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Roy sinks back into the wicker lawn chair, adjusting the waist of his pants against his overstuffed stomach. With his eyes closed in bliss, he can hear Riza and Winry’s voices drifting along the breeze like birdsong; Alphonse is collecting plates and glasses for washing, and they clink against each other in the quiet afternoon. Then laughter—a high joyous giggle and a chuckle, lower, softer. Roy opens his eyes. The sky is cloudless and perfectly blue; the grass is long and sways a little in the breeze, and smells like the clover and vetch Riza pointed out on the walk from the train station.
And there, haloed in afternoon sunlight, Edward holds his son with two flesh arms. He is nothing like that scrawny child Roy remembers, sleeve and pant leg empty, face hollow—and yet he is exactly the same, eyes burning with life as he grins and lifts his son into the sky.