SUMMER OF 1905
Edward wouldn't come to him.
Alphonse nursed on a strawberry inside Hohenheim's folded legs, babbling, while his older brother remained idle across the room. The toys before him lay untouched, still right side up instead of sprawled along the floorboard as they usually were, like fallen soldiers before an adversary.
Hohenheim stared back at his son. Such unfiltered hostility swirled in those amber eyes. Tiny sparks of fire prickled along his skin. He didn't squirm under the child's wrath, for fear of encouraging him, but Hohenheim broke eye contact and instead peered down at the smallest Elric in his lap.
The contrast between the two brother's expressions and the similarities in their likeness never failed to startle Hohenheim. The adoration of one and the fury of the other made a formidable foe for the father to conquer. If he felt guilty for leaving before, it was tenfold now. He clenched his fists.
He told Pinako he could do this.
He went and bowed at his wife's grave and swore to her that he would do this.
Yet Hohenheim found himself setting Alphonse aside. His stomach rolled when the toddler clung to his sleeve. The boy fussed as his father detached himself, but Ed was quick to settle him. Hohenheim accepted the older boy's glare and sat by the window.
Trisha must have looked out this very glass, waiting for him to return home. Now he did the same, but he held no hope of her walking over the hill. Held no hope of successfully raising their boys as she had in his absence. Alphonse would grow to be resentful like his brother, and together their intolerance for him would spread to others.
He would fail as a father.
"Eat!"
There was a thud that shook the wood flooring. A tussle of blond heads with tiny fingers wrapped around the hair of one. Alphonse yanked, red faced, and Edward desperately tried freeing himself without hurting his brother or himself.
"Quit it, Al, I'm trying to help you. Let go!"
"Eat! I want to eat!"
Hohenheim crossed the room in three steps, and the power of his feet was enough to correct Alphonse's behavior before their father was upon them. The boy let go, looking remorseful only because of the potential of trouble. Edward rubbed at his sensitive scalp. Tears rimmed his own eyes, but he didn't dare let them fall. Not in front of his parent.
Hohenheim squat before is children. "Are you alright, Ed?"
Silence devoured the space around them. Edward rubbed at his inflamed wound, lips pursed, and kept his eyes trained on the old man.
Hohenheim held his breath, doubt itching at his lungs, fear pounding in his chest, and uncertainty blackening the edges of his vision.
The possibility of rejection ate him completely.
It was pathetic that this child's opinion of him mattered so much that it robbed him of his senses.
A child.
His child, flesh from his flesh. Bone from his bone. Hohenheim was rendered useless by an unwavering gaze that was a mirror to his own.
And Trisha wasn't here to mend any of it, but he had to try. He promised her.
His hand twitched when he reached for his son's head, hesitant, but Edward didn't pull away. His hair parted readily, and, finally, the child closed his watery gaze, dowsing the fire within. Hohenheim almost smiled.
This wasn't a shift in their relationship, just a son needing comfort from their parent and a reminder that all hope wasn't lost.
It would do for now.
As if sensing his thoughts, Edward jerked away, looking scalded. He inched closer to the organized array of toys, but didn't touch them, "Al is hungry," was all he said.
Hohenheim redirected his attention to Alphonse, who looked ready to wail again. He didn't need to be told twice, not that he needed to be told at all, but Edward's words sprung him into action.
Gathering the tot, he beckoned Ed to follow him out the door. And while the boy slipped on his shoes, his baby brother fiddled with the glasses on their father's burning face.
He felt so incompetent. So lost and embarrassed. He hoped his children didn't notice him stumbling his way through parenthood. He hoped that when Edward shook his hand away when he tried guiding him down to Pinako's, it wasn't because he was doing a bad job.
Hohenheim didn't speak during dinner. The kids were animated enough, and his input would sour their jest. He had plenty of thoughts, however, and when they were tucked away, Hohenheim sat at the foot of their makeshift bed in the living room.
"You will never be perfect," Pinako had said to him hours earlier. "Trisha was not perfect. Yuriy and Sara were not perfect."
She wasn't wrong. Trisha wasn't perfect, but Hohenheim saw how she'd been molding their children for greatness, and he had broken something in them when he left — even if Al didn't know it yet. Soon enough the younger boy would realize why his older brother recoiled from their father. Why Ed would no sooner acknowledge him as their father than he would drink milk.
And Hohenheim couldn't be mad at them for it. Couldn't blame them.
It would all crumble. It was just a matter of when.
a/n: if you've made it here, awesome! and thank you! a couple side notes, certain things have been changed to fit with this drabble series. i haven't thought them all through yet, but things should mostly be canon, so if you have any questions let me know. annnd that's all she wrote, folks. see you next time.