#xerxestone

      honestly  . . . it’s a little awkward. but that’s okay! there are worse things in the world than awkward moments. alphonse shifts — folds his arms against his chest & shifts to tap his fingers against his biceps. his biceps. no one else’s. if there were a god, & if alphonse believed in a god . . . then he would thank the almighty for granting him his body. so . . . even though it had been weeks now & although this is just a follow up, it still sets him on edge. alphonse can’t bring himself to take the appointment entirely seriously —

       after all, years of trial had brought him here. his body had undergone years of malnourishment, & it had survived — so while he feels weakness in his bones & muscles . . . he can feel it. that makes a difference, you know. feeling something, feeling weakness rather than embodying . . . nothing. there’s no strength, no weakness when it comes to existing within a suit of armor.  so even while he can feel himself living in ill health . . . it’s better than it was.

        what’s more, he & edward hadn’t journeyed like they had just for alphonse to die in his recovered body. he is going to be fine, & that’s that. so really . . . there’s no need to all this follow up nonsense -

        but he isn’t stupid. alphonse won’t take chances, so he’s here. with deep breaths & with his finger clenching over his knees & . . . with his father. through the fabric of his pants, his nails dig crescents into the curve of his knee. alphonse casts a sideways glance towards van hohenheim. he’d really insisted on being here — maybe that’s what it is to be a father. alphonse chews his lip & forces a smile.

       ‘  so  . . . how do you feel about the doctor ? edward hates it,   ‘   alphonse offers. his tone has a note of forced cheer. it’s easier to talk about edward than it is about himself. but he . .  . also hates the doctor. truth be told. it’s only something he’s learning now, but  . . . yeah. alphonse keeps talking. he doesn’t think he could stop himself from talking if he tried. it’s a bit of a nervous habit.      ‘  of course. until now i hadn’t been in a while for myself. ed did all the maintenance on me! except for the polishing. ed didn’t like polishing. & i had a little time to kill. every night.    ‘  

        his voice breaks a little. it’s not familiar to him anymore — tying his voice to his throat & feeling them interact. alphonse is not used to his body giving away his discomfort. so he coughs a little to cover it up.   ‘   i still have a bit of time to kill at night. not that i think time needs killing  —   ‘   you have to be grateful for the time you have, after all.   ‘  but  . . . sometimes it’s easier staying awake than falling asleep. you know? i’d say i wonder if it runs in the family, but ed falls asleep so easily. all the time. what about you ? do you — stay awake at night ?   ‘  

          alphonse shifts in his seat & showcases his discomfort more. his knuckles are white as they clench his knees & a red-cheeked nurse calls his name. alphonse stands with the help of his walking stick & smiles.  

           ‘    thanks for coming. i always like some company !   ‘  

are we playing family feud

The air is so much sweeter in Resembool, with remnants of honey and nectar floating lazily through the air. Ed loves his hometown despite the wanderlust that burns in his blood – he assumes he got it from his father.

He stands next to Hohenheim, an uncomfortable space between them, shoulders just far enough apart to disguise the fact that Hohenheim is his father. Ed wonders if his posture looks like his father’s. He’s trying not to wrench it into some other position–to increase the distance between them any further. Ed’s tired of running. He hopes Hohenheim is too.

A returned hand reaches up to the collage in front of them and gently removes a pin from the corkboard, thumbing the picture in his fingers to avoid dropping it. The visage of Hohenheim is revealed beneath where that picture once rested, a sobbing mess of a man holding an extremely excited Edward. Ed doesn’t remember. Did he squirm a lot? Did he babble? Did he try to grab his father’s glasses when Hohenheim picked him up? What did Trisha do? Her face is serene and calm as usual, a happy contented sort of joy.

“…Sorry.” Ed says, about covering Hohenheim’s face. He swallows and repins the picture he removed, this time moving it up slightly so it doesn’t obscure Hohenheim’s face anymore. “God, you look like a mess,” he half-jokes, trying to lighten the mood. There’s no response. The tension in Ed’s chest grows. What are you thinking / and : why can’t I understand you?

There are a lot of pictures on this wall. Of childhood memories and Winry and Al and Ed and Pinako. Den, of course, being a dog features in almost every single one. A few more pictures of Trisha grace the board. But there’s only the one of Hohenheim. Inspiration strikes, and Ed asks before he can stop himself: “Did you want to take a picture together? With Al – obviously.” And before he can talk himself out of it or feel stupid for suggesting such a thing, he goes to fetch the camera in his father’s study ( how many times did you kick me out after I learned to crawl? ).

REIA HUMMED SOFTLY TO HERSELF, gentle fingers brushing against the pink petals of a sweet scented Rose. It had been so long since she had left her home by herself— more often than not her precious son would be right by her side! —and she was quite enjoying this slow stride she took in examining the downtown market. Really, she wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but it certainly felt nice to look around without much of an aim. The woman quickly turned from the flowers, only to turn right around and run into the board chest of a man. She let out a small noise of surprise, stepping back to get out of the strangers’ way.

”Oh, my apologies! Are you alright? I should really watch where I’m going.”

send me an url and i’ll write some positivity for them (always accepting) // @xerxestone

          my sweet Soup — let me say it like this, because, yes, you make soup sweet. i’m writing this while still dabbing at my happy tears from yesterday, with the lovely words you wrote for me, so i am gonna go full-on gushing mode now okay. first of all, you are an absolutely amazing writer????? from what i see in our thread but also with your other mutuals, all of it has me in awe. Hohenheim is not a muse easy to write at all, from my perspective, because it’s very easy to fall into one of two extremes — either he’s the good for nothing dad stereotype and little else, or he’s one poor big victim who never did anything wrong in his life. you, however, you talented person, you find a balance that is a delight to see and all your headcanons for him give me so much life — as does the love you bear him. and i can say all the same about your other muses too, including Breda and Alex Louis! you just have a knack for it, and it’s wonderful. and you are a real gem, okay? so nice and so friendly and such a light on the dash, and i am so looking forward for us to talk & write more!❤

     isobel, of course, did not see an immortal when she looked at the blond-haired man, his true nature being far beyond what she would ever normally consider - she simply saw someone needlessly braving what seemed to be quite a harsh storm when he could be inside. and that, to her, seemed like an unnecessary misfortune that was within her power to fix. ever since escaping to liore, it seemed she had adopted more of the selfless culture than she had intended to - not to say that she was any less selfish than she’d ever been, but she had begun to go out of her way to try to do the occasional good deed so long as it wasn’t detrimental to her.

     ❝ listen, i won’t push it - the longer i keep this door open, the more rain i’ll have to clean up when i close it, ❞ she began, the statement more pragmatic than harsh, ❝ but really, it’s no trouble for you to come in. i’m taking care of the inn tonight while the owner’s out, so it’s quiet in here, and i can make you some tea to warm you up. ❞

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