All right, IKS here again, reminding you all once again that this is for the one and only lovely Captain Kase. And you should go read her stuff now, as I said in previous chapters! There are massive spoilers in here for Hohenheim and Dante, so if you don't want to be spoiled, shoo. This is my Hohenheim chapter, let's just say. Now, read on! I do hope that you all enjoy reading this! Definition courtesy of dictionary dot com.
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love ( P ) Pronunciation Key (luv)
n.

A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.

A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance.

Sexual passion.

Sexual intercourse.

A love affair.

An intense emotional attachment, as for a pet or treasured object.

A person who is the object of deep or intense affection or attraction; beloved. Often used as a term of endearment.

He had thought he loved before. He had whispered declarations of love into another's ear, felt another slick body against his, whispered another's name in his sleep, moaned another's name. He had been willing to do almost anything for another. He had thought he had loved before.

He had never loved before.

He didn't know why he didn't see her before. He crossed through the small town at least a thousand times, but sometime, about time, he saw her.

He knew what love felt like.

It wasn't the raw lust he had felt before, the unexplainable attraction, the want to run his hands over every curve of her body, although he had. It wasn't affection, it wasn't friendship, it wasn't that need he knew so well. It wasn't the touch of another human being, it wasn't attachment, it wasn't that deep, primal desire. He didn't know how to explain it.

Not the first time he saw her, nor the second time. Not even the twentieth time he was with her, their fingers dancing across each other, their hands clasped, their eyes locked. He thought that was love, but it wasn't. Not yet.

He loved her smile, he loved her face, he loved her eyes, he loved everything about her.

He found out how much he loved her the first time they had an argument. The reason of the argument didn't matter anymore. It only mattered that she wasn't there, with him.

She had slammed the door on him, in the place that he had stayed in for the longest time in his life, or so it seemed. Suddenly, he realized how utterly empty it was, how silent, how pathetically hungry he was for her touch.

He had always been alone before. What was different now?

From that day on, he knew what love was, regretting those tender declarations he had whispered in others' ears, regretted those moans, those sighs, those murmurs, those distant, shallow feelings so far away now.

He decided to live again, really live, and asked his lover to be his wife.

He vowed not to hurt her, ever, and the time came when he would hurt her by staying with her.

So he left, fled her, leaving her alone with two children, with his own eyes staring at her every day.

He left to save his lover, the first and last, and ended up slowly killing her with his eyes.

He wished that he never saw her, and felt only the raw lust he felt with Dante with her.

He wished he didn't kill her with his so called love.


This next one takes place at Hohenheim's meeting with Ed for the first time in years.
This couldn't be his son.

The words flew through Hohenheim's mind the first time he saw Ed in…Oh, how many years? It seemed as if it were just yesterday he had left, seemed as if it were a lifetime.

This boy, (Not a man, no matter how hard he tried to be, never a man,) couldn't, just couldn't be his son. His son was all round, brimming with vitality and optimism. His son's hair was short and soft, messy all over. His eyes were round, golden, sparkling, happy. Filled with love.

This boy was all angles, sharp in every corner. His hair was in a tight, organized braid, and just by looking at it, Hohenheim could tell that the ends were sharp and bristling. His eyes narrowed, clouded with a burden. Love was still there.

His boy looked at him with pride and love. His boy trusted him to carry him when his feet couldn't carry himself. His boy loved him with such a simple love that it made his heart ache whenever he looked at him. But now, his boy, his Edward, so full of light and love wasn't his anymore.

This boy stared at him with a hard hatred, a sorrow that shouldn't be there flickering underneath the hard exterior. This boy screamed obscenities at him, while his child counterpart had screeched at his Daddy for saying the word shit because Mommy didn't like it.

His boy wouldn't look at him with such hate, such despair, such pain in those eyes.

His boy wouldn't look so much like him.Hohenheim never wanted to see his son with such painful similarities to him.

This boy wasn't, couldn't be his son. But somehow, seeing how this boy acted around the ones he loved…

He could learn to love this boy. Even as a son.


Now, onto a Dante based one, simply because she doesn't get as much respect as she should.
He was with her for an eternity, forever, forever, it seemed. No matter where they went, no matter what they did, wherever she went, he lingered behind, smiling that smile – no matter what form he took, that smile never changed – and she smiled back.

Then, they went on to better things, higher things than petty emotions, higher than even themselves! Many died. Many, many, many, many, she had chanted, twirling around in a delighted circle. But that was okay. They were only humans. Him and her were much better, destined for great things. She never looked back for very long, only a glimpse from time to time.

But then she looked back.

And he was gone.

And, somehow, Dante knew that he never looked back for her.

"What is it?" She had cried out in that high, piercing voice that was used to a much more innocent words, "Is it my body? Do you not like it? I'm sorry; I always knew that you weren't fond of blondes. I can change. I can change."

There was never any answering voice.

Enraged, she was so damn enraged at him. Did he not whisper declarations of undying love in her ear? Did they not share their life, their heart, their bed? She knew his every emotion, every corner of his every body, his mannerisms, the smell of his perfume, and the smell of disintegrating flesh.

She had seen the man moan, whisper, laugh, cry; she had seen him at his tallest, happy with her. She had seen him at his weakest, down on the ground, hands filled with dirt and grit, tears and blood running down his face.

"Did I not make you happy?"

Didn't he tell her how he felt that need for warmth, for companionship, for love? Did he not still feel it?

She had tried filling up that gaping hole with men. So many, many, many, many of them. They never quite filled up that gaping hole, she found, but they never seemed to mind that the whispers and moans that she made in her half asleep states were always the name of another man.

She wore his perfume after he left, hoping he would come back and realize that she never forgot him. So many, many, many things happened, but time was not a precious thing when it came to her and him, and she could change for him. For Hohenheim, she could.

Then, finally, finally, she found out where he was. She planned to make an entrance, an extravagant entrance. She had chosen another body, a beautiful one. Dark shining ebony hair, flawless pearly skin without a tan, crystalline eyes that shined just right. Nice and tall, slender but not flat, just the way Hohenheim liked it.

She had looked in the mirror, smiling, oh, she couldn't stop smiling. She practiced her smiles, practiced dipping, practiced curtsying, practiced what she'd say to Hohenheim. Practiced her declarations of love. Dante was always an organized woman, not bothering to let petty emotions get in her way with anything, anyone. Except one.

Then she arrived, in the sweeping gown that so fit this body perfectly, every slender curve accentuated, and in that old style that he liked.

Then, she saw him with a woman.

Some lanky, ugly little thing, dirty, frizzy light brown hair tucked away in a frizzy messy braid. She had a scar right there, beside her temple. She was tall, too tall for her Hohenheim's liking; her dress was ugly and plain. Like a peasant! Was that a wrinkle?

Her heart dropped into her chest as she saw what they were laughing over.

A little, blonde haired thing, so tiny, golden eyes flashing fiercely with joy as he jumped into a small leaf pile.

Surely it shouldn't mean so much to her. She had shared her bed with many others before; why shouldn't Hohenheim do the same? But Hohenheim left her not the other way around.

What was that on their fingers? Were those…Wedding bands! They were wedding bands!

I've had many, many, many husbands before, she sternly reminded herself, how is this different? But she never stayed for too long, never had a goddamned child.

Tramp.

She would absolutely destroy that…That…

Bitch.

Her fists clenched in a way that was most unbecoming on her, and she wondered when it was that she couldn't control those purely human reflexes.

Whore.

She knew immediately that the woman must die, as all humans do. She knew that she could do it right then, right there, but seeing Hohenheim laugh like that, smile like that, that look of pure adoration on his face…

Didn't he once look upon her like that?

And the child! Oh, the child, all evidence of their relationship must be gone.

But he looked so much like Hohenheim. So clearly like Hohenheim. Like her Hohenheim, the only man she'd ever love, the only man that her heart ached for. But she had to kill him anyways.

I have to do preparations first, she told herself, I'm not beautiful enough to step in yet.

She knew in her heart that she was just scared of rejection, just wanted to watch Hohenheim, his perfume still lingering in the air, wanted to watch him smile like that.

Just a little longer, she thought, just a little longer…

Afterwards, how she had wished that she had killed the woman and child right there and be done with it.

How she wished she never let him go.

How she wished she had looked back.

She should've looked back…


Almost the last one, now! A little Ed ficlet.
She always said that he looked like his father. She being his Mother, of course. This always made him so, so proud as he boasted to everyone, "I look like my Papa!"

Of course, when he left, and only scattered memories and worn out photographs were left, he decided that no, he wasn't so proud of that fact. He had always wondered why the day before he left, she insisted that she took many, many pictures, (Which an ill-tempered Ed managed to scribble on, although the organized woman had copies.)

He hated how the man managed to stay in their lives well after he left them, all alone. It made Mama sad, which in turn made Al tearful, which made Ed grumpy. For that first little while after he left, he spent the majority of his days, (and occasionally nights if he was feeling particularly bothersome) in the corner.

He absolutely abhorred how when she looked down at him, her lips formed his father's name. He hated how his mother always reminded them of him, how she always made an extra serving at supper, just in case he came back, although Ed usually tried to eat it out of pure spite, just so that man wouldn't. He absolutely despised how whenever he tried out alchemy, she always quipped something about him truly being that man's child.

Then, hope drifted out of his Mama's eyes, and the portions that were supposed to be his father's slowly dwindled to nothing. The only thing that lit up her eyes was when Edward transmuted flowers for her. Later on, however, he realized…Her eyes lit up because they reminded her of him again.

Maybe he didn't hate him, but he hated that he left them, and he hated that he wouldn't see the spark in his Mama's eyes unless it was something special. He just didn't like that emptiness that never seemed to be fulfilled.

When his Mama was on her deathbed, her lips formed his name as she asked him to transmute flowers for her.

He hated that his Mama's last thoughts, last words, weren't that she loved them. She was, as she was for the last years, thinking about him.

And that's what stung most of all.


Finally the last one, on Pinako and Hohenheim, onceHohenheim comes back. Just my take on it, mind, since they never quite explained how he came in.
Pinako was looking at a newspaper article when he came.

He sauntered in, looking for all for the world as if he had only been gone for an hour to go to the supermarket. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a moment their eyes met – Pinako's full of fire and daring and his full of timeless wisdom – and for a moment they understood.

Pinako opened the door for him, not bothering to say petty things such as, "You look the same as ever," because he already knew it.

He didn't bother saying, "You look wonderful," because she didn't and they both knew that.

Instead, they stared at each other, and he smiled, and she frowned good naturedly.

Once all of the minor pleasantries were done, they got to business. (Minor pleasantries in Pinako's book was to say welcome, get in, sit down, have a glass of whatever you want and then I'll say whatever the hell I want to.)

"She waited for you," She accused, brows furrowed, deepening that already indented line, not bothering to say the words that they both knew were true. She was too good for you.

His posture said good-natured, relaxed, content middle aged man, but his face told a different story of sorrow, weariness, and the knowledge of things that man should not have to be burdened with.

"I knew she would." And you're right. But she chose me.

"Are you not even going to ask where she is?" Demanded Pinako, almost wanting to beat more sorrow into the already-weary man, just to make him feel what she felt, what his wife felt, what his children felt.

His voice cracked for a moment; "I know where she is."

"Where," lisped Pinako, "Where is the woman that waited for you as long as she could."

Hohenheim swallowed heavily, his voice took on an accusing, plaintive tone, those eyes seeming to shrink underneath sorrow, "You know where she is already, Pinako."

With an unpleasant jolt, Pinako recalled that that was exactly how Edward's eyes looked after he saw Al in that armor. "Say it," She said, firm in her ground. She couldn't back down now, although she regretted it.

All of the air seemed to seep out of the man's body, his face crumpling as he swept his arm in an arc in the direction of Pinako's window, "In the graveyard," He said. After a moment, his voice took on a husky quality before beating his chest, "And in here."

Pinako snorted loudly, not bothering to disguise what she felt at his blatant display which she knew was probably true. Standing up, topknot bristling furiously and beady eyes behind glasses gleaming, she demanded, "If she was in there for all this time, then why did you leave?"

Cold eyes regarded her silently, and honest regret lingered inside. He bowed his head, ignoring the fact that his glasses slid even further down the bridge of his nose, "You know, Pinako. You know."

Pinako stared back fiercely before springing to her feet. Hohenheim noticed that he was still taller than her even when he was still sitting. He wondered when Pinako, that shockingly blonde firecracker, full of spirit and recklessness became this shrunken old woman with her quiet dignity and her gray, gray hair.

Even with the way she sprung around, pretending to be spry as ever, she couldn't hide the slight tenderness to her actions, the way she let her hands shake as they clenched the handles of the chair. She was old. She was so, so, old, and yet he had far more years underneath his belt than she.

And yet, she was the one here, ready to die in a few years. What were a few years to a man who lived centuries? What was a minute to a person who lived a normal lifetime?

She watched him move in and out of town, going about his business time after time after time. Of course, she knew, of course she knew that he didn't seem to age. She kept her mouth shut though, and her eyes suspicious until he settled down with Trisha – that lovely girl, as Pinako called her – for good. At least, those were his intentions.

She had started to smoke, Hohenheim noticed as she puffed away at her pipe, chewing on the stem manically. She never used to smoke. Always claimed that it was a horrible habit.

Hohenheim wondered what it was that drove her to smoke. Probably, he realized with a pang, the loss of her child. Your child dying before you was a terrible, terrible thing…

He stood up as well, shaking his head slowly, "Pinako," He said gently, "That's enough. I feel terrible about it, if that makes you happy."

Pinako looked away, her voice low and scratchy as she muttered, "It doesn't, of course." Walking confidently over, she grabbed Hohenheim's wrist, "Hohenheim. You killed that woman. She was dead the minute you left her. The only time she came to life was for those two children of yours, that you left her all alone with. And if you even try hurting them, you will regret it."

Beady eyes stared fiercely into golden ones, and her hand tightened around his wrist. He brought it up to his eyes, observing the red marks that were left. He didn't doubt Pinako trying to hurt him.

I'm sorry, Pinako. I already have.


And there we have it! For my Hohenheim chapter, because he is such an underrated character, I find. :) Once again, this is for the one and only CaptainKase and you should go read her works. She is amazing with her Edo!Angst and Roy!Angst and Angst!Angst. This is for you, luffly. -sends love-

And as always, review, review, review. CaptainKase left me that lovely superbly, deliciously long and tickling review that made me get off my lazy ass and upload this. Although the fact that my internet connection is now working again might contribute to that, but I digress.

Reviews are welcome, and thanks to anyone reading!

IKS