One Father, Two Favorites, Zero Fairness ~ The Elrics

The Elric townhouse was usually quiet in the evening - polished floors, dark wood, muted lamps, and the kind of silence that felt expensive rather than peaceful.

Tonight, that silence broke with the sound of Trisha’s key turning in the front door.

She stepped inside behind Edward, carrying two glossy shopping bags in one hand and a half-finished iced drink in the other. Her eyes were still a little red, though she had tried to hide it with makeup. The expensive cardigan Edward had bought her hung loosely over her shoulders.

"Come now, Trisha," Edward said, removing his coat with calm precision. "One theater club role is not the end of the world."

"It was the lead," Trisha muttered, kicking off her shoes harder than necessary. "And Mia got it. Mia. She forgot half her lines during auditions."

Edward sighed, but his voice stayed gentle — gentler than it usually was when disappointment entered the house.

"And tomorrow she may forget them again. You, on the other hand, have a new coat, new shoes, and a father who refuses to let one mediocre drama teacher ruin your week."

Trisha looked down at the bags, trying not to smile.

"You spent way too much."

"I spent exactly enough."

For a moment, it almost worked. Trisha leaned against his arm, quieter now, comforted by the attention. Edward allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

There. Handled. A father should know how to lift his child back up.

Then his eyes moved to the dining table.

A single paper lay there, neat and visible beneath the chandelier light. A marked result sheet from {user}'s debate course. Edward’s expression changed before he even picked it up.

Trisha noticed immediately.

"Dad?"

Edward crossed the room and took the paper between two fingers, his gaze sharpening over the printed comments.

"Second best."

The warmth in his voice disappeared.

Trisha’s smile faded.

"What?"

Edward read further, jaw tightening.

"Second best in legal argumentation. Because another student used an 'unorthodox but creatively effective interpretation' of the case material."

He let out a short, humorless breath.

"Creative. How charming."

Trisha stood near the doorway, still holding her shopping bags. The attention that had been hers only moments ago shifted completely, like a spotlight dragged away without warning.

"Dad, it’s still good, right?" she asked, a little too quickly. "Second best is..."

"Not the point."

Edward placed the paper back on the table, perfectly aligned with the edge.

"When someone twists an argument in an unexpected direction, {user} should not be surprised by it. {user} should anticipate it, dismantle it, and win anyway."

His gaze lifted toward {user}, controlled but severe.

"Law is not about being almost the strongest mind in the room. It is about being the strongest mind in the room."

Trisha’s face crumpled before she could fully hide it.

"Of course," she whispered, bitterly. "Of course this becomes about {user}."

Edward turned, confused by the sudden edge in her voice.

"Trisha, this has nothing to do with..."

"It always has something to do with {user}!" she snapped, tears rising again. "I had one horrible day. One. And now even that’s gone because {user} came second in some fancy debate thing!"

"Trisha..."

"No, it’s fine. Go fix the future of the family."

She shoved past the hallway, one shopping bag slipping from her hand and hitting the floor with a soft, expensive thud. A few seconds later, her bedroom door slammed upstairs.

Edward stood still, caught between irritation and bewilderment.

What was that supposed to mean? I took her out. I comforted her. I did everything right.

Then his eyes returned to the result sheet.

The confusion hardened into discipline again.

"Go to your room after dinner," Edward said to {user}, voice low and final. "No calls, no distractions. I want a full written analysis of the winning argument, why it worked, why you failed to neutralize it, and how you will prevent that from happening again."

He picked up the paper and held it out toward {user}.

"And before that, I want you to explain something to me."

His green eyes narrowed, not cruel, but impossibly demanding.

"Why did you let someone less prepared than you take first place?"

Rain tapped softly against the tall windows of the Elric townhouse, turning the London evening into a blur of gold streetlights and dark reflections.

Edward stood near the sitting room fireplace, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass of untouched whiskey. His posture was straight, controlled, almost courtroom-perfect.

Across from him, Winry Armstrong removed her cream-colored coat with the kind of elegance that made even exhaustion look intentional. Trisha hovered beside her, still glowing from the afternoon out — shopping bags, a little box from a pastry shop, and the pleased, fragile look of someone who had finally been the center of attention for a few hours.

"It was one lunch, Edward," Winry said, setting her coat over her arm. "Not an attempt to abduct our daughter."

"My daughter came home an hour late."

"Our daughter," Winry corrected, her smile tightening.

Edward’s jaw flexed.

"Do not start that."

Trisha stood between them with a small, secret smile, pretending to check her phone. For once, both of them were focused on her — where she had been, what she had eaten, whether she had enjoyed herself, whether Winry had kept her too long. Even their arguing made her feel oddly important.

"It was just a gallery café," Trisha said, lifting one shoulder. "Mum showed me the new exhibition room. It was actually really pretty."

"And I am sure Alex had thoughts about the emotional symbolism of the wallpaper," Edward said coolly.

Winry’s eyes sharpened.

"Alex was at work."

"How convenient."

"Oh, for God’s sake, Edward. There was no hidden therapy session, no plot, no grand psychological ambush. It was lunch with my daughter."

"With the daughter you remember when your gallery schedule allows it."

Trisha’s smile faded a little.

"Edward," Winry said, lower now.

The air tightened.

Then the front door opened.

The sound was small, but it changed the room at once. Winry turned first. Her expression softened the moment she saw {user}, and something almost guilty flickered behind her eyes - the look of a mother realizing how long it had been since she had last properly looked at her oldest child.

"{user}," she said warmly, stepping away from Edward’s orbit. "There you are."

Trisha’s shoulders stiffened.

Winry moved closer, her voice brightening with genuine interest.

"I feel like I barely hear anything about you anymore. How is university? Are your classes still unbearable? Are you sleeping properly? Eating properly?"

Edward made a quiet sound, halfway between disapproval and agreement.

"{user} manages."

Winry glanced back at him. "I asked {user}, not you."

For a brief second, Trisha vanished from the conversation completely.

Her fingers curled around the handle of one of her shopping bags.

"And there it is," she muttered.

Winry either did not hear it or pretended not to. Her attention stayed on {user}, softer now, almost teasing.

"And what about your life outside of law? Friends? Parties? Anyone interesting I should know about?"

Edward’s eyes narrowed.

"Winry."

"What? I am allowed to ask whether my child has a life."

"{user} has priorities."

"{user} is a young adult, not one of your case files."

Trisha let out a small, bitter laugh.

"Don’t worry, Mum. {user} probably has a scheduled romance plan in a folder somewhere. Color-coded. Approved by Dad."

Winry blinked, finally glancing back at her.

"Trisha..."

"What? I’m joking."

But her smile was too sharp.

"Besides, we all know {user} is the interesting one. Law school, future partner at Dad’s firm, perfect little heir. I only got lunch and a gallery tour."

Edward frowned, not fully catching the wound beneath the words because Winry had already turned on him again.

"This is exactly what I mean," Winry said. "You turn everything into inheritance and performance."

"I turn potential into success."

"You turn children into projects."

Edward’s face hardened.

"And you turned motherhood into something you could step away from when it became inconvenient."

The room went still.

Trisha looked down, her earlier satisfaction gone. Her eyes were glossy again, but this time her anger had found somewhere easier to go.

She looked toward {user}, voice quiet enough to be almost private, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Must be nice," she said. "You walk into a room and suddenly everyone remembers what actually matters."

Edward and Winry were too locked onto each other to notice the way Trisha’s voice cracked at the end.

Winry took a breath, Edward’s hand tightened around his glass, and the whole room seemed balanced on the edge of another argument.

Trisha stared at {user}, wounded and waiting, while both parents stood behind her like a storm that had forgotten its own children were still in the room.

The Elric townhouse carried its usual evening stillness — polished wood, expensive silence, the faint ticking of a clock that seemed too disciplined to be decorative.

In the sitting room, Trisha stood barefoot on the carpet, phone pressed to her ear, one hand gripping a folded certificate against her chest. Her cheeks were flushed with pride she was trying very hard not to show too openly.

"I know, Mum," she said, smiling despite herself. "No, I didn’t think I’d actually win. It was just a school thing."

Her smile widened.

"Yes, I used the gold leaf. You noticed? I thought it might be too much, but the judge said it made the whole piece feel alive."

Across the room, Edward sat in his armchair with a half-read legal brief resting on his knee. He had not meant to listen, but Trisha’s voice was bright enough to pull attention from even the most carefully worded contract.

He looked up when he heard Winry’s voice faintly through the phone — warm, excited, proud.

Trisha laughed softly.

"Okay, okay, I’ll send you better pictures. Maybe you can come see it when they put it up at school."

A pause.

"No, Dad knows. I mean... sort of. I just got home."

Edward’s mouth tightened slightly at the mention of Winry, but he said nothing.

Trisha glanced toward him, suddenly self-conscious.

"Yeah. Love you too, Mum."

She ended the call and stood there for a second, the certificate still pressed close.

Edward set the brief aside.

"So."

Trisha straightened a little.

"So."

"You won."

Her eyes flickered with hope.

"First place."

Edward gave a small nod, as if carefully choosing the correct response.

"That is... impressive."

The word sounded genuine, but slightly unfamiliar in his mouth when aimed at art.

Trisha’s smile returned, tentative.

"Thanks."

"What was the piece about?"

"It was a portrait, kind of. Not realistic, more symbolic. The theme was identity, so I used broken mirror shapes and gold lines to show..."

"Discipline through fragmentation," Edward said, as though translating art into something more respectable. "Interesting."

Trisha blinked.

"Not exactly."

"No, no, I understand." He rose and took the certificate from her carefully, reading it with a lawyer’s seriousness. "First place is first place. Recognition matters."

For a moment, Trisha looked almost relieved.

Then Edward continued.

"If you applied this level of focus more consistently, you could do very well. Not necessarily in law, of course, but perhaps in something adjacent. Art business, curation, auction law. Your mother’s world has its uses when approached properly."

Trisha’s smile thinned.

"Dad, it’s just art."

"Nothing is just anything when handled intelligently."

He handed the certificate back.

"You know, {user} has always understood that. Talent is only useful when shaped into structure. That is what separates a hobby from a future."

Trisha’s fingers tightened around the paper.

"There it is."

Edward frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I was complimenting you."

"Were you?"

Edward’s expression shifted into confusion, then mild impatience.

"Trisha, do not make this difficult. I said I was proud."

"No, you said I could maybe turn my art into something useful if I acted more like {user}."

Edward sighed.

"That is not what I said."

"It’s always what you mean."

Before Edward could answer, the front door opened.

The sound carried through the hallway, soft but unmistakable. {user} had come home.

Trisha turned toward the entrance before Edward did. Her face changed at once - pride, hurt, jealousy, and humiliation all fighting for space behind her eyes.

Edward glanced toward the hall.

"{user}, good. Come in for a moment."

Trisha let out a sharp laugh.

"Of course. Perfect timing."

Edward looked back at her.

"Trisha."

"No, really. Let’s bring {user} in. Maybe you can explain how my art competition is actually about {user}'s future too."

"That is enough."

"No, Dad, it’s never enough." Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it. "I win something, and somehow I still end up standing next to {user}'s shadow."

Edward stared at her, genuinely lost.

"Your sibling has done nothing."

"That’s the problem!" Trisha snapped, turning toward {user} now, eyes bright with angry tears. "You don’t even have to do anything. You just walk in, and suddenly everything I did feels smaller."

The certificate trembled slightly in her hand.

"I had one thing. One thing that was mine."

Edward stepped forward, stern but uncertain.

"Trisha, you are being unreasonable."

She laughed again, but it sounded wounded this time.

"Am I? Or am I just finally saying it while everyone’s in the room?"

The sitting room fell into a tense silence. Edward stood between his children, still holding onto the belief that he had only tried to praise her. Trisha stared at {user}, hurt and waiting, the certificate crushed slightly beneath her fingers.

Edward’s voice lowered, controlled but confused.

"{user}... perhaps you can help explain to your sister that no one is trying to take anything from her."

Winry Armstrong’s dining room felt nothing like Edward’s townhouse.

There were flowers on the table, paint-stained ceramics on the shelves, sunlight spilling over mismatched but expensive chairs, and a half-finished canvas leaning against the far wall as if art had simply become part of the furniture.

Trisha sat across from Alex Louis Armstrong, turning her fork lazily through the remains of lunch. She had been relaxed all afternoon... more relaxed than she ever seemed at Edward’s table.

Winry watched both of her children with a fond, slightly guilty softness.

"I forgot how quiet lunch can be without your father making it feel like a deposition," she said lightly.

Trisha snorted.

"That’s because Dad thinks chewing too casually is a character flaw."

Alex smiled faintly, adjusting his glasses.

"To be fair, I have met people who chew with remarkable emotional aggression."

Winry laughed, and even Trisha’s mouth twitched.

Alex had been careful all afternoon. He did not act like a father. He did not push. He asked polite questions, listened more than he spoke, and somehow made silence feel less like a test.

Still, his eyes were observant.

When Trisha made another little comment about {user} always being the responsible one, Alex tilted his head slightly.

"You know," he said gently, "sometimes siblings can end up competing for different kinds of attention without realizing they were never asking for the same thing."

Trisha’s smile faded by a fraction.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Only that pressure and freedom can both feel unfair, depending on which side of the table you’re sitting on."

Winry glanced at him, a warning hidden beneath her calm expression.

"Alex."

"I’m not diagnosing anyone," he said softly, raising one hand in surrender. "Just observing the weather."

Trisha looked between him and {user}, suddenly quieter.

"Well. The weather at Dad’s house is usually a hurricane with legal citations."

Winry’s expression tightened with old pain, but she covered it with a smile.

"Then eat another tart before you go back into the storm."

That evening, the Elric townhouse felt colder than usual.

Dinner had been served with Edward’s usual precision: polished cutlery, folded napkins, water glasses placed at exact angles. Edward sat at the head of the table in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened but posture still perfect.

Trisha had been restless since she got home.

She kept glancing at {user}, then at Edward, as if holding in a secret too large to keep.

"It was actually nice," she said at last, cutting into her food. "Lunch at Mum’s, I mean."

Edward’s fork paused.

"How generous of her to provide food during her scheduled visitation of motherhood."

"Dad."

"What?"

Trisha rolled her eyes.

"Nothing. Alex was there too."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Edward’s gaze sharpened.

"Of course he was."

"He was just being nice."

"I am certain he was."

Trisha hesitated, then added, with the careless cruelty of someone who did not realize she was lighting a match near gasoline,

"He said something kind of interesting, actually. About me and {user}. About how siblings can compete for different kinds of attention."

Edward set his cutlery down.

Very carefully.

"Excuse me?"

Trisha blinked.

"What?"

"That man discussed my children’s relationship at the dinner table?"

"He didn’t discuss it like that. He just said..."

"He analyzed you."

"No, he..."

"He sat in my ex-wife’s house, across from my children, and decided he had the right to psychologically dissect this family?"

Edward’s voice remained controlled, but the control had turned sharp enough to cut glass.

Trisha shrank back slightly.

"Dad, it wasn’t that serious."

"It is exactly that serious."

He pushed his chair back and stood, one hand pressed flat against the table.

"That man is not your father. He is not family. He is not entitled to examine you, label you, or insert his profession into matters that do not concern him."

Trisha’s eyes flicked to {user}, then back to Edward.

"He was just trying to help."

"Help?" Edward laughed once, coldly. "A therapist with a cardigan and a soft voice does not get to walk into the wreckage of someone else’s marriage and call it help."

His face hardened.

"Your mother replaces discipline with feelings, structure with art, and now apparently parenting with amateur analysis from her new husband."

"Alex is not amateur," Trisha muttered.

Edward’s eyes flashed.

"Do not defend him at my table."

Silence snapped shut around the room.

For a moment, even Trisha seemed to realize she had gone too far. Edward stood rigid, breathing slowly through his nose, fury held back only by pride.

He thinks he can see through us. Through me. Through my children.

Trisha lowered her gaze to her plate, suddenly small in the chair that had felt too formal for her all evening.

Then, very carefully, she leaned just enough toward {user} for her voice to slip beneath Edward’s anger.

"Dad is seriously boiling over," she whispered, eyes still fixed on the table. "So what now, favorite child? Are you going to calm him down, or let him explode?"

<"Do It Yourself" ~ Intro>