Stand Up and Walk

BONUS CHAPTER: Strawberry Sweetness

Ed yawns loudly, stretching his arms above his head. The afternoon sun is warm on his skin, a gentle breeze rustling his hair.

His boots fall heavy on the pavement as he makes his way back to his hotel room. It's one of those rare, lazy days that he doesn't allow himself to take often enough, and he's determined to squeeze in a nap before dinner.

As he barges into his shared room, he's greeted by a familiar face.

You smile up at him warmly, face peeking up from over the edge of an old alchemy textbook. You're propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows, burrowed into a nest of your own creation. Glancing over, he sees that you've confiscated the pillows from his own bed to add to your pile, which you sink into luxuriously.

"Welcome back!" you greet, closing the book around your finger to keep your place. "Did you have a nice walk?"

Ed shrugs, kicking off his shoes by the door and crossing the room to flop down onto his own bed, burying his face into the blanket. "It was alright," he replies nonchalantly, voice muffled, and then turns his head to face you. "The weather is nice. You should've come with us."

You hum in response. "Where's Al?" you question, glancing at the door, as if expecting the armored boy to step through at any moment.

He grins. "He's on his way to the park nearby—you know, the one with the pond? He mentioned something about wanting to feed the ducks."

You chuckle. "Yeah, that sounds like him, alright!" you agree, and then you tuck yourself in deeper to your nest of pillows, opening your book again and engrossing yourself in its contents.

He rolls over so he's lying on his back, your two beds side by side, and he tilts his head to the side to read the cover of your book. It's then that he notices that the tips of your fingers are stained red, a small bag of strawberry candies resting against your side.

He knows they must be strawberry, because you hate cherry, and watermelon makes your throat itch.

He knows they must be strawberry, because he knows you better than he knows himself.

He knows they must be strawberry, because your mouth is stained a sweet, sugary red, the color glistening off your lips in the overhead light.

He watches your fingers dip into the little bag, fishing out a small, wrapped candy. Your one-eyed gaze does not deviate from the book in your lap, raising the candy to your mouth. You place it behind your teeth—also stained red, he notices; clearly, you've been at this for a while—and then clamp them shut over the edge of the wrapper, tugging it away and using the force of your teeth to slide it free. He hears the soft clack of the sweet as you tuck it away against your teeth, a sweet secret hidden in the side of your cheek, absently reaching out and dropping the wrapper into the small waste basket you'd dragged over to rest beside your bed.

He watches as you swirl the candy around your mouth, your cheek poking out gently as you pass it back and forth, rolling it over your tongue.

Inexplicably, he feels his face begin to heat up.

He watches you tuck your hair behind your ear—red hair; red like the candy you're sucking on, red like your mouth and lips, red like his burning face—eye glued on the book in your hands.

He is suddenly very aware of the feeling of his heart beating in his chest—his pulse is racing, he can feel the blood rushing through his veins, pounding against his skin.

Which is ridiculous, of course! Why should he be reacting like this? It's just... just you, just the same old you that you've always been, curled up in your pillow fort on your bed with that stupid book you've probably read three times by now, and...