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They’ve had arguments in the past, but never something quite like this.
Their voices raise, an unspoken battle between friends of who could out yell the other, fueled by the anxieties brought about by the looming shadow of the Promised Day. Winry refuses to listen, her feet cemented to the ground, vowing to stay put while Edward fights for the safety of their country. It terrifies him more than the possibility of failure, of dying. Millions of lives would be lost, their souls torn from their bodies and collected within the homunculus born from his father’s blood, and yet none of that matters to him. He chooses to focus on the one life he can prevent from being lost, the one life that means as much to him as the life of his little brother. Tomorrow, he may fall, struck down by a power hungry creature, but at least he would fall knowing that she is safe in a neighboring country. It is a selfish desire, he knows—he thinks of Greed lingering in the hall, listening in on the quarrel between friends, pictures the grin on his face as Edward’s words worm their way into his ear—but if anyone deserves to continue living, dammit, it’s her.
Winry is no stranger to the secrets and dangers of the world, Edward could be thanked for that. Had it not been for his stupidity all of these years, she would be but another orphan who lost her parents to the violence brought about by the Ishvalan Civil War. He is to blame for the agony she has dealt with for the past five years, the dark unknown that he has forced her to live with while he and his brother traveled the country in search of a stone they no longer desire. The least he could do for her is grant her the gift of survival.
Her eyes are an ocean that he could get lost in, swept away by the waves and pulled beneath the surface. He would not struggle, would not flail in an effort to save himself; he would willingly let her waters drag him down to the bottom if it meant that he could bask in her beauty just a moment longer. They glare at him, a fire ignited atop the waters, threatening to see to it that he saves Amestris, even if she has to drag him out by his ear in order to do so. He finds himself lowering back, an inferno, gold and bright, battling against a sea that could take him out effortlessly. They could continue to go back-and-forth, with Edward insisting she flee under the cover of night, and Winry standing firm on her decision, but where would that get them? They would only grow angrier with one another, say things that they don’t mean, parting ways on bad terms with the possibility of never seeing each other again hanging over their heads. He knows that the possibility of failure, the possibility of death is high. He's lived on the edge from a young age, slipped a time or two, but always managed to regain his footing. Who was to stop Father from giving him that final push he needed, however, to fall thousands of feet to his death? Edward is playing with fire, sucked into a conspiracy much greater than he could have ever imagined, all because of his youthful ignorance. There is a sense of duty to see it through to the end, all because of the knowledge he has concerning the fate of Amestris.
If he could get his and his little brother's bodies back in the process, he was willing to risk it all.
He's just unwilling to risk her life in that process.
Winry’s brow unfurrows, a look of concern taking residence upon her face. It’s like a dagger in his heart. “Please, Ed,” she implores, “you can’t let them go through with this. Just tell me you’re gonna stop them and save the country! I want to hear you say that you’re gonna protect the country and then get your bodies back. Do whatever it takes to make that happen!”
He finds himself leaning away from her, eyes wide and lips parted in genuine surprise. It’s been so long since she’s yelled at him, having quarreled last in the back of a car en route to Baschool. Beneath the roof of the Rockbell home, there is a familiarity to the tone of her voice. It grounds him, provides him with a sense of normalcy that he has gone without for quite some time. Yet he stands tall and grits his teeth, scowling down at her. Again they engage in a silent combat, their expressions like swords locked together, each giving their all to make the other fold. He, however, is the first to break, averting his gaze to the door. “Winry,” he utters, planning his escape, “you make it sound like it’s easy.”
“This isn’t the time to start doubting yourself, Ed!”
No, it definitely isn’t, but fleeing would save him from admitting that she’s hit the nail on the head. He’s ran through countless scenarios in his head, each drastically different from the last. There is no telling which of his scenarios, if any, he and his companions would face.
And her refusal to save herself penetrates him as deeply as the rebar had in the abandoned mineshaft.
He makes for the door, grabbing the shirt he’d draped over her footboard. She implores him—“Listen to me!”—and he feels the strings of his heart beginning to snap, one by one. He cannot look back, cannot steal one final glance at her before marching off to war, far too afraid that the look on her face would sever the ties that bind him to his duty. A groan bubbles in his chest, begging to be set free as he reaches for the doorknob. He can hide behind words, hide behind his inherent rudeness in order to keep her at arm’s length.
“You love her, don’t you?”
First Lieutenant Hawkeye’s words ring as clear as a whistle in his mind. He can feel the blood rushing to his face, his heart beating wildly in his chest… but he does not react the way he had in Briggs. He drops his hand and stands frozen at the door.
He can feel Winry’s eyes on him, studying his back like one of her parents' medical textbooks. He is vulnerable, her gaze stripping back his layers and leaving him emotionally naked. The words spoken by the lieutenant play like a broken record in his mind. Love was such a complex emotion, one that he’s avoided like the plague over the years. Familial love comes naturally to him—Alphonse, Mom, Granny, Sig, Teacher… Winry had always been left out of the equation, curiously enough. He’s always cared for her, but never like a member of his family, despite what he’s told others. In the eyes of his brother, the engineering prodigy is nothing more than an extension of their family, an older sister to keep him and Edward in check. In his own, however, she has never been that. She’s always been… something more.
“Edward?”
Was the threat of death truly the catalyst for his sudden realization? The thought of never seeing her again, of her dying, her soul stolen by a deranged homunculus, rips him apart from the inside out. His shirt slips from his grasp, embraced by gravity and pulled to the floor. He turns on his heel to face her, met with a sea of blue overshadowed by viscous storm clouds. The anger she had displayed but a moment ago has faded, replaced with an unprecedented amount of terror. He is about to leave her, their last interaction sure to leave a thousand regrets and a sour taste in their mouths should he fail his duty. His stomach begins to knot.
He has always been mature—he’s had to, forced to grow up at such a young age—but vulnerability has always terrified him. Have his feelings always been written on his face for all to see? So obvious to everyone except him? He recalls the teasing from Al during his rehabilitation, the assumption of Sergeant Brosh, the comments made by General Hughes in the hospital, Lieutenant Hawkeye’s inquiry, the large grin plastered on Greed’s face at the dinner table… How had he failed to notice that he’d fallen for his best friend? Had it really taken impending doom to bring him to his senses, like something out of a cheesy romance novel?
Of course it had. That’s just his luck.
His teeth grind together, gaze falling to his feet, hands balling into fists at his sides. He exhales a shaky breath and, for a moment, contemplates turning back around. But he swallows the lump in his throat, forces his pride down where it cannot claw its way back up, and takes a step-and-a-half forward. Briefly, he wonders what is written on his face. Is he a worn book she’d read a thousand times over, the corners of his pages bent to mark her favorite passages, with nothing new added to his story? Or is he a freshly printed novel, crisp and clean, with words she will run her fingertips over again and again, allowing the material to sink into her mind?
Is he truly the last to know, or are they about to embark on a journey together?
Her face is riddled with confusion when he looks back to her, amplified by the rise of his arm. He takes that final half of a step forward, the metal attached to his thigh like the weight of a two-ton beast. Her eyes train on his outstretched hand, and he wonders if she notices his tremoring.
“What are you doing?”
Her cheek fits perfectly in the palm of his hand. Her skin is warm to the touch, smooth and unblemished. Her eyes widen, searching for answers before they’re consumed by golden flames. Edward has but one to present her.
“You just don’t know when to shut up,” he whispers, leaning in until he is forced to angle his head, “do you?”
Their lips touch, and the world around them ceases to exist. His inquisitive mind, always active, shuts down as she fills his senses. Her scent is intoxicating—iron, grease, oil, a summer’s breeze, a dash of cinnamon; all a curious mixture that he knows he will crave as soon as he departs. How hadn’t he done this sooner ? The kiss is brief, nothing more than a quick peck that leaves him wanting more. He’s never kissed anyone before, leaving him to trust his instincts as he goes along. His automail arm snakes around her waist, hand pressed against the middle of her back, while his other hand tangles itself in her hair. A sudden hunger overtakes him, crying out more, more, more! and he has no choice but to obey. He pulls back for a moment, giving her just enough time to crack open her eyes. He doesn’t register the emotion on her face, far too quick to dive back in. Their noses bump together as his lips collide with hers. He kisses her awkwardly, unsure of how, exactly, his lips are supposed to move.
But none of it matters when she begins to kiss him back just as eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him further down.
Winry is the sun peeking from behind the clouds, her touch like rays of light burning the darkness that feasts on his life like a leech. Edward rarely experiences fear—what had he to fear when he had stumbled into Truth’s domain, twice, and lived to tell the tale?—yet the power that his best friend holds over him is terrifying. He would do anything for her as long as it meant seeing her smile, hearing her life, witnessing her shed tears of joy… Promising to save the country doesn’t seem as impossible as it once had now that he’s been given a taste of her. He would save the country—hell, the world —a thousand times over if it meant getting to kiss her again.
Their lips move in a fervent manner, neither knowing if what they’re doing is correct. Winry’s lips are soft and plump against his, leaving behind a taste that he simply cannot describe. It is intoxicating, a drug injected into his veins that’s certain to plant its roots and subject him to addiction.
And, just like that, it’s over. His lungs scream for air and he pulls away, panting, savoring the taste of her on his tongue. He opens his eyes and is met with a sight to behold—Winry, eyes half-lidded and lips parted as though she’s waiting for more. She pants as well, and he is left feeling less stupid for forgetting to breathe.
Her voice is breathy when she speaks. “Wh… what was that?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“No, no!” She rests her palms flat against his chest and pushes him back, causing him to stumble. “You don’t get to just apologize for that, Ed! You can’t— ugh!”
Winry throws her arms in the air, venting her frustrations, while Edward tugs at his metal fingers, bending them at the joints. He has dug himself a hole ten feet deep and handed Winry the shovel, giving her the green light to bury him alive. He is at her mercy, ready to take whatever verbal beating she has prepared for him, and all he can do is stand with his feet glued to the floor, watching her clench her fists at her side.
“What are you thinking!?”
Her voice pierces through his skull, her volume loud and tone much more serious than he’s ever heard it. He recoils, preparing his body for a vicious blow from her wrench.
“I don’t—”
“You can’t… argue with me and then kiss me like it’ll magically fix things, Ed—it doesn’t work like that!” Her face is red, a mixture of embarrassment and anger, he supposes, and her eyes burn right through him. “What are you even thinking ?”
It’s a question she has posed twice, now. Still, he has no answer. He can’t possibly say that he wasn’t thinking; he’d done too much, in fact, but he also can’t voice the things he feels raging inside of him, even at the slightest thought of her.
“We might not see each other after tomorrow…” he mumbles, continuing to tug at his metal fingers. It’s impossible to even look at her—she stares at him like a raging hound, and he cowers in the corner, nothing more than a mouse in the wrong place at the wrong time. There is so much more he wants to add, yet he cannot will the words to come out. He looks to the ground, shifting his weight from leg to leg, and worries at his lip. “There’s still a chance that this entire thing may not even work.”
A brief moment of silence, and Edward nearly jumps out of his skin when Winry stomps her foot.
“Have you ever thought about how utterly stupid you are?” she questions him, exasperated. She stands on her toes, adding the last few inches she needs to match his height. With her hands on her hips, she continues, “You keep doubting yourself when you have no room to! Is that why you kissed me? Some sort of stupid goodbye because this dumb Father guy might succeed?” Her shoulders slump and her head hangs, a grunt rumbling in her throat. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “God, where’s the egotistical idiot I—”
Suddenly, her head rises. Her eyes are wide and her gaze goes far beyond him. She’s in her head, he deduces, biting her tongue to keep from finishing her sentence. It’s peculiar, he thinks, like a jigsaw puzzle missing its final piece. He tilts his head.
“The egotistical idiot you what?”
There are only so many ways to finish a sentence like that, and only one that makes the most sense, but he tosses the thought out of his head like a piece of trash. He can’t go into battle with that on his mind. It would only anchor him in place until he managed to convince her to run for safety, and it would only serve to cause him distress, causing him to slip up and fail.
The metal joints of his fingers squeak as he balls his hand into a fist.
Winry’s face has softened some, the anger abandoning her, leaving an empty seat for her worry. She closes the distance between the two of them, her hands moving to cradle his face, such a delicate touch that dries out his mouth. He swallows and stares into her eyes, searching for the final word to her sentence, but it is buried beneath questions that would be answered come tomorrow. Time stands still in that moment, and he swears that he could live here forever, but he knows that there is so much at stake. He has a promise to his brother that his body will again see the light; a promise to himself that he will see his arm and leg returned; a promise to her that she will cry tears of joy; a promise to come home, alive and whole. What’s one more promise to add to the list?
On tip-toes, Winry stands and kisses him. It’s a kiss unlike the first, unlike the second, in that it is filled not with urgency, but with a promise to see each other again. The kiss is soft and tender, slow and packed with words unsaid. He can feel his heart crack the moment she pulls away.
“I’ll tell you when you come back home,” she murmurs, forehead resting against his. “Promise me, Ed.”
Promises are meant to be kept. It’s why he makes so many—he’s always been confident that he would see them through. He has yet to break a single promise made to those he loves. Perhaps that’s why she asks him to promise that he will return; she knows he will have no choice but to keep it.
“I promise.”