The Masks We Wear

A year is not enough time. Not physically, not mentally.

Edward's automail ports still burn with his every movement, and it's a conscious effort to smoothen out the constant wince from his face. The winters are too cold, and the summers are too hot, and metal does nothing to regulate temperature.

His mission reports are given orally, after much bull-headed persistence, because writing is still something he just hasn't been able to master once more. He can still draw arrays, if needed, but the fine art of legible words is such an intricate motion his prosthetic arm and fingers trouble to familiarise with.

He's overly conscious of his gait when he walks. The right side of his body is unusually heavy, and he never feels balanced anymore. Edward sticks to fast paced movements, swift and fleeting, just so no one can stare at him long enough to notice.

He chooses his wardrobe with meticulous deliberation. The oversized red jacket is not to compensate his size, but because it covers just enough of him, that when he clenches his fist or fold a little inward to ease the throbbing pain, it is all hidden within the folds.

Edward makes himself loud and obnoxious, because rambunctious children means they're fine and well, and definitely not hurting and hating themselves daily for the body he's taken from Al.

No one ever realises how everything they see is actually a carefully crafted lie in order to hide a teen who's not as strong as they all think he is. They call him lazy, annoying, and obstinate, but really, Edward is nothing more than a broken mess - and no one will ever know because he'll never show it; because he needs to stay strong for his brother.