A/N: I LIVE! My apologies, friends. I've been traveling outside of the country (to a land of limited internet access) and realized as soon as I arrived that I completely forgot to post here and let people know I'd be gone. So sorry! But I'm back now, and already working away (be patient with me, Asylum fans...I'm almost done!). Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck with me this far (I can't even believe that this story has been running for twenty-eight chapters). I truly treasure all of your love and support. MY LOVE FOR YOU IS LIKE A TRUCK (snerk. Berserk bloopers).
This installment was inspired by the episode "Hohenheim of Light", from the original series. In which Ed punches his father immediately upon seeing him, but then calmly rejects him later on. My brain ingested it, and then went, "Our pipsqueak? Calmly address the man he hates without saying his piece first? Nawwwww". Cue snowball.
Keep in mind while reading this: Alphonse is sweet and soft, of course. But he's not stupid, and he's not perfectly altruistic. At least in my interpretation of him.
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from the writing of this story.
The Importance of Possessive Nouns
Edward Elric was angry.
This wasn't anything new, of course. The Fullmetal Alchemist was famed for his varying flavors of fury, ranging from the comparatively mild "Roy Mustang is a Slut-Bastard Colonel Who Only Wishes He Could Tell Me What to Do" to the full-blown, rage-fueled attacks of "SOMEONE CALLED ME TINY KILL EVERYONE IN IMMEDIATE VICINITY". Those who worked with and around the eldest Elric had developed a certain adeptness at knowing when to merely step back from the boy's spastic screaming, and when to actually abandon the area in which the alchemist unleashed his anger, preferably as fast as possible and potentially all the way to Eastern Command Headquarters.
But fewer soldiers were familiar with Edward's more serious shades of anger. For all that he truly failed at deceptive maneuvers, Fullmetal excelled at hiding the things that actually mattered to him. And so his true anger, the kind that darkened his eyes and shadowed his face, was barely seen and even then only by those who knew him best. Only the most important things triggered it; wreckage that blocked the road leading to his ultimate goal, reminders of his mother, mentions of his brother's metal frame. And once it was activated, usually Edward either needed a good fight or an intellectual distraction to chase it away.
Unfortunately for Hohenheim of Light, the anger his eldest son produced at the confirmation of his presence was apparently too deeply rooted and multi-leveled to be cleared away by a single vicious punch to the face.
So, Edward was angry. Skulking around Granny Pinako's house with a permanent sneer fixed on his lips and a horrible sadness in his eyes. The others might not have noticed the sadness, trapped as it was behind the towering anger and curls of contempt. But Alphonse Elric knew his brother better than anybody ever could, and years of stillness enforced by his metal suit had only enhanced his talent for seeing.
There was hurt there, reflected in those golden eyes. Pain and betrayal, unspoken shouts of where have you been and why did you leave us and I wanted you with me, once. Al could read them as easily as book pages. And because his brother's pain was important (everything) to him, he squashed his own urge to seek comfort from his father's arms and held himself back instead. He holed himself up in a convenient corner, and observed the uncomfortable dance executing itself inside Granny Pinako's house.
Brother was the main act, the star in the spotlight, stomping and storming and drawing attention with his obvious anger. Alphonse twisted his giant hands together at the sight of him and forced himself to stillness, in spite of his instinctive urge to soothe.
Their father was the counterbalance, the mirror to Brother's furious steps. Sitting serenely at Granny Pinako's kitchen table, he chatted quietly with the older woman, his hands wrapped around a mug of warm tea and his golden eyes soft and unbothered. Al didn't let his eyes linger there too long, because the sight of his father filled him with an upsetting thunderstorm of joy, and confusion, and the tiniest spark of anger that he absolutely would never own to.
The others acted as the ensemble dancers, spinning uncertainly between the two leads with fake smiles and cautious eyes (with the notable exception of Maria Ross, who was instead sitting on the couch and doing her level best to pretend that she hadn't been caught hitting on Papa Elric).
Al wanted to talk to his father. He really, really wanted to talk to his father. And he kind of wanted to do it while his father still had all of his teeth attached (Ed's initial "oh hi, nice to see you" punch had knocked their father flat onto his back, and coaxed little silver stars into spinning above his face). But loyalty to his Brother had him hanging back; Ed wasn't entirely wrong in hammering home the fact that their father had been away right when they'd needed him most. Al wanted to hear his father's side of the story, wanted to hear his reasons for staying away, something he knew Ed wanted to know just as badly, but could never ask. But Brother looked one paternal word away from blowing like a dynamite infused field, and Al's heart may have been soft and sad and searching, but it also acknowledged that Brother had been there when warm fatherly arms hadn't.
He had to make sure Ed was okay first, because he knew he was going to hurt him later by deciding to spend time with their father at all.
So Al settled back, and watched. Waited patiently, and ignored the warmly concerned looks flashed in his direction by older golden eyes. His nonexistent stomach twisted sharply at the sight of them, and he felt the tears he couldn't shed building like a hot, wet wave inside his heart.
Granny Pinako's house wasn't big. There was only so much room to dance in, especially with so many bodies executing the same steps. The Colonel's men all did their best to distract the teenaged alchemist, but Breda appeared to find the obvious emotionalism of the issue uncomfortable, and Falman never did have much to say, even under normal circumstances. Hawkeye did a little better, speaking low and soft to the elder boy until something momentarily softened in those angry golden eyes, but even she couldn't quell the storm of fury bubbling under Brother's surface.
They all wandered away eventually, defeated. But Al would have smiled at them anyway, if he could. For trying. For being the support system that Ed needed, and deserved, even if Brother believed (wrongly, Al insisted fiercely, so wrong) that he didn't deserve anything, ever again.
Winry might have been able to do better, to engage Ed in sharp words and soft smiles until Brother breathed a little easier. But she looked just as close to breaking as Brother did, pale-faced and sad, because Hohenheim called her by a different name, and Winry didn't remember well enough to see what he did. Al would go to her too, when the time was right, because watching her stare with glassy eyes and grip old picture frames in her palms made his already hurting heart ache.
So Ed stomped around mostly unchecked, his shoulders twitching tighter and tighter by the second, until everyone around him started to look like abandoning the field might be for the best.
There was someone, Alphonse knew, outside of himself that could settle his brother with nothing more than a word. But he'd disappeared a while back, Granny Pinako's telephone in hand, and so Alphonse was left to soothe the situation on his own.
He didn't mind. Living with Ed meant living with temper, and hot waves of emotion that crashed and changed as easily as ocean tides. Brother's heart was just too big and his feelings so easily stirred, not that he'd ever, ever admit it. Alphonse knew that, between the two of them, he carried the reputation for soft-heartedness. But that was only because hardly anyone bothered to breach the rock solid walls Ed had constructed around his own emotions, walls that hid the fact that Fullmetal was just as capable of feeling as his younger brother.
A necessity, Alphonse knew. Another sacrifice Brother had made for his sake. Crushing his own softness with rock and stone, so that Alphonse would never have to make the impossible choices. Another reason why Alphonse would insist, until the very end, that Brother owed him nothing, that the fault was shared, that Ed had given enough, stop tipping the scales, I want you to live your own life, Brother, and not the one you think you stole from me.
So, Alphonse watched. And waited. And sighed when things finally hit boiling point. Granny Pinako shooed their father out of the kitchen, because the house wasn't that big, and she had people to feed. Hohenheim meandered away from the table, into the main room, his eyes soft and steady as he stepped (accidentally, Al was almost sure) into Ed's pacing path. Ed recoiled instantly, his fists snapping tight like gunshots.
"Watch it, old man," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "You're in my way."
Hohenheim's smile was gentle. Warm. Al knew his brother saw it as nothing more than a silent scream of challenge.
"I'm your father, Edward," he said. "I'm supposed to be in your way, aren't I?"
The fury in Ed's eyes roared and popped like fireworks. The air inside Granny Pinako's house hushed, still and silent. Every eye turned toward the inevitable.
"A father," Ed repeated, and a noise that might have been a smothered sound of disbelief, might have been a strangled shriek of fury, inched its way out of his throat. "You think you're a father? Quit claiming titles that don't belong to you, old man. Dads don't leave their kids, Dads stick around. Or did you miss that part in the instruction manual?"
"You're so angry, Edward," Hohenheim murmured, and his eyes were sad now, and full of sorrow. "You've a right to be, I won't deny you that. But is your temper really the only way you remember me?"
"A turned back," Ed hissed. "That's how I remember you. A suitcase, and turned shoulders."
The sorrow in their father's eyes was thick now, and heavy. Perhaps he was remembering days full of sunshine and family dinners that Ed couldn't, or refused to, recall. Al didn't know, wasn't sure, because he was too young, and the only memory he had of their father was the sound of a warm and rumbling voice.
"I had things to do. Important things. It's not an excuse, Edward; I know that. But it could be an explanation, if you'd listen."
Al would have listened. Would have sighed and stopped and given their father the chance to explain. Not because he was so forgiving. But because he could see, even beyond his hurt and confusion, that this was a parent, the only one they had left.
But Ed's anger ran too thick, and too deep. He couldn't see anything at all beyond his fury.
"I don't want your explanations," he spat. "Nothing you say could ever make up for what you missed. For what you made Mom suffer through alone."
An audible gasp filled the room, quickly smothered. The Elrics rarely spoke of their mother, and even then, never in detail. Most assumed, correctly so, that the horror and grief of it was still too fresh, even after all the years spent since her death.
Alphonse felt his metal body sag, slump against the wall behind him. Physical pain may have been lost to him, but the wound of his mother's face went deeper than skin and bone.
"I loved your mother," Hohenheim said, softly now.
"You let her die alone." Ed was trembling, his entire body shivering, shoulders bowed and bent under the combined weight of his anger and pain. "You let her die waiting for you, always waiting and smiling and telling us stupid lies. She…she was so weak at the end, and in so much pain, and she needed you, we needed you."
Horror painted the face of every occupant in the room, including Ed. Secrets that he'd never meant to share were bubbling to the surface now, and he couldn't stop them. Could only speak faster and faster as his fury and the desperation he thought he'd buried shoved them to the surface. Words rough and grated, compressed by the pressure of years spent holding them back.
Al pushed away from his wall, because his brother needed him now, really needed him. Only to be forced into stillness, because Ed was still talking.
"We needed you, and we were so scared, and she just kept slipping away from us and there was nothing we could do. We were kids, just kids, we never should have had to deal with that on our own. You should have been there, but you weren't, and you never answered when we asked for help. Begged you, you bastard. Begged and pleaded and Alphonse used to cry all over the letters he wrote, and I know you saw it, and you still didn't answer."
Ed's voice was starting to hitch dangerously. His eyes were wide and furious and full of panic, Alphonse knew, because he was so afraid he'd cry in front of the people he'd been so strong for. He'd stripped himself back to the frightened child in a matter of seconds, and it horrified him that these questions still existed inside him at all.
Falman and Breda were gaping, mouths open and eyes wide, stunned by the fury of the storm. Riza's eyes were hard and fixed, refusing to look away. Granny Pinako's head was bowed, her mouth pressed together tight. Winry was weeping quietly in the corner, tears rolling soft and sad down both her and Schiezka's cheeks, distraught by the unwilling picture Ed was painting.
"Brother," Al whispered, frozen halfway across the room, everything inside of him ringing with pain, bright and sharp.
"We waited so long." Ed wasn't done, didn't look like he'd ever be done. "Even after Mom…even after…we still waited. But you never showed, you never came back for us, and I…I-"
A rough hand clamped down on Edward's shoulder, slapping off his angry words like an alarm clock.
"Fullmetal," Mustang murmured, dark eyes steady and sure. "Enough."
For a moment, there was only silence. Fallout. Then, Ed sucked in air like knives shredding fabric.
"Bastard," he said shakily. Unsteady, unsure. "He…I…"
Mustang shook his head. Alphonse could see his brother's eyes, so wide, searching the Colonel's face.
"Enough," Mustang murmured.
And Ed subsided. Settled under the Colonel's hand.
"They can hear you all the way back in Central, kid," Mustang added, and when Ed's eyes snapped up to his, he let that familiar smirk slide across his face.
Fire kindled once again in Edward's eyes. But the flames were clean. Simple. They swept away the remnants of pain, and panic.
Everyone in the room, including Alphonse, breathed a little easier.
"Pffft. Whatever, asshole. We're not inside your fancy office anymore, are we? Which means I don't have to listen to your big, bastard mouth."
"Remember that one time, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked airily. "When you signed that binding military contract, swearing your allegiance to your superior officers? Remember how I outrank you, and so you always have to listen to me, ever?"
"Oh, that's adorable. How you think I've listened to you even once in my life. Like, just really precious."
Their words were quick and vicious, which was pretty average, but there was a laugh caught in Ed's throat now, instead of sadder noises. And he still hadn't shaken Mustang's hand away.
Alphonse breathed a sigh of relief, and returned to his wall. Because he wasn't needed anymore.
"Edward," their father said uneasily, and his eyes were fixed on Mustang's hand, locked so tight around his eldest's son shoulder. "I…you must believe…I never meant to cause you or your brother pain. I never intended to hurt my family."
"Sir," Mustang said, speaking quickly because Ed's mouth was already open and ready to reply. "I'd recommend saving your breath. I mean, we both know how hard-headed the kid here can be, right?"
But the Colonel's eyes flashed when he said it, and Al interpreted his unspoken message with ease.
I know he's hard-headed. I do, because I was here. But you don't know for sure, do you?
By the way his father's eyes had narrowed, Al wasn't the only one receiving Mustang's silent code, or the deeper meaning behind it.
Not Yours, Mustang's friendly smile explained. Not anymore, maybe never, not Yours.
And while Al assumed the Colonel actually meant to portray Ed's belonging as equal to the other soldiers in his squad, under his protection and nothing more, what he actually implied was something Al already knew, and had seen on many occasions between his brother and the Colonel.
What the Mustang's tight hold and easy smile actually imparted to their father was a much simpler message.
Mine.
It wasn't always obvious between the two. In fact, Al believed Ed was never actually aware of it, at least not consciously, because his waking mind refused to even entertain it as an option. Just as Al was equally convinced that the Colonel recognized it all the time, from the very beginning, and yet would never own to it out loud.
And yet, he was using it now. Blatantly, deliberately. And while Brother may have remained unaware (but on the surface only, because Al certainly hadn't missed the way Ed had unconsciously crowded close to the Colonel's side), recognition sparked across the rest of the room. Soft smiles were pressed behind palms, warm eyes were turned down toward the floor. And their father's face went as blank and unreadable as stone.
"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, of course."
Mustang hummed a little in agreement, and then gave Ed's shoulder a yank.
"Come on, Fullmetal. The holes in your mission report are big enough fit a city, and it's time you filled them in for me."
"Oh, seriously? You always bitch about my mission reports. And when have I ever fixed them for you before?"
"There's this thing. It's called, 'The Situation We Are Currently in Is So Much More Serious than Your Typical Crap Performance'. There's your motivation."
"Oh, shut up, you jerk, I know that so much better than you do. And it's the principle of it, you know?"
The sound of the bickering carried them comfortably out of the room. And stranded those left behind on an island of awkward silence, in which everyone pretended they weren't staring at Hohenheim, or Alphonse, or some combination of the two.
The quick, searching glance his father shot in his direction beat against Alphonse's insides like battering rams.
"Well," Hohenheim said, and what a great actor he was, that warm smile was almost completely credible. "I believe I could use some fresh air. Excuse me."
He slipped out the door, onto Granny Pinako's deck, and Al let him go. He ducked his head and struggled viciously against his own internal monologue.
It's good. It is good that Brother has the Colonel, that he's not alone. Brother needs that, more than he'd ever admit out loud. I'm happy for him, really.
It was true. Jealousy didn't exist inside Alphonse's mind, not where his brother was concerned.
But…
If Al had eyes, he would have squeezed them shut tight.
But what about me?
He hated the thought as soon as he had it. It was petty, and selfish, and had no place bouncing around his metal skull. He didn't begrudge his brother for finding a father-figure in the Colonel. Al was incapable of resenting his brother for something that so obviously brought him comfort. Stupid to feel left out, left behind.
But.
It didn't make him any less aware of his own loneliness. He'd never had the chance to know their actual father, not even a little bit. Al craved connection, especially after years trapped inside his metal frame. His father would remember him as something warm, something inarguably real, and Al wanted that, wanted someone other than Ed affirm his existence.
Brother could never know that he felt like this. Ed carried so much on his shoulders already, crippled himself with weight all for the sake of Alphonse. Al would never let himself be responsible for adding more. Ed deserved any happiness he could find, because Al knew he'd snatch it away from himself in a heartbeat if ever he thought if hurt his brother.
But Al wasn't perfect. Even though it made his insides twist with something that felt like disloyalty, he still wanted to know his father. Ed was enough, of course he was. But Brother had Mustang, and so Al didn't have to worry so much about hurting his feelings in his quest for more.
He shoved away from the wall, and exited toward the deck, ignoring the eyes that followed him. Moonbeams bounced off of his metal plates as he shut the door at his back, secluding himself in silence with his father.
"Alphonse," Hohenheim said. "You followed me out?"
"Yes." Something like jagged desperation lanced across Alphonse's mind. "Dad. I-"
Need you to show me that I'm here, that I exist. Because Ed can move forward and find more (not his fault, not his fault) but the only proof I can find is in what came before. They don't want me, I'm not real to them, but I was to you once, so please, Dad, please-
"Al? Everything alright?"
For one startled, semi-confused second, Al was sure it was his father that had spoken. Until he felt the impact of a hand hitting his shoulder.
"Colonel," Hohenheim said, with some weariness this time. "Weren't you with my other son?"
Mustang smiled, and never stepped away from Alphonse's back.
Alphonse felt his desperate pleas crumble and crack away, whited out by the wave of his shock.
"Edward is re-writing his mission report, and probably busy scribbling unflattering cartoon depictions of my person into the margins as we speak. Making sure my head is drawn accurately according to Edward's scale will keep him occupied for at least fifteen minutes."
"You certainly seem to know him well."
"Yes, well. Fullmetal is sort of like a really powerful firework. He makes fun colors when he explodes, but he needs someone to show him where to launch. I offer him my guidance, and hope that whatever he doesn't slap back at me actually sinks into that impressively thick skull of his."
It was a slap, another cleverly worded dig, but Alphonse hardly heard it. His entire concentration seemed to have narrowed to include only the hand, resting so casually on the upper plates of his arm. So lazily possessive.
A claiming. Exactly like Ed's.
Mine.
And Al could only gasp in the face of it, because he hadn't known, had never dreamed, that he'd found belonging here for himself as well.
The desperation building inside his chest plate drifted away on clouds of wonder.
"And, my other son?" Hohenheim asked. "He requires this guidance as well?"
Mustang laughed. It wasn't necessarily a nice sound, so much as a wordless warning.
"Well, no. No one requires guidance like Edward. But I always look after my people, no matter how much guidance they need."
My people.
Mine.
"Go on inside, Alphonse," Mustang murmured, knocking his knuckles gently against Al's armor. "I'd like to speak to your father alone, and I believe Miss Rockbell was looking for you."
"Um." Al almost didn't want to move, not away from that warm and welcoming hand. But the Colonel's eyes were serious, and set. "Sure, okay. Thanks, Colonel."
Both men waited until Al had scooted back inside the doorway before speaking. But as the door shut at his back, Al heard his father's voice.
"You've taken my sons from me, Mustang."
Al paused, stricken. He didn't want his dad to hurt, still wanted to know the man responsible for his existence. His dad didn't sound angry, more resigned, and maybe sad, but still…
"You gave them to my care yourself, Hohenheim," Mustang countered quietly.
And that warm feeling was back, filling Al's armor, heavy and swollen. Because neither man was referring to Edward alone.
Sons. Them.
Plural.
I belong here, too.
...
A/N: An anonymous reviewer asked to see Mustang parenting Al, as well as Ed. The idea tickled my writing fancy. Hope this is what you were after, Anon! I love you muchly, in spite of your lack of name! :) Happy Reading!