In A Moment: One Hundred Words... give or take a few.
A/N: Set prior to (Possible Spoiler Alert!) the incident involving Hughes and Envy... otherwise, a bit of the dialogue would be rather offensive and tactless. Also, this is something similar to my other work, "Terminology"; just an on/off-topic kind-of drabble about something that could be momentous, or be just an arbitrary thing, and I'm most likely way off base, here.
This one was only supposed to be a hundred words, but it got a little off track... C'est la vie, no:). Warnings (?): Possible warping of FMA timeline, but not from the comment above; this can be ignored, but one may sense possible hints of "EdxWin" and "RoyxEd" (if you see it that way, it's there, but if not, then take it as a general fiction).
One: Practicality
"Fullmetal..."
The catch, a question, in the colonel's voice, even through the paranoia of another remark about height-or lack thereof-causes me to stop; I can't help but turn to face him once more. "Yeah?"
Pausing for a moment, he opens his eyes languidly, regarding me with those infuriating black-blue irises, making sure he has my complete attention. "What's with the braid?"
For a moment, I wonder, wait a moment-what? What's his reason? "Why should I tell you?" I reply through my surprise, arms crossing, the feeling of warm, biological limb against tepid auto mail reminding me of where, exactly, I should be going right now.
"A little curiosity never hurt, Fullmetal," the colonel answers, resting his head against a gloved hand.
Right, I think, biting back the urge to spit those cynical words out, impale him on the truth.
"Besides," he continues, since I didn't bother to respond, "it's an order."
"Since when has my hair been the point of an order?"
"Well, I could order you to have it cut short; if you haven't noticed, all the men under my command have trimmed hair. What's your excuse?"
"I... I don't have one," I grind the words out, sick to my stomach that I have to reply that way. Oh, well-let him think, for a moment, at least, that he's won.
"Oh?" Again, something akin to genuine inquisitiveness pervades the colonel's tone. "Explain."
"Besides," I interject quickly, "it's not an 'excuse'... at least, not to me. It's... it's..."
----
Over, under, over, again and again the locks, like the ones in my eyes, but different, so different, are twisted-never, ever tangled-into a pattern like a sweater I'd seen, or the handle of a basket. Taking more shape, lengthening, bright, free-flowing lemon yellow becomes tight, textured, and confined, a glowing brook of sunlight. Now I know why some religions worship the star we call the Sun.
"How is it?"
A small hand, no bigger than my own at the time, runs gently down it, lets the sun play through chubby fingers as a whole; a reversal of a regular brook's actions.
"Thank you, Mrs. Elric!"
"You're quite welcome, Winry."
"Mom...what's that?" Al asks, pointing to the pattern made in Winry's hair.
"It's called a braid," Mom replies, smiling at Al and me.
"It's really pretty," Al marvels, eight-year-old fingers rising to almost touch, but dropping back down. "Especially since your hair's getting longer now, Winry."
"I guess it's pretty," I remark, tilting my head from side to side. "Could you... teach us how to do it?" I ask, suddenly embarrassed about this request-why should I be blushing a bit over asking to learn?
"Sure, if Winry wouldn't mind helping out; would you mind, dear?"
"No, I don't mind," she replies, tugging the hair tie away, letting the millions of strands spill free, fanning out and just faintly brushing her shoulder blades.
"What you first should do, is separate the hair into three sections-make sure they're as equal as you can get them," Mom explains, demonstrating as she goes. "Then take them in your hands, and go over the middle one using one of the side strands; now, the middle strand's a side one, see? Then use the opposite side strand to go over that, and continue like that until you have it as long as you want it, or you run out of hair." She smiles, and for a moment, she seems happy; but after a second, there's something in the curve of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows, that tell me she's thinking about that man again, him.
"Mom-"
"Would you like to try? It's pretty easy after you get the hang of it." Mom hands the once again growing braid of Winry's hair to me.
"Sure," I reply, taking to the braid easier than I take to the change of the non-topic.
"Al, watch closely," Mom murmurs, half serious, half joking. "Careful, Edward-you don't want to hurt her."
"He won't," Winry assures us. "He's Ed after all, isn't he?"
"What about me?" Al inquires, sounding slightly depressed.
"Don't worry, you're you, too!"
"Yes, you are," Mom says, laughing as she pats Al's and my shoulder, holding us just a little bit closer."You're my boys."
----
"It's a necessity," the colonel supplies, tilting his head, regarding me with those eyes. What's in them, now that he knows? "Practical, too," he adds, with a smile that reaches his eyes in a different way from his usual smirk. It's almost like... understanding? "Fullmetal..." he frowns now, but the soft look in his eyes-who knew something like that could come from him?-doesn't waver. "...Edward," he corrects himself, harder tone of voice, this time, where's the rank and alchemic title, now? Is it lost in the sea of this sudden personal moment he's pushed the both of us into? I'm shivering from the cold of the "water" as he continues. "...Thank you, for the explanation. Really," he presses, apparently catching the none-too subtle roll of my eyes. "I appreciate it. Now, you're dismissed." Crap, when did he change back to "colonel" so quickly, instead of staying Roy? I'm a beached oceanic life-form, a banished shri-ugh, no, a banished whale; much better.
"Later," I reply, waving as sarcastically as I can while I turn to face the doors.
"Mm-hmm, take care," the colonel replies, the expression never leaving his eyes.
"Yeah... you too." I answer, pushing through the doors.
"Brother, what took you so long?"
"Just... a little conversation, Al, that's all."
"Then why are you smiling?" Al presses gently. "Usually, you're in a bad mood whenever you leave that room."
"I think we've... come to an understanding," I reply, and continue walking down the hall with Alphonse.
"That's great, because we're on another assignment."
"...What? Am I hearing you correctly?" I wait for Al to nod. "That jerk! I swear, when I get through with him, he won't even be able to snap his fingers to the beat of a drum! I'll-"
"Come on, Ed," Al sighs.
"Fine, let's get going," I concede, anger deflating with each step, replaced with something else as I remember the look in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, we have come to an understanding, after all.
A/N: Well, if that isn't the most contrived piece of writing I've ever produced (I'm thinking of the end dialogue and narrative, here), I'm not quite sure what is! Personally, I think Edward was written here as a bit too emotional, but that's just me. What's your view?