Fic: And the Cymbals Crashed
Title: And the Cymbals Crashed
Author: ankoku_tenshi
Rating: PG
Genre: Introspective, Shounen-ai, implied Het
Pairing: Slightly implied Greed!Ling/Ed/Ling and Ranfan/Ling
Summary: Another day, another battle. For mikkeneko's April Fools Challenge.
Prompt: Greed, Ed, Ling, a bike, a gramophone, French music (accordions)
And the Cymbals Crashed
Another day, another battle. The two sides always clashed pros and cons, fire and water. They constantly wrestled for dominance, one wanting to leave, and rule in peace, the other wanting to stay and watch the chaos unfold. Back and forth, drawing pinpricks of blood, and then retreating back to their dark corners to nurse their wounds, before lunging back into the ring, fighting more ferociously than ever.
Each new round, one of them sustained deeper, bloodier, messier injuries, and there was no telling who was the stronger. But sometimes other people would tip the scales in one or the other’s favor. The outside player who appeared the most was the golden haired brat who was always spitting useless things at him when they fought. Strangely enough, unlike being on a mission for the father, or seeing that Xingian girl, Ranfan, seeing the blond boy strengthened them both.
Ling would see something bright. Something he’d never really had. In the busy market streets in the big cities, one of the Emperor’s clan must be alert at all time. It was the life of anyone bearing the Yao name, different clans going at each other’s throats, killing killing killing so they’d be the next ones to take power. Of course it was not so easy, but any minute your life could be ended with a swing of the sword. People were respectful, and kind, but none got close to him. It reminded him of the interlocking picture frames that were in his room back in his native country. The frame stood upright in a zig zag pattern; they could be folded up or laid out accordion-style. Old sepia-toned pictures of his family and his claimed royal lineage, each one never looking happy. Their faces were solemn, and unsmiling, lines with no meaning.
Edward disregarded his prince status, was his friend. He’d never met someone so impassioned, so determined, never someone who shine so brightly.
“If you wanted to, you could outshine the whole world, even the sun would go out of business…”
Greed saw names. He saw in colors, and people. The flash of yellow bringing him to remember sharp angular red tattoos, and a M, then an A, and R-T-E-L were right after. He remembered a D, for a large muscular man Dorochet and then he remembered brown and thought of the LIEUTENANT JENNIE RACHET that he’d killed several decades ago for interfering with their work. But he’d never before seen such a unique coloring, and such a strange name. Edward Elric-the way the boy spoke his name, his coloring-so unique. His voice was smooth and husky natural and always held a tone of assurance in it, but there was always a shadowy undercurrent in it. It was that voice that whispered to him as he sat in his corner, recuperating. It was those golden eyes that urged him on, to thirst for blood to taint those eyes, to spread across white gloves.
“You’d look wonderful in scarlet, sweetheart.”
He wanted to see the boy rust, like metal. It was wonderful to see something break down, how it fell apart so impeccably, delicately. That was his pleasure, to see the world fall apart, and be the one to see the pieces fall and disintegrate into nothing.
Together, they work, rather often. They have temporary truces, little moments where they are simply Greed and Ling, and they are friends who live in the same body. They are both the gramophone and the record, each needing the other to become useful, beautiful. However, the golden boy is the third piece, the needle that keeps them all in existence, playing its ever constant melody.
“Swing softly….”
Edward didn’t really see. He saw things in strange loops and swirls, analyzing them to their deepest cores. He was above all, a scientist. Most of all, he saw in memories and sounds. His mother, and the scent of her cherry pie wafting through the vegetable garden; her soft singing following the sweet melodies of a lullaby as she stroked their hair and sang them to sleep.
“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot,
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n'ai plus de feu.
Ouvre-moi ta porte
Pour l'amour de Dieu!”
Sometimes he’d smell cinnamon from her hands, and the same smell would fill the room, sweet and cloying with a hint of unknown herbs and the smell of desert sand. He would burrow into his bed for the night, knowing that somebody was in the room with hum, and that he would be safe, and the aroma of cinnamon would occupy the whole of him, and he’ drift off to sleep with foreign words singing in his ear.
“想你啊乌兰巴托的爸爸
想念你就唱你教的歌谣
爸爸的心像是辽阔草原
我是羊群像白云…”
‘Sleep softly, gently, hold me tight…’
Quietly, they circled. Their spiral grew tighter and tighter, and close-knit weave of purple, black and gold. On one end was an elaborate knot, and one couldn’t tell where the separate strands began. The strings never stopped their everlasting weaving, darting back and forth in a deadly dance composed of balance.
‘Hold steady…..let go.’
Author: ankoku_tenshi
Rating: PG
Genre: Introspective, Shounen-ai, implied Het
Pairing: Slightly implied Greed!Ling/Ed/Ling and Ranfan/Ling
Summary: Another day, another battle. For mikkeneko's April Fools Challenge.
Prompt: Greed, Ed, Ling, a bike, a gramophone, French music (accordions)
And the Cymbals Crashed
Another day, another battle. The two sides always clashed pros and cons, fire and water. They constantly wrestled for dominance, one wanting to leave, and rule in peace, the other wanting to stay and watch the chaos unfold. Back and forth, drawing pinpricks of blood, and then retreating back to their dark corners to nurse their wounds, before lunging back into the ring, fighting more ferociously than ever.
Each new round, one of them sustained deeper, bloodier, messier injuries, and there was no telling who was the stronger. But sometimes other people would tip the scales in one or the other’s favor. The outside player who appeared the most was the golden haired brat who was always spitting useless things at him when they fought. Strangely enough, unlike being on a mission for the father, or seeing that Xingian girl, Ranfan, seeing the blond boy strengthened them both.
Ling would see something bright. Something he’d never really had. In the busy market streets in the big cities, one of the Emperor’s clan must be alert at all time. It was the life of anyone bearing the Yao name, different clans going at each other’s throats, killing killing killing so they’d be the next ones to take power. Of course it was not so easy, but any minute your life could be ended with a swing of the sword. People were respectful, and kind, but none got close to him. It reminded him of the interlocking picture frames that were in his room back in his native country. The frame stood upright in a zig zag pattern; they could be folded up or laid out accordion-style. Old sepia-toned pictures of his family and his claimed royal lineage, each one never looking happy. Their faces were solemn, and unsmiling, lines with no meaning.
Edward disregarded his prince status, was his friend. He’d never met someone so impassioned, so determined, never someone who shine so brightly.
“If you wanted to, you could outshine the whole world, even the sun would go out of business…”
Greed saw names. He saw in colors, and people. The flash of yellow bringing him to remember sharp angular red tattoos, and a M, then an A, and R-T-E-L were right after. He remembered a D, for a large muscular man Dorochet and then he remembered brown and thought of the LIEUTENANT JENNIE RACHET that he’d killed several decades ago for interfering with their work. But he’d never before seen such a unique coloring, and such a strange name. Edward Elric-the way the boy spoke his name, his coloring-so unique. His voice was smooth and husky natural and always held a tone of assurance in it, but there was always a shadowy undercurrent in it. It was that voice that whispered to him as he sat in his corner, recuperating. It was those golden eyes that urged him on, to thirst for blood to taint those eyes, to spread across white gloves.
“You’d look wonderful in scarlet, sweetheart.”
He wanted to see the boy rust, like metal. It was wonderful to see something break down, how it fell apart so impeccably, delicately. That was his pleasure, to see the world fall apart, and be the one to see the pieces fall and disintegrate into nothing.
Together, they work, rather often. They have temporary truces, little moments where they are simply Greed and Ling, and they are friends who live in the same body. They are both the gramophone and the record, each needing the other to become useful, beautiful. However, the golden boy is the third piece, the needle that keeps them all in existence, playing its ever constant melody.
“Swing softly….”
Edward didn’t really see. He saw things in strange loops and swirls, analyzing them to their deepest cores. He was above all, a scientist. Most of all, he saw in memories and sounds. His mother, and the scent of her cherry pie wafting through the vegetable garden; her soft singing following the sweet melodies of a lullaby as she stroked their hair and sang them to sleep.
“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot,
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n'ai plus de feu.
Ouvre-moi ta porte
Pour l'amour de Dieu!”
Sometimes he’d smell cinnamon from her hands, and the same smell would fill the room, sweet and cloying with a hint of unknown herbs and the smell of desert sand. He would burrow into his bed for the night, knowing that somebody was in the room with hum, and that he would be safe, and the aroma of cinnamon would occupy the whole of him, and he’ drift off to sleep with foreign words singing in his ear.
“想你啊乌兰巴托的爸爸
想念你就唱你教的歌谣
爸爸的心像是辽阔草原
我是羊群像白云…”
‘Sleep softly, gently, hold me tight…’
Quietly, they circled. Their spiral grew tighter and tighter, and close-knit weave of purple, black and gold. On one end was an elaborate knot, and one couldn’t tell where the separate strands began. The strings never stopped their everlasting weaving, darting back and forth in a deadly dance composed of balance.
‘Hold steady…..let go.’