Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Hagaren.
A/N: I actually wrote this before the other three I put up, just forgot about it for a while. This is a little thing on Hohenheim.
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A trembling, calloused hand reached down and stopped.
Try as he might, he could not muster up the courage to touch his son's face. Years ago, it was different. He would always lift the boy up to his shoulders and hold him tightly. It was also years ago, that it all changed. He left, and he knew that a rift had formed between them.
His fingers hovered inches above Edward's cheek.
There was once a time, when he had not had such hesitation. Back then, it had been so easy to gather the boy into his arms, to race him all over the yard, to have the bundle of abundant energy tackle him breathless.
His fingers closed on open air.
Hohenheim remembered the afternoon in which his first son was born. He could not believe that the bundle of blankets was so small and soft and alive. The wisps of golden hair, his hair, followed the scalp it was attached to as the head bent back a little to yawn. His little fists curled up into soft balls of flesh as he outstretched them. He then blinked golden irises up at the man he would call 'dad' while the man blinked down through his spectacles at the boy he would call 'Edward'. He spent the rest of the afternoon cuddling the bundle as it slept soundly and safely in strong arms.
The digits unclenched and stretched out slightly more.
The first year with Edward had been a blur of tackles and races. The boy was endowed with a natural power plant all his own. His energy seemed limitless and he himself was restless. The boy couldn't sit still for long. In under ten seconds, he'd leap up again, ready for another bout of playing.
His hand reluctantly cupped the still-warm cheek.
Halfway though the second year, Trisha was pregnant again because Hohenheim couldn't keep his hands off. Trisha didn't mind, of course, and Hohenheim was almost eager to have another bundle of warm flesh to hold and introduce to Edward. Five months later, they found out it was another boy. Four months after that, the baby was born at dawn.
Turning his head, he stared blankly at the heap in the corner.
Sure enough, the baby had the same golden hair as his father and brother. He didn't yawn, nor did he cry. He was perfectly calm and content stuck between his father's arms and his brother's chest. The eyes blinking up at the two older males were a shining gray, silver almost. He opened his mouth a few times before settling his thumb between tiny, moist lips as he gurgled at the two people holding him. Later on into the morning, Trisha named him Alphonse.
He reached out another hand toward the heap, fingers closing again on open air.
He did not get to spend as much time with Alphonse as he had Edward. It was a shame, because he felt that the boy would be every bit as energetic as his older brother. Although, to be serious, Hohenheim went way past his prime years and years ago. He barely caught up with Edward. Two human power plants were difficult to handle.
The hand facing the heap of metal clenched into a tight, trembling fist while the other hand gently wrapped rough, calloused digits around a golden braid.
He did not want to leave. He said goodbye after he made love one last time with his beloved Trisha. She could not hear him, having fallen asleep. It was just as well. He stopped by his sons' room. They were sound asleep, Edward in his bed and Alphonse in his crib. He placed a heartfelt kiss on each of their foreheads before turning away to go to the front door.
He pushed the boy's head onto his chest, the rest of the body laid between Hohenheim's legs.
The sounds of tiny footsteps alerted him to the presence creeping up from behind. He turned around and found himself staring, mouth slightly open at the face of his son. The round, innocent features were shrouded with a hazy sort of confusion. His lips parted as if to say something, but the words were caught in his throat. Instead, he closed it, waved slowly and sadly, and turned around to hide the heat and tears welling up behind his eyes. He left, gently closing the door behind him.
His hand rested itself on the boy's still chest.
It was years later before he ever saw his sons again. Upon seeing their bodies, or rather what remained of them, he knew what they had done. He could not lecture his sons, because he committed the same sin four hundred years earlier. Born from his efforts was the homunculus, Envy.
His gaze shifted to the pool of blood beside him. A single skull laid almost neatly in it.
Upon learning that Dante was alive, he fled from Rizembul to encounter his oldest lover. He burst through the gates of the mansion with ease. Fighting with the one christened Gluttony was no challenge. Dante's alchemic golems were no match for the frozen replicas that imitated the empty body of his third son.
Edward's chest stopped heaving minutes ago. A gaping hole was left where a lung should have been.
Hohenheim explained to Dante the cause of her rotting body. The constant switching and jumping of bodies was to blame. The bodies just could not support the soul, as the soul was not meant for those bodies. In this aspect, there was no such thing as immortality. He figured sadly that the woman would listen and understand, but not care. He never expected to see the face of the only one he had ever truly loved, and had it used against him. As his body was pulled into the gate by the arms laughing imitations of children, he reassured Trisha and himself, that Edward and Alphonse would be alright. They were their offspring, after all.
Hohenheim's fingers rubbed up and down the steadily cooling skin of Ed's face, the digits caked in dried blood.
There was once a time, when he might've cared how his sons had found him. He might have cared how they brought him through the gate. He might have cared how they came into possession of Envy's skull. He might even have cared why Envy himself was there to meet them when they returned through the gate.
His heart felt heavy with bottled emotion. He placed a hand over his son's face, moved his hand down, and closed the glassy, amber eyes.
He had no idea how he blanked out. He didn't care. The first sight before his steadily opening eyes was enough to shut off the curiosity in him. His first son, nothing but a puddle of blood and the remains of his skull. His second son, hemorrhaging and dying in front of him, heaving with cracked breaths and spewing blots of blood. His third son, torn apart and seal shredded.
He felt overpowering heat in his eye sockets, the burning sensation behind his eyeballs reminding him of something he had not done in such a long time.
Hohenheim reached out to his son, his breath shaky for the first time in years. Edward didn't notice as he gasped and choked on his blood-filled lungs. Before Hohenheim's hand could reach, the choking and coughing stopped. His second-born son exhaled his last breath, his dull, amber pupils dilating with the movement of escaping air.
Silent tears slid down the rough face and the golden beard as the man tightly clutched the cold corpse of the boy that was once his son, not even attempting to stifle the cries that were choked out with each drop.
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A/N: I know, many things are unexplained for this, but just use your imagination, hmm? This was written as sort of an introspect on Hohenheim if his sons died, not about the workings of the gate.
Review if you read it. I'd greatly appreciate constructive criticism. God and all other deities know I need it.