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“We didn't have nearly enough alcohol for this yet, mom.”
Trisha would beg to differ, she’s giddy and, fine, maybe she’s almost drunk – almost. You can’t really get drunk on eggnog, can you? Can you?
“Oh, sure, because seeing your old mother show a bit of skin would definitely kill you, you big baby!”
Sara is laughing already, eggnog in one hand and the other one stretched out to reclaim the album.
“Maybe that’s not what he’s embarrassed about… Is that you, Urey?”
“Little Urey with his nappy,” Pinako says, grinning around her pipe. “He was being potty trained there,” she adds, as if the toilet beside him inside the old photograph wasn’t enough of an explanation. “His father sure as hell was enthusiastic about photos. I think we got the first ever camera here in Resembool.”
Sara laughs even harder, while Urey protests that the problem there isn't his perfectly acceptable infant nudity, but the photo of Pinako showing off her outstanding bikini body from one century ago while she leans on something dramatically resembling the oldest motorcycle ever – she tries to get Hohenheim to take her side, but he's decided to hide behind the rim of his own mug instead, looking even more inhibited than usual despite all that eggnog.
Trisha is befuddled and still quite drunk, so maybe she's seeing things. She leans over Sara’s shoulder and inside that same rectangle, in the background over the ancient bike and besides Pinako’s late husband and a couple other people holding beers, there, unmistakably, sits Hohenheim.
*
“You look just like you were back then, beard and all,” Trisha says, while they’re slicing chestnuts open before they roast them. Hohenheim has transmuted – that’s the word, it sounds so funny, trans-mu-ted – symmetrical, perfectly round holes inside an old tin pan because they couldn’t find the original one. Maybe he could alchemize the whole bowl of chestnuts so that they came out all peeled in the span of a second, just enough to get blinded and amazed by that hypnotic sparkling light coming to life from the tips of his fingers, leaving fizzles behind.
Hohenheim chose to get a knife and do the work by hand instead, there in the kitchen beside Trisha.
He was already struggling with cutting an acceptable 'x' at the bottom of every chestnut; when Trisha talks, the blade slips and sinks in the pads of his thumb so easily, as if it's materialized there.
Trisha knows she blurted a scream, but it's already been muffled by one big hand, the one that’s not bleeding and sparkling – red glowing sparks as the cut heals itself like it’s nothing; it closes up until everything that’s left is a bit of blood sprinkled on the wooden chopping board and that lonely half-cut chestnut.
“You’ve been attacked by a chestnut?” Urey’s voice comes from the other room, light and giddy because of what must be his fourth helper of eggnog.
Trisha’s mouth is still under Hohenheim’s big palm, but the pressure is so light she can simply shift her face, mouth dry.
“I think the chestnuts are winning, but we’re fighting with honour,” she answers, voice high pitched and head full of – was that alchemy? Can you even transmute your own body like that? That can’t be right, can’t be normal. That too, like many others, must be a Hohenheim thing.
“They’re fighting chestnuts,” Urey repeats, but muffled by laughs and definitely addressing Sara and Pinako back in the living room.
“We should definitely apply ourselves or they're going to get suspicious,” Trisha says, blinking. Hohenheim blinks back behind the lens of his glasses. Those too are just the same as they were back in that old photo. Does he repair them with alchemy? Does he repair himself with alchemy so that he doesn’t age? Is this man a man or something else entirely?
“What… oh, right. Chestnuts,” he says, shaken and distressed and looking very, very human. And that’s it, Trisha fell for him like a dumbass because of that exactly, him being so humanly human instead of a boy trying to impress her with parcels of lands and numbers of livestock; him being a blabbering mess of astounding, obscure alchemy and incredible, magical sparkling lights out of the blue – and then down to earth, clumsy handworks, sleeves rolled up and a concentrated frown. “I… sorry about that. It was uncalled for, I…”
Trisha isn’t exactly sure what he’s apologizing about, the chestnut or the hand he used to shut her up or maybe the weird alchemical magic. Maybe his whole existence: sometimes it sure feels like that.
“It’s really like that, isn’t it?” she says, once again seated in front of that mountain of chestnuts. “It’s really you, looking exactly like you inside that thirty year old photograph.”
Hohenheim doesn’t move, not externally. Something inside his eyes falls a bit, like it’s been swept under lots of ancient, scalding sand, the one that fills him up sometimes when he gets really distant, talking vaguely about a past that looks always too remote and too painful to not be out of some fantasy book that must be just as old.
“It’s okay, you know?” Trisha says, shrugging without slicing her own fingers. She can multitask; she can notice Hohenheim’s oddness and still be able to appreciate his gentle company, the way he gets all embarrassed whenever Urey and Sara conspire to leave them all alone doing the weirdest chores – go cut up chestnuts, they demanded, hiccupping eggnog like a couple of dumbasses. Trisha cuts another 'x' inside another chestnut, and there’s still plenty to go. “It’s okay if you are, I don’t know, some kind of astounding centuries-old legendary alchemist who came from the future to save the world? It would be alright. Knowing you, I wouldn’t even be that much surprised, I think.”
Hohenheim’s still looking at her, finger healed and still, he hasn’t picked another chestnut up.
“I… That’s weirdly specific.”
“Is it also accurate?”
“It’s… Not from the future?” Hohenheim says, baffled. “I’m… Not legendary. Just. It’s a long story.”
“Is it?” Trisha says, nodding. “Centuries-old?”
Hohenheim doesn’t choke, but he does seem ready to throw up that eggnog and also the entirety of Pinako’s wonderful Solstice dinner, which would be an actual crime. That’s why Trisha leaves the next chestnut alone to pats her hand over Hohenheim’s closest one, the same that was bleeding and then wasn’t anymore – not a scratch. He too studies it, but like it isn't really his, like it’s made of swarming maggots. He withdraws with his whole body, the chair whistling lightly on the floor.
“I think it’s better if you forget this. I…”
“I really think you’re a good person, you know?” Trisha says, her hand stays there on the table. “So it doesn’t matter how old you are or what kind of magical alchemy you can do.”
Hohenheim scoffs, and it’s such a pitiful sound, it wheezes like a puppy has been kicked somewhere between his ribs.
“You can’t say that. You have no idea, I… You have no idea of what I did, of what I am.”
“I think you’re pretty handsome,” the eggnog says, it’s still warming up her cheeks, boosting courage up to her head. “And sweet, too. And I’d like to know, what you did and what you are, so maybe I’d manage to convince you too?”
This time, Hohenheim does choke, on his own throat. He removes his glasses and presses perfectly intact fingers on his eyes.
It’s quite the process, the clock ticks and it’s way louder than the discussion about the longing for roasted chestnuts that’s happening in the background. Hohenheim breathes from his nose and out through his mouth, he shakes his head and his hands shake.
“I’m a centuries-old alchemist. I really am. For real,” he says, pained expression.
Trisha doesn’t laugh even if she feels like it, because it’s exhilarating – every little thing she noticed, every little odd characteristic, demeanor, it was real. She knew something was off and with the same, disconcerting certainty, she knew from the first moment that it wouldn’t have mattered at all.
“A centuries-old alchemist. How many are we talking about?”
“Many. Four. I… it's true, I'm sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “I’m a centuries-old alchemist.”
“So you should get started, it sounds like a very long story,” Trisha says, and she knows she sounds even crazier than the one who has confessed in all seriousness to be four centuries old – that’s four hundred years and Trisha is barely nineteen and nothing makes sense anymore. That’s what Hohenheim said, almost up from his chair, ready to bolt; maybe catch the first train back to central, to disappear into the night for another couple months, half a year, half a century.
And Trisha, she doesn’t want that – she reaches out, grasps at his fingers and squeezes.
“You can’t bail out on me, mister Hohenheim,” she says, and picks the knife up once again. “We still have half a mountain of chestnut to fight. You wouldn’t leave a girl to fend for herself alone, would you?”
Hohenheim gapes, panic still there behind the glasses and shaky breaths until he caves, seated once again, hand trapped inside Trisha’s own.
“I guess I would definitely be a horrible person if I did that, wouldn’t I?”
And Trisha smiles because, whatever incredible, terrible story hides behind that outdated beard and those thick glasses, she can’t make herself believe that Hohenheim’s real not-so-secret identity is that of a gentleman, just a very peculiar one.