I'd Give Eraserhead

Your city always smells like coal smoke and warm bread from the local bakeries.

Ed stands on the corner of a cobblestone street, bouquet tucked awkwardly under his arm, scowling at a street sign because it didn’t say your street name on it.

“This is not where that old woman said to turn,” he mutters.

He had known the way yesterday. He swore he had. Amestrian cities tend to repeat themselves: brick buildings, gas lamps, narrow alleys where stray cats roam. But somehow he’d taken a left where he should have taken a right, and now he’s standing in front of a tailor shop instead of your home.

He refuses to ask for directions again. He was certain he knew how to get your place. He’d been there a handful of times.

He adjusts the bouquet, careful of the blooms. They’re not extravagant. He couldn’t justify extravagant. But they’re fresh, and he made sure the florist wrapped them in cream paper with a red ribbon, instead of the gaudy pink.

White camellias. A few sprigs of blue cornflower. The florist had asked him if they were for his sweetheart and he had felt heat creep up his neck to his ears.

“They’re an apology for her.” he’d grumbled in return.

Which is technically true. You’d argued the night before. Nothing dramatic or explosive, really. Just one of those quiet disagreements where Edward’s pride stood too tall and his mouth ran ahead of his brain. He hadn’t meant to snap at you. He hadn’t meant to dismiss your worry about him leaving again.

But he had, and you had gone quiet. He hates when you go quiet.

A cart rattles past and he swallows his pride. A woman points him down another street when he begrudgingly asks where Maple Row is. He pretends he already knew and just “wanted to confirm.”

Five minutes later, he is even more lost.

“This city makes no structural sense,” he declares under his breath, as if the buildings had rearranged themselves out of spite to him.

He considers a phone booth, to call and ask you how to get to where you are from where he is, but if he did that; maybe he should have sprung for the more extravagant ones.

So he walks while longer and by the time he finally finds the familiar green awning of your house, his boots are dusty, and lets out a relieved sigh that he wouldn’t be lost, stuck in this befogged city any longer.

He pauses on the steps. Suddenly, he feels like he’s sixteen again. Not his sixteen, of course. But what a normal sixteen could have been. Just a boy holding flowers like they might explode, to give to a girl he likes, that he wasn’t so kind too.

He knocks and the door opens. You blink up at him, clearly not expecting visitors. Dressed casually, your hair unbrushed. Your expression shifts from surprise to guarded softness when you realize who it is, “Edward.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. A smile slowly shifts across your expression as you realize he looks quite literally like a fish out of water.

“I got lost,” he blurts out and you stare, trying to stifle a giggle at the abrupt admission.

“…On purpose?” you ask carefully.

“What? No!” He scowls, “Why would I— I mean, I didn’t— that’s not the point!”

You fold your arms. You are very calm. Which is almost worse, if you asked Ed. He shoves the bouquet toward you with a huff, looking away with rosy cheeks, “I’m sorry.”

The words are stiff and heavy, but they’re honest.

“For what?” you ask gently, fingers wrapping around the tissue paper covered stems to take them.

“For being an idiot,” he says immediately, “For acting like I know everything. For not listening when you said you were worried.”

He looks away, tension obvious in his tight jaw, “I just… I don’t like the idea of you being scared for me. Makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. But I guess that’s not fair. You’re allowed to worry.”

You lift the flowers to your face, taking a quick whiff of the pretty blooms and he risks looking at you.

Your expression has softened completely now, thumb brushing the paper wrapping.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur.

He huffs, “Yeah, well. The florist tried to sell me roses and I told her that was predictable.”

There’s a soft, comfortable pause in the conversation for a moment before he reverts back, “…I had to ask three different people where your street was.”

You laugh, not mocking or teasing. Just warm. His shoulders loosen at the sound, a smile tugging on his own lips.

“You’re the worst traveler I know,” you tease.

“I am not,” he snaps automatically, “I just— this city is laid out stupid. I’ve been to a lot of cities and this one is— well, it’s stupid!”

You step closer, flowers cradled to your chest, giggling before you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t like fighting with you.” He says gently as you pull back, golden eyes sweeping over your face.

You tilt your head, “We didn’t fight.”

“It felt like it.” His voice is quieter now, but steady, “And I’m leaving again in a few days. I didn’t want to go like that.”

You reach for his sleeve, “You’re allowed to chase your research, Edward.”

He swallows, a hand coming up to cup your cheek, “And you’re allowed to worry about me.”

He exhales like something tight inside him finally unclenches, “…You’re not still mad?”

“I was never mad.”

Relief flashes across his face so fast it’s almost boyish. Then he straightens, trying to reclaim dignity.

“Good. Because I walked in a full circle at one point and I’m not doing that again.”

You smile, “Come inside, traveler.”

He follows you in, boots scuffing the threshold, pride slightly dented but his heart still very much intact.

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