Writing Prompt #5:
Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture.
"Mommy! Daddy!" Edward called as he ran to his parents. He was just a young two-year old who had realized how much fun running was. Trisha held one-year old Alphonse in her arms.
"What do you have, sweetheart?" Trisha asked when Edward reached her, holding his hands closed.
"A snail!" Edward exclaimed, opening his hands to reveal the small snail.
"That is very impressive, Edward," Hohenheim spoke. He couldn't mask his feelings for his children. The man felt immense pride for anything his kids did; whether it was Alphonse coloring a paper or Edward making it to the bathroom on time.
"Can I keep it?" Edward asked. Trisha stopped herself from sighing. Her and Hohenheim both knew that wouldn't be a good idea.
"Honey, I don't think so," Trisha answered. "Would you like to be kept in the house all the time with no fresh air?" Edward shook his head. "Why don't you let the snail play?" Trisha suggested.
Edward nodded. He let the snail go onto a leaf before climbing in Hohenheim's lap with no warning. It was like that with kids.
Hohenheim smiled and smelled his toddler son's hair. He smelled like Trisha and old soap.
"I love you, daddy," Ed spoke softly.
"I love you too, Ed," Hohenheim responded, using the nickname Trisha had thought up. "I love all of my family."
Hohenheim's eyes opened suddenly and he looked through his surroundings. Germany. Again. Hohenheim skimmed through his wallet and pulled out the only photograph of the Trisha on this side of the gate. What a tortured soul he was.
"Professor Hohenheim!" called out the Edward of this side. They were living together, and while Hohenheim had found Edward and Trisha, he had yet to find Alphonse. Perhaps he never would. "I've got breakfast ready!"
Yes; what a tortured soul he was.