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Grey eyes don’t mean anything, Trisha tells herself. It could be a minor mutation, like heterochromia, just in both eyes. And besides, Alphonse is a good boy, really sweet; the neighborhood adores him. So if the soldiers do come around, the neighbors might not direct them to the Elric home.
No one can take him away based on his appearance alone, anyway. Alphonse is only 4, hardly old enough to be bending. Fire, that is. Because if Alphonse is a bender, it will definitely be fire. What else would it be?
(Hohenheim had grey eyes. And those tattoos…)
“Mom, look! Look!” Edward waves frantically to get her attention.
Trisha realizes she’s been zoning out, stirring the same pot of stew for several minutes. She takes a deep breath and puts on a smile. Worrying is for her, not her children.
“I’m looking, Edward.” She says, and the excitement on his face is enough to make her smile genuine.
He’s standing with a puffed chest in the middle of their one-room home, sleeping mats rolled away and dining table pushed aside. Alphonse is watching his brother from a stool in the corner with a bucket of water at his feet; Trisha won’t let Ed practice without one ever since he set his clothes alight a few weeks back.
Edward shifts into a bending stance - he figured out all the basic stances by himself, with help from a few faded scrolls - and throws his hands out. In an odd motion she’s never seen in bending before, he claps his hands together in front of him. When he pulls them apart, back to the outstretched pose, a jet of fire stretches between them. He grabs the end of the stream in his fist, and then spins around. The fire follows his fist like a dancer’s ribbon at the fair. It’s strikingly beautiful.
He twirls and flaps his arm for a few seconds, dancing with that strange rhythm only 6-year-olds have, before his control on the fire slips and the flames fizzle into a few falling sparks.
Startled, Ed trips and falls back in his butt, blinking in confusion. For a moment, Trisha worries he’s about to cry, but then he looks up at her with a sheepish grin and a gleam in his golden eyes. He made that move up to impress her, she realizes.
Trisha breaks into a grin herself and rushes forward, scooping Ed up in a big hug.
“That was amazing, Edward!” She cheers, spinning him around like he did his fire. He giggles, his smile huge now.
She hears Alphonse toddling over and slows down, scooping him up too, a child on each hip.
“I wanna do that! Teach me!” Alphonse chirps, flapping his arms.
“It’s my trick.” Ed pouts, crossing his arms. “You can’t even bend.”
Al’s bottom lip quivers and tears start to form in his eyes.
“Edward!” Trisha scolds.
“It’s true.” Ed grumbles.
Alphonse’s breath hitches and Trisha realizes she’s facing a potential tantrum.
“Even if he can’t bend - yet -” She adds for Al’s sake. “He still wants to learn. Why won’t you teach your brother?”
“Because it’s my trick! Mine!”
Al sniffles.
“You know,” Trisha says thoughtfully, “The best benders in history are known for making up their own moves and styles.”
“I know...” Edward says, suspicious where she’s going with this.
“Well, how would you spread your style if you didn’t teach your moves to others?”
“I… guess…” Ed says. He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Al would really like to learn from you.” She insists. “And I would be really proud of you for teaching him your special move.”
That seems to break through to him.
“Oh. Well, I guess I can show him a little.” Ed concedes.
Al blinks, tears receding. “Really?”
“Yeah. But you have to learn the basics first.” He says, like it’s a condition. “That move is really hard. I’ll show you a kata.”
Edward squirms out of Trisha’s grip and tumbles to the ground, hopping into a bending stance.
Alphonse makes grabby-hands at his brother and Trisha sets him down. Immediately, Al is mimicking his brother’s moves.
Ed stops him every few stances to correct, but Al is a fast learner.
Content that they can entertain each other without fighting for a few minutes, Trisha returns to the stove, idly listening to their chatter as she adds spices to the stew.
“Ok. I think you’re ready for the big move. You don’t have fire, so-”
“Yet!” Al interjects
“Yet.” Ed’s eye roll can be heard in his voice. “So you don’t gotta worry about getting burnt if you mess up. You can just try it now.”
“Woo hoo!” Al cheers.
There’s shuffling and gentle (though blunt) guidance from Ed. Trisha smiles to herself at how well they’re getting along. She’s ladelling the finished stew into three bowls when Ed says:
“Ok. Now put it all together.”
There’s a clap, then suddenly the stew bowls are upended as the entire house is filled with a gale-force wind.
Bracing herself on the stove, Trisha turns around. Ed is slammed up against the opposite wall, stunned. Scrolls, trinkets, and anything lighter than 10 pounds is whirling through the air. In the eye of the tornado is Alphonse, eyes closed and laughing as he spins, oblivious.
“Alphonse!” Trisha cries, trying to push her way to him. She can barely make it two feet.
He does hear her, though. His eyes open then widen in shock. He freezes.
Instantly, the wind stops. Everything falls out of the air. Trisha stumbles forward without the wind to fight against. Ed peels himself off the wall.
Alphonse falls to the ground, stunned. Tears well in his eyes and Trisha once again mentally prepares to combat a tantrum long enough to figure out how she’s going to fix this.
But before she does, Edward runs towards his brother and pulls him up by the armpits, eyes full of stars.
“Teach me that!” He shouts.
Alphonse beams, already spreading his arms to try again.
Trisha glances mournfully at the stew-coated wall and littered house before scooping up her son to prevent another localized hurricane.
“New rule.” She announces. “No bending in the house.”