Alphonse wanted desperately to step into the kitchen and take him by the hands and ask, "If I throw myself off the edge of this cliff, am I going to grow wings or not, and would you please tell me before I commit to it?" That imaginary Jacobi clasped Alphonse's hands in return, his skin silky and dry compared to the sweaty mess that was Alphonse. He looked deep into Alphonse's eyes, his expression calm and infinitely patient. "Sir, it hardly matters. I'll catch you in any case."
