![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
transylvania, summer 1921 (for fullmetaledward)
Alfons had seen more of the world in the past two and a half weeks than in the rest of his life prior. This was a blessing — already he sensed that he would never forget what it felt like to wander Vienna’s corridors or doze off while reading and awake to sunflower fields between Budapest and Oradea-Großwardein. And any or all of its curses — sore muscles from cramped train carriages and sleeping awkwardly on wooden benches — were a fair trade, after all, if this endeavor was to bring him any closer to the stars. Perhaps becoming familiar with all that lay below was a first step. He did his best not to appear too bewildered and foreign, despite his sense of wonder occasionally getting the better of him. Luckily enough, he also seemed to be getting by just fine with his German, though sometimes in the countryside it became a little dodgy. This was presently one of his preoccupations, for in the time he had spent so far in a small village outside of Cluj-Klausenburg, he had ordered the wrong products at the market three times out of four. Perhaps he would have better luck by the end of the week: perhaps he would suddenly advance in his Romanian (or Hungarian!) proficiency, or else improve his pantomime gestures.
Luck was something else, however: it was a series of fortunate misfortunes that set off this whole adventure to begin with. A few months back, with his secondary schooling completed and already committed to moving from Augsburg to Munich, Alfons had begun to seek connections. Not many professors would take on an unaffiliated, orphaned fifteen-year-old, not even one a veritable Wunderkind with sky-high Abitur marks. Without some kind of certainty — a scholarship, sponsorship, anything — it was fruitless. He would starve before he completed a degree, perhaps even before starting one. He had savings, but not for an eternity; he had to be at least somewhat rational.
So, his letter-writing campaign found its start. In a month he wrote just short of a hundred letters to mathematicians, engineers, physicists and the like, some cold-contacts, others associates of former teachers or even their colleagues (what generosity!), and — when he felt bold enough, to researchers or article-writers, or when he felt truly desperate, at least once to a pilot. Most of them went unanswered, the disappointment of which only being softened slightly by it being somewhat anticipated. One of these letters to Munich was intended for a certain Hermann Oberth, an ex-medic turned physicist, who wrote a fantastic short editorial on the possibility of rocket flight for a student paper. It seemed as though this Oberth had long left Munich — and medicine, for that matter — in favor of Heidelberg, and Alfons’ letters redirected, but it was a terribly long shot. A long shot in the dark that landed in the mud, much like the rest of them. He was undeterred, but he couldn’t help the way his spirit fell. Bad luck seemed to overtake him thereafter: he lost his short-term residence at a boarding house in the city center, humbly begged to stay with a school-friend (well, acquaintance) and had the great dishonor of falling moderately ill and — he felt — inconveniencing them.
But then things dipped in favor of Alfons’ chances, and it started with a letter from Heidelberg, from Herr Oberth — well, from an assistant, most likely. It was type-written, a copy of something that likely had been tacked up around that university. Oberth sought research assistants for summer work back in Transylvania, evidently his area of origin. Alfons hardly had to read half the text before agreeing — though once he managed to calm down, he certainly thoroughly looked over the matter, if only to be safe. If he was going to move forward with this, he thought, then he needed to secure housing in Munich for when he returned, for he had no business — or legal means — of staying in Transylvania long term, and since Oberth was at one point a student of Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich, perhaps that could be Alfons’ in.
Munich was considerably larger than Augsburg, and though it was close by and quite familiar, the prospect of finding somewhere to live was daunting. Blessedly, the family of the school-mate he had been staying with happened to know someone from Munich who came over to visit, and, hearing Alfons’ plight, immediately had a landlady friend of hers come to mind. He met the woman in question, saw the flat — a whole flat! and above a shop, too! — and made arrangements for his future residency contract, starting in the fall. He promised to keep her apprised, should anything change; she was kind enough in turn to help him begin to settle the bureaucratic matters, such as registration and updating his passport.
That accomplished, it was a month and some change of waiting for the paperwork to be finalized, and then a week-long train journey from Munich to Salzburg, Linz, Vienna, then Győr-Raab, Budapest, Szolnok-Sollnock, Oradea-Großwardein — and finally, Cluj-Klausenburg.
Hermann Oberth was twelve years Alfons' senior, only twenty-seven years old, but his temperament and perhaps also his time in the War made him seem older, or at least wiser in an occasionally remote way. He had serious eyes that often looked to be quietly appraising— but then also he had the propensity to animatedly spring into action if someone had a novel idea. He was patient, but also disinclined to dally in inefficiency, which could occasionally be intimidating. Alfons was deeply honored to even be in his presence, let alone have his thoughts listened to. Diplomatic and well-mannered, Alfons was easy to get along with; perhaps that also endeared him to his superiors, an eclectic pairing of two — so far — other hobby rocketeers. This work was intended to be Herr Oberth's dissertation; as far as Alfons was concerned, it made sense for it to be a rather closed grouping, lest someone try to make off with the work. At this stage, there was little to steal: Oberth had myriad hypotheses, but it wasn't quite clear which were truly viable. Lately they had spent most of their time indoors in a basement classroom in the Faculty of Mathematics, a dusty hall that necessitated Alfons stifling a cough here and there. He looked forward to heading back out to the countryside for more practical runs. The air would be nice, after all, even if it posed a greater linguistic challenge than the bigger city.
—Well, usually. It's a clear morning, absolutely pristine, and Alfons squints up at the sky to curse it silently. It isn't fair, he knows — and of course he loves the stars, but he prefers the system-central one behind a little bit more cloud-coverage, danke. Though perhaps he's unfairly taking it out on the sun, lightly irritated by a language error at the fruit stand in the Cluj's central square market that resulted in him receiving, and therefore paying for, fifteen apples and not five. Staring into the paper bag mournfully, clicking his tongue (they're going to tease me for this later, aren't they), he only vaguely becomes aware of a figure approaching the other market-goers with a question in his periphery.
He's not sure what catches his proper attention first — the appearance of the stranger (that long hair!) or the accent, but what solidifies it is the mention of a single name. Oberth. He's sure he just heard it — but when he straightens and looks up to see who's talking, the individual has already turned their back and continued into the throng of people in the square.
"Ah, excuse me," Alfons calls out, shaking his head apologetically as the wrong person turns with a raised eyebrow. He chances a bolder move, reaching out to tap the person on their shoulder.
"Did you say you were looking for Herr Oberth—?"
Luck was something else, however: it was a series of fortunate misfortunes that set off this whole adventure to begin with. A few months back, with his secondary schooling completed and already committed to moving from Augsburg to Munich, Alfons had begun to seek connections. Not many professors would take on an unaffiliated, orphaned fifteen-year-old, not even one a veritable Wunderkind with sky-high Abitur marks. Without some kind of certainty — a scholarship, sponsorship, anything — it was fruitless. He would starve before he completed a degree, perhaps even before starting one. He had savings, but not for an eternity; he had to be at least somewhat rational.
So, his letter-writing campaign found its start. In a month he wrote just short of a hundred letters to mathematicians, engineers, physicists and the like, some cold-contacts, others associates of former teachers or even their colleagues (what generosity!), and — when he felt bold enough, to researchers or article-writers, or when he felt truly desperate, at least once to a pilot. Most of them went unanswered, the disappointment of which only being softened slightly by it being somewhat anticipated. One of these letters to Munich was intended for a certain Hermann Oberth, an ex-medic turned physicist, who wrote a fantastic short editorial on the possibility of rocket flight for a student paper. It seemed as though this Oberth had long left Munich — and medicine, for that matter — in favor of Heidelberg, and Alfons’ letters redirected, but it was a terribly long shot. A long shot in the dark that landed in the mud, much like the rest of them. He was undeterred, but he couldn’t help the way his spirit fell. Bad luck seemed to overtake him thereafter: he lost his short-term residence at a boarding house in the city center, humbly begged to stay with a school-friend (well, acquaintance) and had the great dishonor of falling moderately ill and — he felt — inconveniencing them.
But then things dipped in favor of Alfons’ chances, and it started with a letter from Heidelberg, from Herr Oberth — well, from an assistant, most likely. It was type-written, a copy of something that likely had been tacked up around that university. Oberth sought research assistants for summer work back in Transylvania, evidently his area of origin. Alfons hardly had to read half the text before agreeing — though once he managed to calm down, he certainly thoroughly looked over the matter, if only to be safe. If he was going to move forward with this, he thought, then he needed to secure housing in Munich for when he returned, for he had no business — or legal means — of staying in Transylvania long term, and since Oberth was at one point a student of Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich, perhaps that could be Alfons’ in.
Munich was considerably larger than Augsburg, and though it was close by and quite familiar, the prospect of finding somewhere to live was daunting. Blessedly, the family of the school-mate he had been staying with happened to know someone from Munich who came over to visit, and, hearing Alfons’ plight, immediately had a landlady friend of hers come to mind. He met the woman in question, saw the flat — a whole flat! and above a shop, too! — and made arrangements for his future residency contract, starting in the fall. He promised to keep her apprised, should anything change; she was kind enough in turn to help him begin to settle the bureaucratic matters, such as registration and updating his passport.
That accomplished, it was a month and some change of waiting for the paperwork to be finalized, and then a week-long train journey from Munich to Salzburg, Linz, Vienna, then Győr-Raab, Budapest, Szolnok-Sollnock, Oradea-Großwardein — and finally, Cluj-Klausenburg.
Hermann Oberth was twelve years Alfons' senior, only twenty-seven years old, but his temperament and perhaps also his time in the War made him seem older, or at least wiser in an occasionally remote way. He had serious eyes that often looked to be quietly appraising— but then also he had the propensity to animatedly spring into action if someone had a novel idea. He was patient, but also disinclined to dally in inefficiency, which could occasionally be intimidating. Alfons was deeply honored to even be in his presence, let alone have his thoughts listened to. Diplomatic and well-mannered, Alfons was easy to get along with; perhaps that also endeared him to his superiors, an eclectic pairing of two — so far — other hobby rocketeers. This work was intended to be Herr Oberth's dissertation; as far as Alfons was concerned, it made sense for it to be a rather closed grouping, lest someone try to make off with the work. At this stage, there was little to steal: Oberth had myriad hypotheses, but it wasn't quite clear which were truly viable. Lately they had spent most of their time indoors in a basement classroom in the Faculty of Mathematics, a dusty hall that necessitated Alfons stifling a cough here and there. He looked forward to heading back out to the countryside for more practical runs. The air would be nice, after all, even if it posed a greater linguistic challenge than the bigger city.
——————————————————————————————————————
—Well, usually. It's a clear morning, absolutely pristine, and Alfons squints up at the sky to curse it silently. It isn't fair, he knows — and of course he loves the stars, but he prefers the system-central one behind a little bit more cloud-coverage, danke. Though perhaps he's unfairly taking it out on the sun, lightly irritated by a language error at the fruit stand in the Cluj's central square market that resulted in him receiving, and therefore paying for, fifteen apples and not five. Staring into the paper bag mournfully, clicking his tongue (they're going to tease me for this later, aren't they), he only vaguely becomes aware of a figure approaching the other market-goers with a question in his periphery.
He's not sure what catches his proper attention first — the appearance of the stranger (that long hair!) or the accent, but what solidifies it is the mention of a single name. Oberth. He's sure he just heard it — but when he straightens and looks up to see who's talking, the individual has already turned their back and continued into the throng of people in the square.
"Ah, excuse me," Alfons calls out, shaking his head apologetically as the wrong person turns with a raised eyebrow. He chances a bolder move, reaching out to tap the person on their shoulder.
"Did you say you were looking for Herr Oberth—?"
no subject
It sounds kind of crazy, maybe, but Ed doesn't care how crazy he sounds. If he's alive, then he can get home. He has to believe that.
He turns a little bit too quickly when Alfons taps his shoulder, because he's used to having to be ready for a fight. But of all the faces in the universe he doesn't expect to see when he turns, this had to be top of the list.
His expression goes from annoyance to wide-eyed shock. He can't think of anything to say for a moment, which is quite a feat, considering how mouthy he normally is.
"Al," he finally says, barely above a whisper.
No, he thinks. Al doesn't have blue eyes. And this boy doesn't sound like Al, either. But that face is unmistakable, even after years of not seeing it.
"Shit," he says, but doesn't apologise. "Yeah, I was looking for Herr Oberth, but people aren't nearly as forthcoming as I'd like."
no subject
Could it be that they have met before? Alfons gives that theory pause for a moment, but just as easily brushes it aside. He would remember someone... like this. He’s sure of it.
“Don’t worry, it isn’t that anyone’s keeping a secret from you. I don’t think he’s garnered much attention— yet, anyway,” he hints with a conspiratorial wink.
“Is he expecting you? I can bring you along.”
The words come out before he means them to; as soon as they leave his mouth, he realizes he might want to backtrack a second.
“My name’s Heiderich, by the way. Alfons.” With a grin, he politely offers a hand to shake, should the other be inclined to accept. “We haven’t met before, have we...?”
no subject
It's a stroke of luck to have encountered Alfons, who apparently knows Oberth. Alfons, Ed thinks, not Alphonse. There's a difference in the cadence, the way the other boy says it. This is too much. Maybe it's not luck, not coincidence. Maybe this meeting was inevitable. Not that Ed believes in destiny or any of that bullshit; it's more like of course the connection he need would have his brother's face.
He probably deserves this, he thinks.
He doesn't shake hands. He'd rather not give away that his hand isn't real, and touching it would make that obvious. It probably comes across as rude, but like Ed cares.
"Edward Elric," he says. "No, we haven't met. And no, he's not expecting me. I wanted to ask him about this launching something into space thing."
Wait, but Alfons said–
"You know him, though? Really? Can you introduce me?" He's just this side of demanding, but it's more from desperation than anything.
no subject
“Sure I can,” he answers straightaway, wanting at least a little to please, but then his face falls an increment. It’s not entirely accurate to say that he knows Oberth. He’s affiliated, certainly, but he hasn’t been acquainted with the man for long... and he’s not sure whether he would precisely take kindly to being introduced to yet another potential assistant, or whether he would be exasperated for having his time wasted or his location blown. Alfons considers a beat that this could even endanger his own prospects... the ones he worked so hard to arrange...
... and if that isn’t enough of a reason to help this stranger along, then Alfons isn’t sure what would be.
“I can’t promise that he’ll take you, but I can at least put you in contact. It — if you don’t mind me saying so — doesn’t sound like you’re from around here. I can imagine it would be quite disappointing to leave empty-handed, wouldn’t it?” he asks with a kind smile— one that’s meant to be sympathetic, not patronizing. It could very well be that Alfons isn’t only here with Oberth because of his prodigious talent and capabilities, but also for his own persistence. He certainly would have been devastated to be sent away with nothing.
“But, ah... your likelihood of success getting accepted to work with him,” he continues, shifting the grocery bag he’s been holding this whole time from one arm to another, “will be greater if I can speak more in your favor. Can you tell me your qualifications? Ah— why don’t we move out of the center of the market?”
He casts a glance around the buildings dotting the periphery of the square, a variety of restaurants and cafes present, among other shops.
“Would you be up for coffee? Or for lunch? I’ll invite you.”
Which means you won’t have to pay, stranger! Alfons smiles again, almost to fight the nervous expression that a second ago wanted to take over his face. Perhaps he’s being too forward now, (or maybe it’s his frugality cursing himself for the strain on his pocketbook) but something’s telling him to learn more about this Edward. He didn’t seem on the outset like a rocket technician (at least, not from this ‘launching stuff into space thing’), so what could be drawing him to Oberth...?
no subject
"I'm an alchemist," he answers, not really thinking or caring about how that's going to sound. He has the sense to not follow it up immediately with talk about other worlds, the place he came from. He'll get there, but all Alfons asked for was his qualifications. "I don't know much about the actual physics of this kind of flight, though." He's not a builder, and alchemy doesn't work in this world. That's why he needs someone like Oberth, he thinks. "But there's somewhere I have to get with a rocket." He understand the theory of why he thinks this will work when he can't use alchemy to access the Gate anymore. But the actual machine? Not his area of expertise.
He follows Alfons's gaze. It takes him a moment to answer. He's still caught up in his own world, the strangeness of a face too like his brother's, the friendliness of this stranger when so many other people had dismissed him today. He can feel a headache starting.
"I could go for lunch," he finally says, letting his ever-present appetite win out.
"You're his assistant? Do you build things, too?" That's the piece he's missing, after all. If Alfons knows something about it, then even before getting to Oberth, maybe he can learn something.