Living Room Space: 04 Heart of Armor, Part 1
Please, enjoy. ^^
Chapter 4: Heart of Armor
Then you bring me home
’Cause we both know what it's like to be alone
“I can’t believe she’s taking a shower. I would have just gone to bed.”
Al smiled wryly and slid into the plastic seat opposite his brother at Winry’s breakfast table. “And that’s what separates you from civilized company, Brother.”
Edward shot him a pointed look and took a long drag from one of the mugs of tea Winry had brewed for them. “Sometimes you have to prioritize. Sorry if I might choose to save myself from collapse over hygiene.”
“She did look like she was about to faint,” Al conceded. He ran a finger on the rim of his mug. “Never seen someone look so tired.”
Ed yawned. “We’re not going to wait up for her to finish her shower, are we?”
“It might be more polite if we did.”
“But it’s Winry - I’m sure she’d understand.”
Al was dogged. “I’m sure she’d find it offensive that we couldn’t wait the few minutes for her to take a shower after barging in on her at one in the morning.”
Sighing in a disappointed fashion, Ed’s gaze fell upon an old clock perched on the wall. “Two in the morning, actually. Wish she’d hurry up.” He took another swig of tea and, only for something to do, pulled an old newspaper off the counter and started to read.
The paper was a local one, and filled, predictably, with articles in which only locals would be interested. A new library had opened near the center of the town; a team of automail mechanics working in a cooperative workshop had developed some new cooling system; a little kid had saved a cat from the top of a roof by tying a fake mouse onto the end of a fishing pole and casting it up next to the cat, then drawing the line in until the cat jumped.
He stopped reading after a while, without noticing. Winry’s kitchen gave off the faint, automated buzz he associated with boredom, and the sound of mosquitoes in the dead of summer.
As his gaze drifted listlessly, he saw the walls were yellow, the linoleum floor was rising and warping with age, and the hanging copper ceiling lamp was streaked with green. The cupboards looked like the patchy faces of old men - run-down, uneven, and discolored with liver spots. Ed guessed that they would squeak and groan when opened. The counters were lined with jars of spices, flour, sugar, and a tin of coffee next to a coffee machine. A small, red-painted radio sat on a corner. Everything was scrubbed and clean. Ed had to smile when he saw that the cleanest appliance was the oven - shiny and spotless.
Turning back to his paper, he knew that he would be digesting no new articles tonight. The tiny print blurred every time he blinked.
“Nice place she’s got here,” Al said.
Ed watched his brother curl a hand around the mug of hot tea Winry had made. What little hands he had, it seemed. He rested his chin on his palm. “Really small though. I wonder if she’s even got a workshop in here.”
He pictured himself walking through a half-closed door to see Winry hard at work with a hack saw. She would have her purple jumpsuit, her orange handkerchief, her long hair.
His stomach growled. They would have to eat pie at some point during this stop. He thought of the sweet red cherries of the Resembol orchards, and sighed.
“Do you think she has the time to make automail, working at the hospital and all?” Al mused jokingly.
Ed snorted. “Winry Rockbell always has time to make automail. Taken a look around you yet?”
It was true. Something resembling parts of an arm littered the counter, and a cardboard box full of gears lay by the door to the living room. What looked like a half-finished mechanical bird sat on the tabletop. A loose screwdriver and a toolbox and a series of metal trinkets sprinkled the counter, the table, the chairs, the floors. Everywhere they looked, something metal gleamed dimly.
Al chuckled a little. “Good old Winry.” He took another drink. “I’ve never seen anyone look more tired in my life.”
“It is almost two in the morning. Damn late trains,” Ed added.
Al nodded, agreeing. For a minute, they sat and drank their tea, and tried not to drift off. It was hard, in the silence. Their butts and bones ached from riding too long on the stiff seats of an aging, clanking train. Ed closed his eyes, only for a moment, but in that second the buzz of the copper lamp, the tick of the clock, and the creaking sound of a small, old Rush Valley kitchen transformed.
Ed’s mind flickered. He heard heavy footsteps, and the sound of frying; he smelled the cheddar, green onions and butter of his father’s omelettes. If he only opened his eyes, if he only listened a little longer, he might hear his voice-
“Look,” Al said, pointing.
Briefly disoriented, Ed looked around. Hanging in a frame on the wall was a cut-out from the Central Post - an article entitled, “MIA Alchemist and Hero of the People Returns.”
He begrudged his brother a scowl, and stood up to wash his cold tea down the sink. “That’s great.”
He could feel Al’s eyes in the back of his head, and so kept his gaze low as he sat back down.
“Wish Winry had some food,” he muttered. “I could eat a horse.”
“You can always eat a horse, Brother. It’s when you can eat an elephant that we start to think about food.” Al paused. “Are you going to tell her why we’re here?”
It was ironic that Ed had searched for the key to restoring Al’s body for so long, and now all he could do was look away. He didn’t say anything.
“Then I guess I will.”
Ed drew his mouth into a tight line. How could Al have the energy to argue now? “We just got here, Al. Give the girl a break.”
“Why? She’s not stupid, Brother. She’ll figure it out.” Al stared at him so hard it made him uncomfortable.
Figure what out? Ed wanted to say. And if she did, did Al think he was going to tell her anything? Certainly not.
“Ed, some day you’re going to burst.”
His brother’s voice rang in his head, clear. “You don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Understand what?” Al snapped. “And how would you know?”
Ed shifted in his seat. He felt old, and tired, and disgusting, like he had just thrown up all over the floor. “Because you’re my brother.” Because you understood once, and now you don’t have to anymore.
“And you don’t think I can handle it, Brother?”
“You already paid your price, Al.” When he looked at his brother, Ed saw a little boy. When he looked away, he saw a suit of armor with Al’s voice, and somehow they had the same expression.
Al slammed his fists on the table top, a sharp thud in the silence of Winry’s kitchen. Ed jumped. “What price, Brother? What did I pay it for?”
“Al,” Ed murmured at the floor, “I can’t.”
You gave me my life back, Al, with your own. But where had that gotten them?
Al scoffed, stood up abruptly, and brought his mug to the sink. His face smoldered. “When I met your old military unit, they told me that we would’ve sacrificed our lives for each other. And now you don’t even trust me with the truth.”
Al glared at him for an instant with wild grey eyes, then stalked out of the room.
“Al!” Ed yelled. He heard Al open his suitcase and rummage through it. He felt the space inside him shudder, tremble. We did sacrifice our lives for each other. “I was trying to bring you back,” he mumbled. Three years - that was the price for his little brother’s anger. Three years in a nightmare where he lived and dreamed and searched - and now he was home, where things were distinctly different from his dreams.
That ballroom was so old and decrepit that it started tumbling down on him only seconds after the transmutation circle started to glow, only seconds after he felt the reaction run through his mind, only seconds after the power began to course through his body. It was like drowning, he recalled, while the sky fell down from above. It was like drowning in an ocean, with the current crashing onto his lungs and smashing his head against the rocks. He had believed, at that point, that he was going to die.
He’d already died once, looking into his half-brother’s face.
He’d only wanted to bring Al back. It seemed a fair trade.
Then the Gate wrenched him through, and he woke up to mud, then a hospital and his father’s wrinkled face.
He dipped his face into his arms on Winry’s kitchen table, tucked his feet under Winry’s chair, and tried to stop the tremors rolling through his chest.
And I’m dreaming in your living room
But we don’t have much room
To live
Part 2
Chapter 4: Heart of Armor
Then you bring me home
’Cause we both know what it's like to be alone
“I can’t believe she’s taking a shower. I would have just gone to bed.”
Al smiled wryly and slid into the plastic seat opposite his brother at Winry’s breakfast table. “And that’s what separates you from civilized company, Brother.”
Edward shot him a pointed look and took a long drag from one of the mugs of tea Winry had brewed for them. “Sometimes you have to prioritize. Sorry if I might choose to save myself from collapse over hygiene.”
“She did look like she was about to faint,” Al conceded. He ran a finger on the rim of his mug. “Never seen someone look so tired.”
Ed yawned. “We’re not going to wait up for her to finish her shower, are we?”
“It might be more polite if we did.”
“But it’s Winry - I’m sure she’d understand.”
Al was dogged. “I’m sure she’d find it offensive that we couldn’t wait the few minutes for her to take a shower after barging in on her at one in the morning.”
Sighing in a disappointed fashion, Ed’s gaze fell upon an old clock perched on the wall. “Two in the morning, actually. Wish she’d hurry up.” He took another swig of tea and, only for something to do, pulled an old newspaper off the counter and started to read.
The paper was a local one, and filled, predictably, with articles in which only locals would be interested. A new library had opened near the center of the town; a team of automail mechanics working in a cooperative workshop had developed some new cooling system; a little kid had saved a cat from the top of a roof by tying a fake mouse onto the end of a fishing pole and casting it up next to the cat, then drawing the line in until the cat jumped.
He stopped reading after a while, without noticing. Winry’s kitchen gave off the faint, automated buzz he associated with boredom, and the sound of mosquitoes in the dead of summer.
As his gaze drifted listlessly, he saw the walls were yellow, the linoleum floor was rising and warping with age, and the hanging copper ceiling lamp was streaked with green. The cupboards looked like the patchy faces of old men - run-down, uneven, and discolored with liver spots. Ed guessed that they would squeak and groan when opened. The counters were lined with jars of spices, flour, sugar, and a tin of coffee next to a coffee machine. A small, red-painted radio sat on a corner. Everything was scrubbed and clean. Ed had to smile when he saw that the cleanest appliance was the oven - shiny and spotless.
Turning back to his paper, he knew that he would be digesting no new articles tonight. The tiny print blurred every time he blinked.
“Nice place she’s got here,” Al said.
Ed watched his brother curl a hand around the mug of hot tea Winry had made. What little hands he had, it seemed. He rested his chin on his palm. “Really small though. I wonder if she’s even got a workshop in here.”
He pictured himself walking through a half-closed door to see Winry hard at work with a hack saw. She would have her purple jumpsuit, her orange handkerchief, her long hair.
His stomach growled. They would have to eat pie at some point during this stop. He thought of the sweet red cherries of the Resembol orchards, and sighed.
“Do you think she has the time to make automail, working at the hospital and all?” Al mused jokingly.
Ed snorted. “Winry Rockbell always has time to make automail. Taken a look around you yet?”
It was true. Something resembling parts of an arm littered the counter, and a cardboard box full of gears lay by the door to the living room. What looked like a half-finished mechanical bird sat on the tabletop. A loose screwdriver and a toolbox and a series of metal trinkets sprinkled the counter, the table, the chairs, the floors. Everywhere they looked, something metal gleamed dimly.
Al chuckled a little. “Good old Winry.” He took another drink. “I’ve never seen anyone look more tired in my life.”
“It is almost two in the morning. Damn late trains,” Ed added.
Al nodded, agreeing. For a minute, they sat and drank their tea, and tried not to drift off. It was hard, in the silence. Their butts and bones ached from riding too long on the stiff seats of an aging, clanking train. Ed closed his eyes, only for a moment, but in that second the buzz of the copper lamp, the tick of the clock, and the creaking sound of a small, old Rush Valley kitchen transformed.
Ed’s mind flickered. He heard heavy footsteps, and the sound of frying; he smelled the cheddar, green onions and butter of his father’s omelettes. If he only opened his eyes, if he only listened a little longer, he might hear his voice-
“Look,” Al said, pointing.
Briefly disoriented, Ed looked around. Hanging in a frame on the wall was a cut-out from the Central Post - an article entitled, “MIA Alchemist and Hero of the People Returns.”
He begrudged his brother a scowl, and stood up to wash his cold tea down the sink. “That’s great.”
He could feel Al’s eyes in the back of his head, and so kept his gaze low as he sat back down.
“Wish Winry had some food,” he muttered. “I could eat a horse.”
“You can always eat a horse, Brother. It’s when you can eat an elephant that we start to think about food.” Al paused. “Are you going to tell her why we’re here?”
It was ironic that Ed had searched for the key to restoring Al’s body for so long, and now all he could do was look away. He didn’t say anything.
“Then I guess I will.”
Ed drew his mouth into a tight line. How could Al have the energy to argue now? “We just got here, Al. Give the girl a break.”
“Why? She’s not stupid, Brother. She’ll figure it out.” Al stared at him so hard it made him uncomfortable.
Figure what out? Ed wanted to say. And if she did, did Al think he was going to tell her anything? Certainly not.
“Ed, some day you’re going to burst.”
His brother’s voice rang in his head, clear. “You don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Understand what?” Al snapped. “And how would you know?”
Ed shifted in his seat. He felt old, and tired, and disgusting, like he had just thrown up all over the floor. “Because you’re my brother.” Because you understood once, and now you don’t have to anymore.
“And you don’t think I can handle it, Brother?”
“You already paid your price, Al.” When he looked at his brother, Ed saw a little boy. When he looked away, he saw a suit of armor with Al’s voice, and somehow they had the same expression.
Al slammed his fists on the table top, a sharp thud in the silence of Winry’s kitchen. Ed jumped. “What price, Brother? What did I pay it for?”
“Al,” Ed murmured at the floor, “I can’t.”
You gave me my life back, Al, with your own. But where had that gotten them?
Al scoffed, stood up abruptly, and brought his mug to the sink. His face smoldered. “When I met your old military unit, they told me that we would’ve sacrificed our lives for each other. And now you don’t even trust me with the truth.”
Al glared at him for an instant with wild grey eyes, then stalked out of the room.
“Al!” Ed yelled. He heard Al open his suitcase and rummage through it. He felt the space inside him shudder, tremble. We did sacrifice our lives for each other. “I was trying to bring you back,” he mumbled. Three years - that was the price for his little brother’s anger. Three years in a nightmare where he lived and dreamed and searched - and now he was home, where things were distinctly different from his dreams.
That ballroom was so old and decrepit that it started tumbling down on him only seconds after the transmutation circle started to glow, only seconds after he felt the reaction run through his mind, only seconds after the power began to course through his body. It was like drowning, he recalled, while the sky fell down from above. It was like drowning in an ocean, with the current crashing onto his lungs and smashing his head against the rocks. He had believed, at that point, that he was going to die.
He’d already died once, looking into his half-brother’s face.
He’d only wanted to bring Al back. It seemed a fair trade.
Then the Gate wrenched him through, and he woke up to mud, then a hospital and his father’s wrinkled face.
He dipped his face into his arms on Winry’s kitchen table, tucked his feet under Winry’s chair, and tried to stop the tremors rolling through his chest.
And I’m dreaming in your living room
But we don’t have much room
To live
Part 2