A very...very short oneshot for a beloved friend's birthday… Happy 19th Friend Cassandra. Officially this is my first fic I have let out into the eyes of the public written of Full Metal Alchemist (believe me, there's plenty more to come). Came on impulse, beware of spoilers, and an idea I had about Hoho's death about three months ago. Finally got the time to get it down! No pairings, PapaHoho! and Ed bonding, slight brotherly bonding, and maybe some PWP. Hope all you guys and girls enjoy.
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own FMA. If I did, I'd find a way for Elysia to avenge her Father's death.
"So this. . . .Haushofer guy wants you to join his cult?"
Hohenheim of Light squinted his angular brown eyes behind his glasses considerably, actually sounding quite amused at the slight annoyance in his response, "To put it in a word yes. What they study is remarkably close to what alchemy was thought of in the past." From behind him, his son grit his jaws together and bared his teeth.
"And you're just leaving?"
"I have to," gently, his voice lowered from its already soft timbre at the sound of an fierce Ha! , "I've left you all the prosthetics you'll need until I can find you again. You shouldn't have a problem with company, you and Heiderich will be busy studying rocketry--"
The Fullmetal Alchemist, the prodigy of the Amestris State Miltary, interrupted, golden irises dilating angrily, "Only until I can find a way to escape this place, I can't stay here for another year. I have know if Al is alive…" The color in his eyes clouded at the mention of his younger sibling, as did of the other man's far-off stare.
An empty sigh.
"What does your heart tell you Edward?"
He should have ignored such a ridiculously cliché question, stupid too. How could a large muscle in his body tell him any information about the happenings in another parallel world? But Edward also knew that not what Hohenheim meant either; it was his instincts, what the feelings at the bottom of his gut told him, after all it was he himself who did the human transmutation to bring his brother back.
Shutting his eyelids, he summoned the will to block the images of a decaying suit of armor encased in glowing red symbols, trapped to the ground, the frightened wavering of blood soul eyes.
"He's going to be alright."
Hohenheim nodded briskly, "That's why I can leave. As long as you boys are living and well." Picking up his old-fashion luggage, he walked out of the upstairs bedroom to leave him with his cryptic words.
Opening his eyes quickly, Edward raced downstairs to throw himself through the open doorway of the front of the apartment, his long yellow ponytail whipping around his shoulders, grabbing the banister rail to keep himself from falling. In the distance, his Father moved like a dark purposeful speck, weaving in and out of the few wandering strangers about the streets in Germany. Biting his bottom lip, he gripped the railing with his fake hand, an indecisive indication.
At the top of the staircase, sleep-induced in last night's clothes worn in the factory, a toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth, a weary Alfons hung as an observing apparition.
And that's all he could remember of his dream. Looking through his doppelganger's very own electric blue eyes, smelling the fuel on his collar shirt and in his hair, the combined acrid flavor of a cleaning paste and metallic crimson on the back of his tongue. Having his brother, the real thing, just a whisper away from bodily colliding into him, something to prove that this was real, he existed…wherever this was.
Despite being confused on how he got there in the first place, Alphonse distinctly remembered becoming very tired and passing out on the couch in the Rockbell house (Teacher's training had wore him to the bone that evening) and then staring into a mirror of not his reflection. Not of bronzed copper locks, or grayish green hazel orbs.
He had an overwhelming urge to throw up. Or rather, cough up bleeding pieces of his throat. Shaken and stumbling to clean up the mess in the sink, Alphonse wiped desperately, and soon after washed out his pink-stained mouth.
None of this felt right.
He would think this every time he awoke from another 'dream'.
A warm breeze cut into his reverie, the murmured rustling of the ivory lily's petals skimming the top of the marble gravestone, tickling the glass picture face of its owner. The person meditatively sitting on the land nearest it mopped the newly formed drops of perspiration from his forehead with his palms. Despite the heat, Alphonse had respected the traditions of the funeral ceremony and had kept his coat on. It was the least he could do to ask Alfons for forgiveness.
He might have not been the one who pulled the trigger, or the rocket fumes that caused his grievances for months before, but a element of him felt attached to this parallel foreigner. That maybe if he hadn't been his parallel…there might have been a way to save him…
Or forgiveness for thinking ill of him.
On cue, silver-hued eyes fell on the figure kneeling just over the hilltop. On an unmarked grave.
Steadily, his automail hand scooped up soft black dirt.
"Damn you old man."
His golden-haired brother addressed the soil, what laid beneath, not with the typical pissed-off manner he reserved for those he knew, those despised, but. . .proud?
Between the rifts and cracks of his titanium digits, the dirt seeped like the sands of Time, out from his control. Still extended, it recoiled momentarily as a lightly tanned masculine hand fitted itself to form the groove, tugging his artificial limb upwards enough to direct his attention.
Eyes gazing down at him, perfectly still and placid, but that tiny lying smile, it faltered as they continued staring at each other wordlessly, one brother dry-eyed, the other numb to something sparkling sliding down his rounded cheek.
The eighteen-year-old pulled the boy down to a crouch position, with his good flesh hand, unperturbedly allowed the moisture to soak into the pad of his thumb, no rhythm or affection in the gesture.
"Is he with her Brother?"
Immediately Edward knew of the two people he spoke of. The two who had no help in raising them, the two who haunted their mistakes and memories more so than any dead or living presences could. Both beyond their children's scopes.
Not needing to elaborate, he squeezed Alphonse's hand on reflex.
"Has to be."
Enough of a reason to turn around and drop his possessions, make the journey back, yards away from where his trembling son glared daggers into his solemn façade.
It all came out in a rush, coherent enough for the old man's ears, cross and breaking, the stubborn wall keeping Edward safe distance emotionally all at once ripping apart as his little frame (to his six foot something) propelled itself at the equivalence of a small rocket. Sufficient to send him a few steps back not from the force but in genuine surprise.
Arms that had once been pudgy stubs outspread for him impatiently, accompanied by the shriek of " Up! Up!" now stronger muscles lock rigidly around his back. Ed pushed the side of his face into the scratchy wool of jacket.
"I hate you so much. . . ."
Only what Hohenheim of Light could have identified as a 'fatherly reflex' reacted to the situation, his hand that had not been hugging his son back rested slightly cramped against the top of his loosened ponytail. There was so much hidden meaning to his words; years of uncertainty, frustration, hostility, a childish austerity berating them.
At the simple contact to his head, Ed's shoulders shuddered, the agitation moving down to his chest as noiseless rare sobs unconstrained themselves.
His Father remained motionless, expressionless to the feel, the feel of tears to mimic his son's dripping into his sleeve.