible to everyone but him. And Edward finds himself smiling slightly at the scratches, scrawls and doodles at a few corners of the pages.
Elements and formulas add up to equations, and they slowly drive back the faces of people that stay with him. It is a welcomed thought; anything is better than those unreal imaginations of his…
(But he knows that they're not his imaginations, they never were.)
This time, Edward pours half a glass and gulps it, then fills it again half-full and finishes it in similar motion.
Half times twice equals one, so it doesn't matter, really – it's just an interesting bit of change.
As the lull of the clock – tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock – makes him a bit drowsy, Edward decides that it's time for something different.
He gulps down the entire content of the glass, and without missing a beat downs a mouthful of cold water he'd previously taken.
It makes him shudder, but at least it helps him to sober up a bit. Hangover medicine is there in the first aid kit inside the bathroom, but he will probably need it tomorrow morning. Not now.
The bottle only has a quarter left, and the older Elric has lost count of the glasses somewhere along the way… he has had more than fifteen, that he is sure. But somehow… it's not quite enough to push him to the brink and emotional state that alcohol usually induces.
He pauses for a moment, eyeing the bottle and the glass of water next to it. Quietly considering whether he should finish what he had started or not.
Ah, whatever, why the hell not. He is clearly above legal age for drinking, and even if he finds himself hung-over tomorrow, it's not a matter at the moment.
Right now, as Edward downs another glass of red wine and looks at the empty sky, he does not want to think.
He wants to forget, just this once.
There is but one fact: Edward Elric never cries willingly.
But for every fact, there is an exception - this included.
On October 3rd, staring down at Englisch Garten from his room, Edward Elric lets a tear slip away.
'Don't forget.' Is what is engraved on the inside of his silver pocket watch.
He never forgets – he remembers. Always. Why he keeps the metal to him after all this time.
But on this day, he wishes to a God he does not believe in, that he could forget. That everything would stop taunting him with empty promises of home; of a sibling and a childhood friend and a commanding officer.
It is on that night, on every year, that he forgets the fact. Dismisses it.
And Edward Elric cries, what little left of his tears.
Dries them all on that night, and only that night alone.
The next morning, when Edward wakes up to the beaming sunlight, he grabs a pen and crosses another day on his notebook.
He smiles bitterly, gazing down at the numbers.
Well, three hundred and sixty-four days to go.
No matter how we close our eyes, there's a whole world out there bigger than ourselves and our dreams…
"Equivalent Exchange, huh? For what I've learned and gained up till now."
Edward laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head.
Sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes that it all is just a bad dream that would go away as the Sun gives way to early morning.
END
A/N: Hope it's enough for the tribute this year, seeing that this year it counts as 3 Oct '11. And as always, for FMA: It's not dead. It's never dead, lest you forget.