Paint Me A Birmingham

Paint Me A Birmingham

Disclaimer: Full Metal Alchemist does not belong to me. There you go; that’s called a standard disclaimer. Happy? Good. I do so hope you enjoy the story. Oh, by the way, ~blah, blah, blah~ indicates song lyrics, as this is a songfic.

~He was sitting there, his brush in hand
Painting waves as they danced, upon the sand~

Edward Elric rarely saw painters just sitting outside, practicing their trade and not minding whether anyone wanted to commission them or not. This man he was seeing now was probably out of a real job, and had devoted himself to enjoying his craft rather than trying to become rich off of it.

~With every stroke, he brought to life
The deep blue of the ocean, against the morning sky~

The ocean spread out in front of the painter was a vivid blue/green in the late morning sun. Ed watched with a vague fascination as the aquatic scene slowly but surely unfolded beneath the loving care of the artist’s brush. He quietly approached the man, uncertain how best to speak to him so as not to startle him and interrupt the smooth flow of his hand. To mar the man’s work with his carelessness would have been a crime.

“Um, hi,” the blond boy ventured, “That’s a really good picture.”

He felt completely lame for having used such ignorant words to summarize the painting’s beauty, but he could think of nothing better to say.

The artist did not look away from the sea before him, simply reaching over to the little pot of blue paint at his side and reloading his brush.

“Thank you, son,” he answered, “I like to hear it when young people like you are interested in my work. Mind you, I’m not much of a real artist. I just do this to pass the time. Sometimes I paint for money, but not a lot of folks have got a use for things like this.”

~I asked him if he only painted ocean scenes
He said for twenty dollars, I\'ll paint you anything~

“Is this all you paint?” Edward queried, waving his hand at the endless-seeming blue, “Oceans? I mean, you’re good at it, so it’s fine, but—”

The painter laughed. “Oh no, I paint a lot of things. Painting the ocean is sort of what I do for some peace and quiet. It sets my mind at ease, you know?” He paused and scratched his chin with the hand not holding the brush. “Say, don’t have twenty dollars on you, do you son? I could paint you something real nice for that cheap. Anything you like.”

Ed glanced down at his feet, biting his lip in indecision. “Well,” he answered softly, “There is something I’d like to have a painting of....”

“What’s that, son? You just name it.”

The golden-eyed boy subconsciously squeezed his automail hand into a fist inside his pocket. He knew exactly what picture he wanted. Warm, dark eyes, soft, brown hair, and a gentle, sweet smile floated to the top of his mind. He hesitantly told the man what he wanted.

Could you describe it for me?” the painter asked.

Ed took a deep breath and did, struggling all the while not to break down and cry like a sissy. She wouldn’t have wanted him to.

~Could you Paint Me A Birmingham
Make it look just the way I planned
A little house on the edge of town
Porch going all the way around
Put her there in the front yard swing
Cotton dress make it early spring
For a while she\'ll be mine again
If you can Paint Me A Birmingham~

“And that’s all, I think.” he said, feeling as though he had just poured out his soul. But how could he have? He was still attached to his body.

~He looked at me, with knowing eyes
Then took a canvas from a bag there by his side
Picked up a brush, and said to me
Son, just where in this picture would you like to be~

The artist did not miss the way the young man’s voice quivered, or the way his unusual eyes held a telltale glimmer of wetness. He carefully placed the ocean-scape against the side of his chair to dry, and reached into the rucksack on the other side of his seat. He withdrew from it a clean canvas of purest white and a new set of paints, different colors than the ones he had been using before.

“So,” he said, his eyes fixing Edward with a knowing look, “Where would you like to be in this painting? Under the tree, on the porch? Next to the swing, maybe?”

~And I said if there\'s any way you can
Could you paint me back into her arms again?~

Ed swallowed the lump in his throat and met that knowing gaze head on. “Do you think, maybe,” he murmured, “You could paint me on the swing with her? I want to be—I mean, I want her to…hold me again.”

His face burned, but the artist nodded as though such a request was quite normal for fifteen-year-old boys to make. His eyes widened suddenly, and he quickly added, “And my brother, I want him to be in the picture too. With her, same as me.” And he described Alphonse as he remembered him, with gray eyes and sandy hair, smiling even wider than she had when she was alive. He made certain to specify that Al would be only a year younger than he was now, fourteen, if the painter needed confirmation. He would be wearing summer clothes, maybe shorts and a t-shirt.

~Could you Paint Me A Birmingham
Make it look just the way I planned
A little house on the edge of town
Porch going all the way around
Put her there in the front yard swing
Cotton dress make it early spring
For a while she\'ll be mine again
If you can Paint Me A Birmingham~

Edward sat on the warm sand and watched intently as the man worked. The scene came to life under the artist’s skilled hand, and the blond could not tear his eyes away. He might have sat there for four hours, five, he didn’t know; all he knew was that the sunlight was strong and the ocean breeze was ruffling his hair, and the sky was so blue it hurt to look at it for long. He shifted occasionally when his flesh-and-blood leg started to go numb, keeping his circulation going. Wouldn’t Winry be angry if he lost the blood flow in that leg and had to have it replaced!

At last, Ed sensed when the last stroke was finished, and he stood eagerly to get a better look at the painting.

“Does it meet all your specifications, son?” the painter asked.

He nodded, unable to speak. Yeah, it was just as he’d described it. Better even, than he had dared to hope. It was as if the artist had seen exactly what Ed remembered, just looked into his heart and proceeded to put it on canvas.

“It’s perfect.” he whispered finally.

~Paint Me A Birmingham
Make it look just the way I planned
A little house on the edge of town
Porch going all the way around
Put her there in the front yard swing
Cotton dress make it early spring
For a while she\'ll be mine again
If you can Paint Me A Birmingham~

As he walked back to the inn where he and Alphonse were staying, Ed held up the painting and looked at it again. Suddenly, he found himself unable to see past the blurry tears spilling from his eyes. But he knew what the painting looked like. She was just the way he recalled her being, right down to the contented smile on her face. He himself was there, tucked into the shelter of her side with her arm around him, and Al was there on her other side, whole and human and smiling so brilliantly that Ed could almost hear him laughing.

He pushed open the door to their room and found Al waiting for him.

“Welcome back, brother,” the boy inside the armor said cheerfully, “Where did you go for so long?”

“Al....” the Full Metal Alchemist said, and then he could no longer speak around the strange, oddly compelling sadness welling up in his throat. He struggled not to weep, not to be weak in front of his little brother. He had to be strong, for Al, for Winry, for everyone. He had to keep going like nothing was hurting him—

He cried. Damn his own weakness as much as he would, he still cried. Alarmed, Alphonse rose from the floor where he sat with a metallic, grating noise and went to him.

“Brother? Brother, what’s wrong?”

Edward shook his head desperately as metal arms wrapped around him with a gentleness that belied their strength, denying the comfort; it should be him comforting his little brother, not the other way around. Al wouldn’t let him pull away, and soon his struggles—pushing at the armored chest-plate, cursing brokenly between his clenched teeth—ceased altogether. He just let it all out, crying, swearing, beating his fists against his brother’s unyielding armor over and over. Al held on and let him exhaust himself, not in the least bit hurt by the older Elric’s outburst.

Then it was over, and though he felt drained and his face was wet and his cheeks were blotched with angry red, he also felt better. He felt…relieved.

“Thanks, Al,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry. Thank you. I wish....”

But he did not need to say what he wished, because Alphonse knew, and he wished it too, but there was nothing to be done. So instead of finishing his sentence, Ed picked up the now-dry painting from where he had dropped it, dusting it carefully off and handing it to his little brother.

“Here, Al, I bought you a present.” he said, and he smiled a sad, but very real smile.

“It’s us!” Al exclaimed, “And mom! Oh, brother, thank you!”

He swept his much smaller brother up and nearly crushed the life out of him with a hug. Edward gasped for air, but he felt like laughing. His little brother’s joy was beyond what he had hoped for, and it quickly erased the sorrow.

They hung the painting on the wall, neither caring that they would have to take it down soon when they left the inn, and both pausing to run loving fingers around the edge before turning and giggling at each other for their silliness.

The sat on the inn bed for a long time after that, just looking at the painting. They talked occasionally about what they were going to do next, where they were going to go, but mostly they just kept each other company as the hours waned. By the time the sunset cast golden/orange light across the picture on the wall the two brothers had already drifted off to sleep, leaning on each other as they always had, and always would.

~Oh paint me a Birmingham~