#503week2025

Anddd, another day down! Wow, this day really rugby tackled me out of my comfort zone. Don't really know where in the prompt "Ignite", I decided to draw an entire landscape. But, here we are 😅

I will say that the finished piece isn't my best work, but I've learned another skill. Knowing when to say "good enough". Eh, I haven't really learned the difference between pushing myself and being overly ambitious. Well, it was a learning curve anyway.

Edward Elric has never been a man of faith—even calling himself 'spiritual' would be a stretch. He most certainly would never call himself 'religious,' lest some teenage version of him keel over from humiliation. Still, as he nears the age of thirty, he can't deny the appeal of the beautiful cathedrals he wanders past each afternoon. One day, years and years ago, he even stumbled into one during some special Mass.

Half-drunk, half-angry, belligerent and inconsoleable once the liquor had distilled itself into tears, he tripped over his own leg and sprawled like a starfish in the aisle between the pews. The parishioners ranged from disgusted to empathetic, but all Edward had wanted was a fight. He'd wanted to shout, and curse, and beat the very God that had trapped him here—had trapped them all with false promises of better days to come.

"Don't you see?!" he wailed as some kind stranger rolled him onto his back. "What does it matter? What's the point?" No one answered him, really. He was scooped up and dragged to the priest's own lodgings for the night.

In the morning, he left drenched in sweat and shame, but not before the priest offered him an opportunity to confess any sins that may have been plaguing him at the time. Edward refused and told the man that he honestly thought that religion was pointless, a complete waste of time only intended to fool the masses and keep precious few in power.

He returned that night to use the confessional, anyway.

"Tell me, child, what troubles you?" the priest said from the other side of the partition.

Edward shook his head and cleared his throat, sure that the smell of alcohol had to be seeping through the holes in the screen between them. "I don't think…you won't believe me," he finally said, dropping his head back against the wall behind him. "'S'all bad. Everything I've ever done." The priest offered a hum of acknowledgement, and Edward felt stupid for even entering the church in the first place. There was no anonymity here—what other drunks had been offered refuge and comfort recently?

"Do you have…examples, maybe?" the other man asked, and Edward barked out a laugh.

"Oh, boy. Lots of 'em, I'm sure, but you'll think I'm crazy." Edward closed his eyes in the dark and took a deep breath, trying to focus more on its sound than the scent of incense that seemed baked onto every single surfance.

"We live in times of madness, my friend. I doubt your sins are much worse than anyone else's."

Ed paused his self-flagellation only briefly before letting out a long sigh. "I killed my mom. And my brother. And my dad." Silence rang between them, and he cleared his throat as discreetly as he could manage.

"Did you?" the man asked, "Or do you simply blame yourself?"

Edward thought hard about the question—harder than he probably should have, honestly, because he ended up vomiting all over the floor on his side of the partition.

For the second night in a row, Edward slept in the priest's spare bed, and for the second morning, he left the cathedral stinking of booze and regret.

Now, as Edward crosses the same threshold five years later, he can't help the way his entire being relaxes. He understands, as he does with most things these days, that religion is not some monolith of dishonesty as he once believed. He ducks his head in greeting when he sees the priest in the hallway, who offers him a kind smile in return.

"Edward! It's good to see you, son. Will you be staying for Evening Mass?" he asks, reaching for a handshake.

Edward chuckles wryly and clasps the other man's hand, grasping his arm with a grin. "I think you know the answer to that one, Father," he responds, a gentle denial that he's expressed dozens, hundreds of times before. "I'll clear out before people start filing in, don't worry."

"You don't have to, you know," the priest counters, tone as light and friendly as ever, and Edward simply shakes his head.

"I think it's for the best, Mike. I'm sure plenty of folks remember me well enough as the drunkard who spoiled your first Christmas here." Ed nods in toward the double doors that lead to the nave. "I'll only be a few minutes."

"Alright," Mike sighs, the noise exaggerated as he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Edward laughs. Mike releases Edward's hand and motions as if to usher him inside. "Be careful if you head up to the pulpit. We have someone here working on the altar."

"Finally getting a new one?" Ed asks as he places a hand on one of the doors and leans into it.

"Sister Violet was kind enough to offer the funds," Mike says, though his tone belies some underlying gossip that Edward would be all too happy to indulge in were he not so eager to leave before the service, "and to suggest a lovely young lady with the right talents to install it."

Ed laughs as he pushes his way into the chapel. "You'll have to tell me about it next time."

Mike pats him on the back with a laugh of his own and agrees, "Next time!" before continuing his path toward his quarters and leaving Ed alone.

Once inside, Edward takes a slow breath and closes his eyes, basking in the quiet that follows the sound of Mike's receding footsteps. When he opens his eyes again, though, the air in his lungs turns to lead. There, stood just in front of the altar, is probably the last person in the world who would want to see him right now. Before he can turn to leave, she lifts her gaze and pins him to his spot as recognition, then anger, then annoyance work their way across her face.

"Edward," she says curtly, turning back to her work with a speed that makes his head spin. "I thought you were anti-religion, or whatever." She holds a rag to the lip of a bottle and turns it to soak up some of its contents. Stain? Varnish, maybe?

He swallows around the lump that's settled at the back of his tongue, dropping his eyes to the floor and clearing his throat. "Y-yeah. I mean, I still…still am…but it's peaceful here, so…" He swears he can hear her roll her eyes. "I—look, I can go."

She sighs. "You're so dramatic." He looks up to see her facing him again, hands on her hips. "It's a public building."

He can already feel his cheeks flushing as he nods and glances away again, the thirty feet of space between them feeling both miniscule and insurmountable. "Right…"

When he meets her eyes once more, she gestures to the dozens of pews that line the aisle. "Well? Don't let me stop you." Edward ducks his head once in acknowledgement and makes his way to a seat as far from her place in the sanctuary as he can get.

There's an extended stretch of relative silence, but his thoughts are far too loud for him to enjoy it as he usually would. He studies the stained glass window closest to his chosen seat as his mind races in the least productive way possible. Before long, there's a hand on his shoulder that sends him scrambling over the raised bit of wood at the end of the pew, struggling to get his feet under him and turning to face whatever made the contact in the first place. When he finds her there, both hands raised in an effort to pacify him, his shoulders immediately slump.

"It's just me," she offers gently, and he sighs and runs his left hand through his hair. "I just wanted to…" she drops her gaze and lets her hands fall to the seat of the pew with a shrug, "…check in, I guess? Since you kind of disappeared on me."

Ed drags both hands down face before shoving them into his pockets with a slow exhale. "I'm…I've been okay," he replies, and for the first time in his life, he's pretty sure it's true. "Listen, Winnie, I'm sorry—"

She scoffs, but Ed's heart soars at the sound because at least she isn't crying. "It's not your fault," she mutters with a shrug. "I'm not her."

A pit settles in Edward's stomach. "And I'm not him," he says softly. There's a long pause as he stands and she sits. Soon enough, the first members of the congregation start to filter in, and Ed looks toward the entrance as the doors creak open and a couple of deacons kick doorstops beneath them. "You wanna get out of here?" he asks after a moment, and he's almost surprised when she agrees.

"Yeah, sure," she says, tone noncommittal even as she stands and rubs her hands up and down her thighs. "Let me just…pack up. I'll meet you outside?"

He nearly offers to help, but she's already halfway down the length of the pew before he can force out the words. Awkwardly, he strides toward the vestibule as slowly as he can and barely keeps himself from watching her as she moves. He manages to exit the building without being recognized or stopped again—Father Mike must be somewhere else, donning his robes, or saying his prayers, or whatever he does to prepare for Mass. After glancing up and down the street, he takes the steps down to the sidewalk and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then the lighter she had given him for their first anniversary.

"You still have that?"

He turns at the sound of her voice, then looks down at the gift with a wry laugh. "Ah, yeah…I'm a sucker for nostalgia," he says with a shake of his head, then pulls out a cigarette for himself and holds out the pack. "Smoke?"

She raises a brow, but takes one from him anyway. "Since when?" She adjusts the bag slung over her shoulder and checks her pocket for a lighter of her own, but Edward strikes the flint on his and holds it up for her. She places the cigarette between her lips and leans forward to catch his flame, then straightens and takes a slow drag that leaves her in a sigh as she raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "Thought your vice was booze."

Ed shrugs as he eyes her for a moment, then lights his own cigarette before tucking the pack and the lighter away. "Two? Three years? This is cheaper," he replies, though it's not entirely the truth. "Takes up less space, too. A carton of cigarettes is way smaller than the mountains of bottles I used to rack up." He takes a pull and shakes his head a tad. "Al got pretty fed up with the mess, so."

"I recall," she hums. "I thought I was gonna marry you, remember?"

He raises the smoke to his lips and inhales as his heart twists in his chest, and a strange silence settles between them. "What a mess that would have been," he mumbles, trying for humor where they both know there is none.

"You're telling me," she grouses. "You probably would've spent the wedding leaning on the altar." Edward feels sick.

"I really am sorry, Winnifred," he tries for a second time, and she sighs and reaches up to scratch at the scar above her eyebrow with her pinkie, cigarette held gracefully between her index and middle fingers.

"I know, Ed. I know you are." She steps back to allow a man past them, and Edward does the same. "So am I." She meets his eyes for the second time since he entered the church, and he feels just a little bit lighter for it. At least until she looks down again and scuffs her shoe against the ground. "Like I said, I…I'm not her. I'll never be her. And it wasn't…fair of me, I guess, to push things like I did."

Edward starts shaking his head before she's even finished speaking. "Winn, no. Okay? You're not—what I did to you was wrong. You're not some stand-in, alright? And I never should have treated you like one."

She wraps her arms around herself as a gust of wind rushes past them and gives him a conciliatory nod, though her shoulders find her ears in a stilted shrug. "I…appreciate that," she finally says, and Edward nods as she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Well—hey, I've gotta get back, so…" She looks up at him again, and Edward feels like he's drowning. "It was good seeing you."

"I…y-yeah," he manages, ducking his head and flicking the ash from his cigarette as he eyes its dull ember. "You, too, Winnie."

There's a pause before she huffs, and when he looks up, she's digging through her bag for something. He blinks, and she's handing him a small piece of cardstock. "If you need anything fixed." Her eyes flit to his automail and back up, a silent reminder that they really are so similar.

"What—?"

"You're limping," she deadpans.

Ed's brows raise a tad, though he isn't sure why he's surprised by her perceptiveness. "It's the weather," he excuses, but he takes her card anyway. "But thank you. For the offer."

She squints, obviously skeptical. "The weather?"

"It rained all last week!"

She sighs and takes another drag of her cigarette as she considers him. "And that's all it is?"

"That's all it is," he confirms. He doesn't tell her about the broken elevator in his building, which has only exasperated the issue. He's been so sore for so long that he hardly notices the pain anymore, but she knows that. He tucks her card into the pocket in the inner lining of his coat.

"Well, I guess we were wrong, then." She wraps her hands around the shoulder strap of her bag. Edward must make a face that betrays his confusion, because she continues, "You don't need me."

The pit from earlier returns and somehow manages to simultaneously lodge itself in his throat and drop so hard into his stomach that he nearly doubles over. "I don't…Winn, that isn't—"

She shakes her head, and he stops talking. "No, it's good," she assures him. "That's a good thing." She lifts onto her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek before he can even process that she's moved and says, "You look good, Ed." She pats him on the chest, right over her card, right over his heart. "I've gotta go, but give me a call? We should catch up sometime."

Edward's hand covers his cheek as she walks away, and he can't hardly believe it. He finishes his cigarette on his own walk home, his pulse pounding in his ears as he replays the interaction again and again. By the time he reaches the apartment he shares with his brother, he's almost glad to find it empty. Once he's toed off his shoes and removed his coat, he takes a brief moment to consider her final words. He swallows down his anxiety, reaches into the inner lining, and pulls out the small card with little more than her name scrawled in her own handwriting.

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