[AN] I just want to thank everyone for the views thus far. Just to clarify for those who are uncertain to Edward's current age, he is now 16 (as of Chapter 1). I will leave you to do the math from there. Have a merry Christmas and enjoy chapter two! [/AN]
Chapter 2 – One Heck of a Mess
Closing the door quietly behind him, Edward glanced around the room. "Hey, Al? Are you in here?"
When he heard no reply, he proceeded to the kitchen to prepare his mother's dinner. He found Envy leaning against the countertop near the refrigerator. "Envy?" Edward asked in bewilderment as he looked around the kitchen. "Where's my dad?"
"Hoenheim is in town," Envy sighed. "He said he had to pick up a few things."
Edward's eyes darted around the room again. "Where's Alphonse?"
"Settle down, shrimpcake."
Edward shot a glare at the young man. Edward was thoroughly convinced the only reason Envy would remain living under the same roof as Hoenheim, and therefore continue to endure the cruel procedures, was so Envy could continue to torment Edward. He could find no other logical reason the man would remain there into his twenties when he could easily move out.
"Then where is he?" Edward repeated firmly.
"He's feeding the chickens."
When Edward moved to proceed preparing his mother's dinner, Envy stepped in his path. To answer the scowl he received, Envy said, "There's something you should know."
Edward withdrew a carton of eggs from the refrigerator, keeping his gaze on the man. "What is it?"
"I heard Hoenheim talking to Trisha a few days ago…"
Edward proceeded to pull a pan from a low cabinet and a fork from a nearby drawer. "So?"
"He said that some people have been snooping around lately."
"What about it?" Edward asked carefully.
Envy placed his hands on his hips exasperatedly. "Think, pipsqueak," he snapped. "What would happen if someone found her here?"
Edward blanched and stared at Envy, overlooking the insult for once in his life. "Where's he going to take her?"
"I don't know… probably really far so he isn't suspected. Either that or--"
"Don't," Edward begged. The possibility of his mother's death horrified him; although he knew her present state was, for all intents and purposes, the same as being dead. The mental image of her pale corpse sickened him; verbalizing the possibility would make the thought far too real.
Gripping the counter for stability, Edward slipped an empty sigh. He did not want Envy to know the extent the news disturbed him. "Does Al know?"
"If he knows, he didn't hear it from me," Envy replied. After a short pause, he asked, "Are you going to tell him?"
Edward looked out the window to see his younger brother trotting happily to the back door, leading to the kitchen. He could not answer Envy before Alphonse entered the room in a relatively pleasant mood.
Setting a metal bucket by the door, Alphonse announced, "We're going to need our jackets in the morning. Feels like it's going to frost tonight."
When he spotted his brother, Alphonse asked, "Are you feeling okay, brother? You look pale."
Edward moved slowly to crack two eggs in the pan. "I'm fine. Did you lock the chickens up for the night?"
Envy slipped out of the kitchen as Alphonse neared the refrigerator and drawled, "Yes." He returned the egg carton to the refrigerator to save his brother the effort.
"Hey, what do we have in there that you think Mom would like on her omelet?" Edward asked as he scrambled the eggs within the pan.
Scanning the contents like a library bookshelf, Alphonse named off, "Some cheese… ham… green peppers… onions… and I think that's it."
"Pull it all out," Edward instructed.
Although he followed orders, he proceeded to point out, "This is a lot of food, Ed… won't Dad get mad if he finds out?"
He shook his head. "I'm not hungry; she will just be eating what I would."
Alphonse began to saw at the ham while Edward peeled and sliced an onion. The stove was set on a low heat so the boys were not rushed to prepare the additional ingredients. The two did not speak while cooking until Alphonse heard his brother sniffle.
"Are you okay?"
Edward looked up at his brother with a smile and tears streaming down his cheeks. "Yeah, I'm fine," he assured. "It's just the onion."
He stared at the tearful eyes intently. "Is something wrong?"
Brushing the onion pieces into a bowl from the cutting board, Edward replied, "Hell, no! You're starting to sound like Winry!"
When Edward reached for the green pepper, Alphonse snatched the vegetable away. "Nevermind the pepper: it might be too strong for her with the onion," Alphonse decided.
Edward continued making the omelet using the ingredients he and his brother prepared, and he waited to feed the dish to his mother so the food would not scorch her mouth. He proceeded to the living room and watched the familiar scene before him: Trisha sat in a rocking chair by the window, far enough away from the glass in case a visitor arrived so she could not be seen. The lace curtains were closed to add to the process of hiding her presence but still allowed her to blankly stare out. She did not acknowledge his approach.
"Hey, Mom," Edward greeted with a fond smile. "I have your supper."
He sat in his chair next to hers, and he balanced the plate in his lap while laying a cloth napkin across his mother's legs. "I made you an omelet since I know you like them. Al helped me with it."
Using the fork to cut the omelet into small pieces, Edward speared the first morsel to lift neatly to Trisha's mouth. Once he pressed the food to her lips, she opened her mouth robotically to accept the nourishment. The act continued until the final ounce was devoured, and Edward used the napkin to gently wipe away any food around her mouth that had strayed during the meal.
"There," he announced softly. "All done."
He observed her blank expression intently. Picturing her beautiful smiles that used to warm his core like the sun against his skin on a summer day, Edward felt a ghost of the vivid sensation creep under his skin; he smiled faintly.
"Hey, I have something to show you," he declared. Retreating for his school bag, he yanked out a piece of paper and cut the extra space off to create a square before he returned to his mother's side. Though she showed no interest, he proceeded to fold the paper carefully until a messy rose remained.
"It's not very good yet… I need more practice… but what do you think of it?" he asked as he held the rose in her line of sight.
She did not respond.
Edward lowered the flower and tucked the stem inside her grasp. "Here, you keep it."
The front door opened and Edward stiffened instinctively. He turned to see his father removing a scarf to hang on a wall hook. "Edward," he barked crisply, "I need you in the lab in five minutes to check your hand."
"Okay," he replied in a near-whisper.
His pulse quickened as he anticipated the night's procedure. Edward rubbed his left hand anxiously in front of his chest and drew a shaky breath. Standing from his seat, he closed his arms around his mother snugly for a moment and released.
"Good night, Mom," he muttered before dragging his feet to the stairs, listening to Alphonse enter the living room behind him to accompany Trisha and eat his dinner.
Edward closed the laboratory door as he entered and occupied the seat he knew, from routine, the procedure would occur in. The previous day's tools had been sanitized and sat neatly in a tray beside the chair. Edward removed his gloves and rolled up his left sleeve to allow full access to the hand, stuffing the gloves into his pocket.
Hoenheim sat in his seat across from Edward, jotting down a few notes on a bundle of paper attached to a clipboard. He caught a glimpse of the bruising on Edward's hand amidst his writing. "Trouble in school again?"
"Yes," he muttered.
The man nodded slowly as he ended his note and set down the clipboard, but he did not reply. He reached for his son's hand, examining closely. "The swelling isn't draining…" Hoenheim noted aloud.
Edward closed his eyes to avoid watching the procedure. He listened to the light clanging of metal before he felt the stitches slink painfully out of his skin. Draining pus dripped down his hand and he heard his father mutter a comment to himself with the sounds of a pen scratching notes to paper. A cool liquid began to pour over his skin, immediately followed by intense burning. The stench of pus and rubbing alcohol invaded his nose. As the alcohol settled in the infected tissue, the pain grew and Edward hissed, clenching his right hand. The burning died away moments later as water flushed out the chemical.
"Move your fingers so I can see the joints," Hoenheim commanded.
Flexing the fingers of his left hand carefully through the haze of pain, Edward attempted to picture himself anywhere but within the laboratory.
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Edward stared out the window to avoid the lecture concerning his incomplete homework as Falman approached his desk. As a result, he did not see the ruler in the man's hand and was not prepared for the assault on his hand. Upon impact, Edward yelped and jerked his hand to his chest protectively.
While Falman returned to the front of the classroom, Alfonse noticed his friend's agonized expression and whispered, "Hey, are you okay?"
Cradling his hand, Edward did not respond. He clenched his eyes shut against the pain.
Alfonse glimpsed red liquid seeping through the white cloth of Edward's gloves, and Alfonse glanced to the instructor. The man opened his mouth to begin the lesson; Alfonse stood and interjected, "Excuse us, sir."
Falman blinked rapidly, stunned for a moment at the usually-quiet student.
Without waiting for a reply, Alfonse strode to Edward's desk and dragged him into the hall by the elbow. Once satisfied with the distance from the classroom, he released his friend and folded his arms firmly. "Go to the infirmary," he ordered.
"I'm fine," Edward bit through his teeth.
Alfonse glared stubbornly. "Either you go back and get your hand smacked twice as hard for leaving, go to the infirmary, or I'll make you go," he declared.
After a moment of staring pensively into space, Edward found his friend gripping the back of Edward's neck firmly to guide him to the infirmary. Alfonse scoffed softly, "You are so stubborn!"
During the course of the journey, Edward continued to insist he was not injured until shoved inside the small office. A man, possibly in his 60s or 70s, squinted up at the two with a smile. His black hair had little streaks of white and grey above his ears highlighting the deepening wrinkles on his square face. Upon his desk shined an aging name plate that read: Dr. Timothy Marcoh.
"Hey, boys," the man welcomed warmly, "What can I do for you?"
Edward hid his left hand with his right, holding the hand to his chest protectively. He stared at the floor quietly, unwilling to reveal his injury.
The man smirked teasingly. "Did that Tringham boy say something about your height again?"
"It wasn't a fight," Alfonse replied. With a glance at his friend, he continued slowly, "I… Actually, I don't really know what it was…" He dragged Edward forward. "His hand's bleeding."
"I'm fine," Edward growled under his breath.
Nonetheless, Alfonse pulled his friend to sit on the brown cot-like bed and backed away to allow the doctor access. Doctor Marcoh trotted to the high cot and pried the hand from Edward's chest. The blood had spread through the cloth, so the man tugged on a pair of rubber gloves to handle the injury.
Doctor Marcoh peeled the glove away slowly and carefully. Back facing Alfonse, he ordered, "Get the principal, please, Alfonse. Tell him to come to my office and then go back to class."
When the student left, the doctor finished removing the glove to set aside. He sighed and furrowed his eyebrows. "You have one heck of a mess here this time, Ed."
The ripped skin gaped with the stitches clinging to the flesh in desperate attempt to remain closed. The muscle and bone peeked through the blood eerily in the fluorescent lighting. The stench of pus sickened the doctor, despite how often he met the odor in his experience. He glanced to the student's face, surprised the boy appeared unaffected by the smell.
He knew he would not receive an honest reply if he asked the cut's origin, so he asked, "How did this open up?"
"I didn't finish my homework for Falman's class," Edward muttered casually.
"These have to come out," the man noted aloud. Doctor Marcoh stood to retrieve a series of little metal instruments to remove and replace the stitches.
The principal entered while Doctor Marcoh was retrieving chemicals to clean the site. "What do you need, Tim?" Mustang asked.
"Roy, I'm glad you're here," he replied, "Come look at this."
Mustang followed the doctor to where Edward sat without paying attention to the boy's presence. Although the sight surprised him, Mustang did not falter. He peered over Doctor Marcoh's shoulder to watch him work on Edward's hand. He observed intently like a student learning the trade.
"That looks painful," Mustang noted. "Do you think he should have some antibiotics for that?"
The doctor nodded while plucking out the stitches delicately. As he proceeded, he asked, "Holding up all right, Ed?"
Mustang watched the boy's face twitch into a brief grimace at each pluck; Edward attempted to force his face to remain neutral despite the pain. "I'm fine," Edward replied flatly.
While he watched, Mustang studied the injury closely. The cuts rested in a single straight line, differing from the cuts he saw the day before. The healing progress appeared to have reversed, save the new injury. He was utterly bewildered to how such an occurrence was possible. How could an injury's healing process reverse?
He concluded that, logically, the incision must have been done intentionally. By Edward's reactions to the pain, he knew the boy could not be a masochist; and the marks did not match the pattern of attempted suicide.
"Edward," Mustang asked as he straightened. "Who has been cutting your hand?"
"What?"
"Who's been cutting your hand?" he repeated.
Edward blinked as if amazed the man would reached such a conclusion. He stared at his principal, consciously preventing his jaw from falling agape in shock. His gaze drifted from Mustang to Marcoh and returned to Mustang. "No one," he replied.
"Are you being bullied?"
"No."
"Is someone hurting you?"
"No!"
"Do you like the attention or someth--?"
Edward stood abruptly, tightening his hands to fists. The hands froze above waist-level in his advance as he remembered the position his would-be opponent held if he were to proceed. He breathed through his nose while his blood raced through his veins, ready for action. The wound in his hand began to throb, forcing him to loosen the fist for comfort.
Meanwhile Mustang stood calmly, unmoved by the advance as he would not be intimidated by a snarky student. He realized he had pushed a psychological button within the boy, but he needed to uncover the exact cause for the reaction. He remained silent and observant until Edward deflated to his seat.
"I'll go fill out the paperwork," Mustang announced as he turned. "Tim, give him something to prevent scarring, too. That looks like a doozy."