[ Ed would suspect there could be a sickening possessiveness that could come with knowing such a thing. That any love given was from a single person. All matters of the heart are his to mold any way he pleases and Ed would lack experiences to compare. That the claim of "no one will ever love you as much" could hold true and the proof would be that no one has.

Oswald just hit himself in the face with a wet washcloth and Ed couldn't help letting out a laugh at it, loudly and matching the toothy smile on his face. He's twisting him up. This must be some sort of form of torture. Look how red his face is. ] Should...? [ What should he be doing? Sleeping, probably. The current situation overrules the tiredness and is distracting enough from the pain. He tilts his head, presses his lips together for a moment in thought. Oswald doesn't know what to do here. He stumped him. ]

I am just two and two. I am hot. I am cold. I am the parent of numbers that cannot be told. I am a gift beyond measure, a matter of course. I am given with pleasure, or taken by force. What am I?