A/N: We are drawing close to the end, but fear not, this is not it. To Kryssa for making me feel like, not a pimp, but the Pimp. Also, beware the funky tense chances; perhaps it will reveal something about the source of this thread.


XXII. The Alchemologist II:

Alchemology

They say that there are whole cultures of people in the far south that won't let you take a photograph of them. They say those people believe that, by taking their picture, you are taking part of them, part of their soul.

It's a scary thing to consider. I mean, I've had my picture taken so many times, all my life. Pinako had albums filled with snapshots of me, all taken before I could even remember. So, does that mean that I've been giving out chunks of my soul all this time? What would that make me now? I don't feel like I'm lacking soul, though what that would feel like, I don't know for certain. I guess running low on soul would be like driving a car running on fumes, and you can really tell when your tank is running low. You can feel it.

But I don't feel anything.

So, I think, sure photographs might take a little bit of you every time, but what if there is no limit? What if – this sounds really crazy, I'm sure – what if we're infinite and we can give and give and give and never run out?

But I don't feel infinite. I don't feel anything.

Or maybe, there's a give and take to it. Every time someone takes my photograph, I do lose a piece of my soul, but what if, every time someone looks at that photograph, takes a second out of his or her busy day to stop and consider me, I get something back? His time and effort has to count for something. Everything counts for something.

I don't feel low. And I don't feel infinite. I feel up and down, like maybe there really is a constant exchange going on, and I've just got to ride the waves until the next time someone stops and remembers me.

Normally, I wouldn't talk about what happened. I'd think about it and lose sleep over it, but, well, I'd been living alone for a really long time, and I guess I was out of the habit of discussing things. Not that I thought telling anyone about what happened next would somehow diminish it, but, on the off chance that sharing what went on later that evening might actually siphon the soul out of the experience, I've got to hope that he's thinking about it, about me.

I heard his door close upstairs, and he must have sucked the air out of the room, because I felt hollow and gradually collapsing in. My heart was beating somewhere in my stomach, and felt the referred pulse all the way through my fingertips. My thoughts were oddly slow and rather simple. In fact, I couldn't really think about anything but that fact that Edward has just kissed me. Well, someone had just kissed me, and it really looked like Edward was the only other person in the room.

It was like a scrolling marquee in my mind. I realized after a moment that I was, in fact, reeling. I almost laughed. Edward hadn't made me reel in years. Really, not since – this made me laugh again in a sort of bitterly ironic and nostalgic way – the first time he kissed me. It was the first time anyone had kissed me, after which I hit him in the arm for taking my first kiss.

I think he was probably just curious what it was like to kiss someone and I was the only girl he knew outside of school. So, I'm sure to him, it only made sense to try it out on me. We were… eight, I think? Maybe seven, I don't recall. I remember Al was still Al – that's a horrible thing to say. Al was still in the flesh; I remember because he fell down and scraped his knee he was laughing so hard.

I whopped Edward hard. He had a bruise that he showed his mother when bargaining for a punishment for me. She, of course, didn't tell Pinako to punish me. In fact, she flicked him on the nose and told him not to kiss a girl without the girl's permission first.

Obviously, he didn't learn his lesson.

My first kiss, I told him, was supposed to be important. He said he didn't get it. I think he was being honest too, because he was a boy, and boys are stupid like that.

I can remember what I was thinking. I was pissed. But it wasn't just that my first kiss was taken by my stupid next-door neighbor while splashing in the mud after school and not a knight on a horse with money and chivalry and facial hair. It was that Ed didn't care. It really did not occur to him that you're only supposed to kiss certain people. Kissing is supposed to mean something.

I looked over at the kettle, cooling off the burner. A trickle of steam still rose halfheartedly out of the spout.

Kissing. Kissed. Edward kissed me. What did that mean? Somehow, I doubted his intentions were the same as they were when we were kids. He was just as awkward as he was then. For a kiss, it wasn't very tender or affectionate. Really, this graceless interaction in my kitchen wasn't much. Maybe he was just wondering what it was like to kiss me, like it might have changed since I was eight. His end of the exchange certainly hadn't changed much. Well, I can't imagine little eight-year-old Ed trying to put his tongue in my mouth, but other than that, it was the same.

What was he trying to do, trying to get by kissing me? What was I trying to get? It all started to seem really absurd, this whole mouth-tongue-lip thing that means so much to some of us and absolutely nothing to others.

But I didn't know what it meant to Edward, so I really couldn't make that assumption.

And he was leaving the next morning, bright and early. So, I thought as I watched the last of the steam fade out into the air, if I wanted to know, I would have the find out soon.

There was a creaking overhead. Ed had sat down on his bed. There was more creaking. He had probably just laid down.

I wondered again what Ed was getting at. Then again, how is a person supposed to react on the receiving end of a really misplaced and poorly timed declaration of love? It made me sort of wish that he had laughed at me or something, then I would know for certain that I was crazy and making up our relationship in my head. Now, with my senses reeling over something as simple as kissing, I couldn't tell what was really my imagination and what was Ed pushing back against the wall we'd built up between us.

I was so angry when he kissed me a decade prior. Why couldn't he be some other boy, any other boy? Even… even Al. If Al had kissed me, I wouldn't have been so angry. It just had to be Edward, the one stupid, stupid boy who, even then, I wanted more than anything to like me like I liked him. I didn't want anyone else to kiss me but him, but I would have given anything to make it someone else holding my hand and looking at me funny.

Why couldn't I mean something to him? Ever? Why, in my entire life, did I only want the one person who I knew, for a fact, did not want me back?

But then… why was he kissing me?

So many questions. And only one night to find the answers.

When I next looked up, I could see the horizon painted with gloaming through the kitchen window. The day had come to the point where turning on the lights would make things easier, but was not yet entirely necessary. So, with what was left of the daylight, I got up from my chair and headed toward the stairs. I made my way upstairs slowly. I didn't even thinking about skipping over the one step that creaked.

On the landing, I should have taken a right. I should have walked passed Pinako's old room, down the hall, and into my bedroom, where I should have changed into my pajamas, set my alarm so I could send Edward off, and gone to bed.

When I realized that I wasn't headed toward my bedroom, I was already standing outside Edward's door, wondering just how much he'd be willing to disclose in one night. Just how many answers could I pry out of him?

And I knew, before even knocking on the door that, even if it was as meaningless and experimental as that first, dumb kiss, that I was going to… going to… bargain with him. I was going to see if I couldn't give him a reason to stay.

I knocked and waited. If that wasn't the story of my life with Ed, I don't know what was.

I knocked again. From within, the bed creaked eventually, and two mismatched footfalls shuffled toward the door.

He opened the door about shoulder width and looked at me blankly. "Yeah?" he asked.

The moonlight spilled through the window into his room behind him. I thought detachedly that, if we weren't us, this might be romantic.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

He watched me motionlessly. His eyes stayed at my eyes, everything about him entirely still, and I could tell he was sifting through all the possible outcomes of my request.

I wanted to ask again, but I didn't. I told myself I wanted an answer, a definite, sure answer, and him closing the door in my face would be indicative enough.

It felt like we stood there staring at each other for five minutes before Edward pushed the door open wide enough for me to come in. He stayed leaning on the doorframe until I was inside, then he closed the door and turned to look at me.

Now my heart was fluttering in my throat. The blood pounded in my ears and just looking at him, knowing that it was nighttime and there was a bed behind me was making my knees shake.

"Well, what?" he asked, in his classic, aloof style.

That could have been an answer for me. Right there. Just that. But it wasn't the answer I wanted, and by that point, I was invested. My feet took me a step closer to him, and my mouth asked, "Do you already know what or do you really want me to answer?"

He swallowed. And I remembered him blushing and bumbling when I caught him staring at me earlier. This was still Edward, I told myself.

"What?" he asked again. "I've got to get up early tomorrow."

His voice cracked a little. I felt myself step closer. Ed moved back until he hit the door.

The look on his face – nothing like the look of curious determination he had when he first kissed me way back when– told me something I had not accounted for: Edward might not have an answer. I might be able to get the response I wanted depending on what I did.

And I knew what answer I wanted.

He clearly was not expecting me to… do what I did. I don't think I was expecting me to either. My hand found its way to his hand, and together they eventually make their way to my right breast.

I could see the moonlight reflecting off the whites of Edward's eyes.

"You've got time for this, don't you?" I asked, leaning closer.

He swallowed again and nodded.

Why is that, when you're kissing someone, it becomes your everything? It stops your world on its axis, and everything you are suddenly becomes a warm, wet medley of intimacy and starvation. Then, when you think about it later, it's just kissing. That mouth-tongue-lip thing.

We could have been a science experiment, a specimen of two really uncertain, terrified animals stumbling upon each other when they were actually looking for something else entirely.

I wish I could remember every detail. I want to recall every inch of skin, every breath, every word. I wish I could remember every painfully sweet, exquisite touch and fumble, but I can't. I remember it hurting. And I remember Edward not noticing that I was hurt until I hit him in the chest and told him to stop. And that should have bothered me, but it didn't.

I had my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to pass. I felt ripped open and impaled and angry because there was precious little time and I was wasting it. Tears even started to well in my eyes. Edward shifted his weight, and I had to grit my teeth.

Then, against everything I expected him to do, I felt a hand on my face. The back of somebody's flesh fingers brushed my cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Is there any… uh… should I…"

And with my eyes still closed, I started to laugh. I put my hand over his when he began to draw away.

"What's so funny?" he snapped.

When I looked at him, he was frowning so thoroughly, so childishly that I laughed again. He pulled his hand out of mine and put his knuckles into the mattress, leaning all his weight on his elbow by my shoulder.

"I'm glad you find this entertaining," he grumbled. "When I pictured this—uh," his cheeks turned bright red. "I mean, when I'd consider it—that is, the few times I—"

That was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard, but I wasn't very interested. The pain, by then, had subsided. Mostly, that pout, mouth contorted and brow furrowed, looked so much like the Edward I remembered. Right then, he didn't look like a young version of his father or an old version of himself. He looked like Ed. My Ed. The Ed I wanted him to be. I grabbed his face and kissed him so fiercely that he couldn't fight.

And even if the judges were biased, even if I had tilted the scale in my favor, this was the answer I wanted. This was not Edward having sex with me because he was curious what it was like and I was convenient at the time. This was mutual. This was me and the man I loved, naked at the stars, having the most honest, searching conversation we'd ever had. And Edward held on to me so tightly, said my name so adoringly.

I'd have given him anything then. I'd have given him a hundred first kisses in the mud, a thousand virginities. I'd put up with him breaking my automail; I'd overlook all the idiosyncrasies. Every word he spoke, every breath across my neck was another trespass forgiven, another bygone gone by.

Long nights spent sleepless and worn thin were nothing.

All the tears shed for pains and processes out of my control were finally just tears.

The miles of distance accumulated between the two of us were crossed.

All the edges and hems of me he had frayed seemed to heal.

Being a second priority for so long no longer ached.

All the history of him pushing too far and me hitting too hard melted away, and for the time, we just were. Blissfully, we were.

And then it was over. I was expecting fireworks and epiphanies, but there was just Edward gasping against my shoulder for a moment, and then his weight lifted. The mattress sank to my right as he rolled off me. The darkened ceiling filled my vision and the rest of me felt rather empty.

"Edward," I began.

I wondered if he felt a little guilty. I had heard my end of the deal was important to some men. "What?" Edward replied.

Clearly, he wasn't one of those men.

I decided not to care. Instead, I reached over and wrapped myself as tightly as I could around him. "I doubt I'll ever understand you," I said as I rested my temple against his sternum.

He snorted. "Be grateful."

"You weren't always like this, you know."

"Like what?"

I sat up a little and frowned at him. "Cold and indifferent."

"What?" He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Did I imagine it or did we just sleep together?"

He didn't get it. I swatted his side. "No. Shut up. I don't want to argue now."

Edward lay back down and folded his arms over his chest. "Fine. You're the one who brought it up."

I untied his arms and took up my previous position. "I know. Just shut up." Once we were both settled down, I added, "I think it's the alchemy."

He sighed. "What is?"

"Are all alchemists like you?"

I looked up at his face, which he turned away from me. I watched his eyes searching for something outside the window. After a hesitation, he replied softly. "Yep."

"Every last one of you?" I asked. Edward sighed again and I brought my hands up to the rest on his chest. I then put my chin on my wrists and waited for his answer.

"Every last one of us."

I laughed quietly. "Someone should study you. Alchemists, I mean. They should open up a lab just for studying alchemists. Maybe they could figure out what on earth is wrong with you all."

That made Edward smile. "I'll give 'em your name in Central. You'll be the first alchemologist."

"Me?" I asked. "Why?"

He looked at me. "You should be a pro."

I felt myself blush. "I've been studying one for years."

We both got quiet after that. I watched his eyes and he watched mine, and it wasn't awkward just to be quiet with him. I sighed and put my ear to his chest. His pulse was quiet and easy and hypnotic. I felt my eyelids slide closed, and without the distraction of the darkened room around us, I was swallowed up by the sound of his breath and heartbeat.

Inside his chest, I heard his breathing change, and I knew he was getting ready to say something.

"Look, Winry," he said.

"I don't want to look."

He was going to tell me that he was leaving anyway, that he had the ticket and he had the plans and that he couldn't interrupt them for me.

"I'm sorry," he said and put his hand on my shoulder.

And somehow, that made it all okay.

"Just," I started put paused. "Just wake me up before you leave, all right?"

"Okay."

In the nineteen, almost twenty years that I had known Edward, from the time that he ripped the heads off all my dolls, to the time I beat the snot out of him in summer camp, or the time he piggy-backed me to my house when I sprained my ankle, to the time he showed up on my doorstep, missing two limbs and one brother, or even the time he made every day of my life a little fuller and a little more painful, I had never been happier or more heartbroken at the same time.