Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Shaving ❯ Shaving ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer- I don't own FMA. People who are far better than I do.

 

Spoilers- After last episode of the anime.

 

Shaving

By A Guy Named Goo

Beta'd by trollopfop

 

Edward hated shaving. No, more than that, he loathed it, more than any other man. He was certain of it. When he stared at his stubbly face in the morning, he often wondered if it would be easier to use the razor to slit his throat rather than go through the arduous ritual of shaving. His father had accused him of being over-dramatic when it came to this issue. But then, his father had two working arms and a beard that only needed the occasional trim.

 

It really was a rather cruel trade-off: in Amestris, Edward had rarely had to shave, between being blonde and having very slow growing facial hair. But in Munich, along with his sudden but welcomed growth spurt came an increase in facial hair growth, an increase that lead to the need for daily maintenance. Oh, sure, he could have let it grow out, but he really didn't relish being told he looked like his father any more than he already was (and lately it was getting disturbingly commonplace).

 

Edward looked at himself in the mirror, feeling the stubble with his left hand. He assessed whether he could get away with missing one morning shave, the roughness beneath his hand being the telltale sign that he couldn't. His prosthetic right arm was hanging uselessly behind him by its harness on a hook intended for towels and the odd housecoat, so as to not get wet or lathery and damage the wood and metal joints. A right arm, even an automail one, would have made this chore so much easier for him, and he found himself taking back every bad thing he ever said or thought about automail. He did this often, as if he believed that if he repented for speaking ill of mechanical limbs often enough then by some miracle he would have access to them again.

 

Every morning Edward would come into the bathroom to find his shaving kit laid out for him. Hohenheim did this without being asked to, knowing that his son would make a mess trying to do it on his own with one arm if he didn't. Edward simply wouldn't ask for help, although he would accept it when it was offered, if he felt he needed it.

 

On one particular morning, Edward had found himself hating shaving even more than usual. He'd cut himself twice, causing him to shout about dull razors to no one but his own bleeding reflection. He had finally decided that he was finished for the day and, having rinsed off his razor, he threw the expensive “modern” blade into the sink in disgust and began to assess the damage to his injured face. It was then that he noticed a bit of lather on the join between the right side of his jaw and his neck.

 

Without stopping to think, Edward reached toward the towel that was draped over the bar near the bathtub, still staring at himself in the mirror. In this, he made two errors in judgment: for one, the bathtub was to his right, and thus he had to cross his left arm over his chest to reach for the towel. Next, he forgot that his prosthetic left leg was not calibrated for great balance, especially when one already has their balance thrown off by an absent right arm. As a result, the act of reaching toward the towel sent him falling over to the right. He groped for the first thing he could reach, which turned out to be his right arm, still hanging by the hook near the door. Fortunately, it was the hook that broke rather than the harness of the prosthetic, but all the same Edward ended up in a heap on his right side, holding his right arm.

 

He swore loudly, but undaunted, he draped his arm over the bathtub and reached for that sink, not noticing Hohenheim, who had just opened the bathroom door to see if his son was all right. He succeeded in grabbing the edge of the sink, but unfortunately, just as he had a sufficient grip and had started to pull himself upwards, he found himself slipping again on the lather that had dripped off the brush, and would have clattered to the ground again had his father not caught him.

 

“You know, it really won't hurt you to ask for help if you need it,” Hohenheim pointed out, righting his son and reaching over to pick up his right arm.

 

Edward snorted. “I would have gotten up on my own.”

 

Hohenheim unfastened the straps of the harness and mounted it on what was left of his son's shoulder. “But you would have gotten badly bruised in the process. Really, there's no shame in it.”

 

Edward didn't say anything as his father continued attaching the prosthesis for him, staring at the cold bathroom floor and still feeling the sting of his collision with it.

 

Hohenheim finished attaching the harness and reached for Edward's shirt, handing it to him and preparing to help him again if he needed it. Edward looked up at him as he pulled his left arm through its sleeve first, then used it to thread his right arm through. “Dad?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I really hate this.”

 

“I know you do.”

 

Edward looked down again at his shirt, buttoning it with one hand. He had gotten quite skilled at it, in fact. He then pulled his hair out of it, not bothering to fix his collar. “...thanks,” he said at last, although from the sound of his voice it was obvious he was reluctant to admit his gratitude.

 

Hohenheim just nodded, waiting for his son to leave and finish dressing in his own bedroom, as he usually did. Instead, the young man went back over to the sink and examined his face in the mirror. The cuts had mostly scabbed over by now, and still needed to be cleaned. He used his teeth to pull his left sleeve up, then turned on the tap to dampen a washcloth and clean the cuts.

 

“I really hate shaving,” he added, more to himself than his father.

 

Hohenheim smiled slightly, sadly. “Then grow a beard.”

 

“I don't hate it that much.”

 

The End