On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to meA Partridge in a Pear Tree
"What the fuck is that?" Ed snarled the moment his father set the thing on the coffee table, eyeing the fanciful decoration with disgust.
Hohenheim barely glanced at his son's twisted expression, shrugging out of his coat and unwinding the thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Ed could at once detect the sickly-sweet odor of rotting flesh disguised by heavy cologne, and wrinkled his nose further, still glaring at the intricately folded paper sitting in front of him. "I believe it is a pear tree," his father said calmly.
"Where did it come from?" came the next question, dripping with the same disgust as the first.
"It was a gift from a group of particularly talented students of mine," he answered, hanging up his coat and scarf and coming to sit across from Ed in the oversized armchair. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," Ed spat, slamming the book shut with a loud clap and standing unsteadily, walking with a noticeable limp around the coffee table, putting as much distance between himself and his father as possible without leaving the room entirely. With Hohenheim sitting, Ed was now able to glare down at him, which he proceeded to do with enthusiasm. If he could have, he would have folded his arms across his chest, but his shoulder muscles were too sore to lift the wooden prosthetic that had taken the place of his automail in this technology-forsaken place.
Hohenheim was eyeing him critically. "You're moving rather stiffly, have your joints been bothering you?"
Ed looked away, not in the mood to see his father's concerned expression. "Yeah, what of it?" he muttered. "Not like there's anything can be done." He stared with feigned interest at the dust collecting in the corner.
"You should try a hot bath, it will relax your muscles," the older man said, still with that same level, even tone that made his son's blood boil.
Instead of informing his father that he had tried that earlier in the day, Ed chose not to respond at all, instead walking the rest of the way around the table to return to his seat on the couch. On his way his false leg bumped the edge of the table, sending the folded paper pear tree toppling off the edge to land on its side on the wooden floor. Edward swore under his breath and scooped the thing back up as he sat down and set it upright on the table, examining it with more curiosity this time than disgust. Finally he looked up at the old man with narrowed eyes. "Why would anyone want to give you a gift?" he demanded, but his accusing tone was familiar to Hohenheim, had become part of the daily routine.
The man shrugged. "Perhaps it is a token of appreciation for my wonderful teaching skills," he said placidly, feeling relief at his son's bitter laughter, a clear indication that Ed could see through his bullshit in a heartbeat. In fact, the decoration had been a gift from his secretary, a lonely woman who had found him infinitely fascinating and irresistibly charming.
"But who the hell gives someone a pear tree?" Ed mused, calmer now, propping his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.
Hohenheim placed his large hands on his knees, pressing down and standing up, feeling his bones creak with the movement. The damp London air combined with the chill of early winter was doing nothing for his crumbling body, and his ancient soul was weary of this new torment: the son he had thought Trisha would raise, Trisha would care for, Trisha would love suddenly dumped, broken and useless, in this world his mistakes had landed him in. "It's something from a holiday song," he explained finally. "It was a Christmas gift."
Ed merely raised his eyebrows and flipped open his book again, leaning back into the couch and bringing the pages closer to his face. "I can't believe this world has Christmas," he muttered, adding something unintelligible as his eyes began to scan the words in front of him.
"What was that?" his father inquired, his eyebrows raising in a gesture that mirrored the son's.
Dull gold gleamed in the low light of evening. "I said," Ed repeated slowly, "I hate being alone in this place."
You're not alone, Hohenheim had wanted to say, but that was not part of the routine. You're not without any family, but that would be like offering to be a father to the boy instead of just a place to sleep. I hate it too, which was the honest truth, but there was a reason seniments of that nature were not exchanged between the two sinners.
