Untitled
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (movie!verse)
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Alfons/Edward (or Edward/Alfons, more accurately)
Rating: PG-15... ish? |D;;
Warnings: FAIL. And lots of it. Language; using the second person POV again; unnecessary angst; did not do the research about butterflies.
Author's note: Written at 3 AM. Excuse the incoherency. Also, excuse any OOC-ness here - I know I'm probably writing both of them all wrong and I messed up TONS of facts and... argh. ALSO STUPID, LONG, NONSENSICAL METAPHOR IS STUPID, LONG, AND NONSENSICAL.
I should just die. *goes to make self taller*
Sometimes you can't help but question the way he acts around you, like you're fragile, some breakable object to be treated with the utmost care. You're not used to that, and it half-annoys, half-scares you - what does he think, that the slightest bit of stress would drive you mad?
You think about the time when you were young and, after trying for what felt like the longest time, finally caught a butterfly, only to have it stagger weakly from your cupped hands and fall to the ground, wings fluttering feebly.
When you came home to your mother, stomach twisted with guilt, and explained, she'd put her hand on your shoulder and explained that butterfly wings are so delicate, the slightest touch could just simply - melt them away.
***
Your first kiss is in the small, cramped kitchen of the apartment, both of you half-drunk and not entirely in control, and it's sloppy and probably wrong in about twenty different ways and neither of you can stop laughing, but it's something, and, you reason, probably less awkward than some percentage of first kisses. Not that there's a scientific study of that sort of thing - although if there was one, you, at least, would know a little better what to do - and he would've read the whole thing through at least twice more than was needed and practiced beforehand.
Not that he needs to, you think with the one portion of your brain that hasn't shorted out to a sort of static of he'skissingmehe'sactuallyfinallykissingme.
You wonder vaguely if he has had practice and if he has, who was it with? but - it's better to break off that thought before it has a chance to consume you.
***
He deserves so much better, you think as the two of you walk down the street, arms weighed down with groceries, keeping far enough apart so not to arouse suspicion. Someone who'll let him kiss them in public, who's normal, someone - you glance bitterly at your prosthetic arm - whole.
A redheaded girl, hair in loose braids tied with bits of blue ribbon, passes you, pausing to look up at the slate-gray sky. Someone like her, you think. The moment it crosses your mind, you can see it, some future where she walks hand in hand with the boy standing beside you now, trading smiles and shoulders brushing accidentally-on-purpose. The two of them on opposite sides of a table of some restaurant somewhere, laughing at some private joke. The bedroom of the apartment, your books and papers no longer scattered across every available surface, but instead her coat left haphazardly on top of the dresser, and you can't move, can't make a sound, can't tear your eyes away as he presses his lips to hers and reaches for the buttons on her blouse-
"Are you all right? You look a bit pale."
And just like that, you're back on the street and she's gone and his hand is on your shoulder.
You shake it off, as gently as you can, and tell him you're fine. Even though it feels like your insides are collapsing in on themselves.
***
For Christmas the first year, he buys you a new coat, dark brown and warm and smelling like the store he bought it from. "Because I know my extra one doesn't fit you," he mutters, looking at the floor. "Sorry, I know it's not very fancy, or- or anything..."
But you're already slipping it on, holding your arms out to check the length of the sleeves. It's amazing how well it fits, almost as if he's had it tailor-made, but that can't be possible. You haven't been fitted for anything since you got here, excluding the arm and leg, of course, and you can't remember him ever asking you about measurements... Either way, resourcefulness or just dumb luck, you love it. It's the first Christmas present you've ever been given.
You hadn't known you were supposed to give him anything. How could you have? You'd never even heard of this holiday before.
"... I'm sorry," you end your long, rambling explanation of why there's no carefully wrapped gift waiting for him to open. "But at least I know to get you something next year."
He mutters something. You catch an "if I'm" and the rest is all just a jumble of unrecognizable syllables, but you notice that he half frowns and closes his eyes as he says it
"What?"
"Nothing. Stop apologizing, you-" He laughs, but it's forced. "You crazy alien."
***
"I'm back from the doctor's," he calls from the kitchen one night. You're lying in - or more accuractely, on - bed, still dressed. You've got reading you should do, but whenever you pick up a book, the diagrams seem to swim on the page and the words are all in the wrong order. So you've been here for the past two hours. Thinking.
"What're you so preoccupied with, hm?" he asks, sitting down next to you.
You think about it for a moment. "Butterflies."
"Butterflies - it's barely April, Ed. It won't be warm enough for butterflies for at least a few months." He swings his legs up onto the bed, lies down next to you.
"Yeah." You shift over towards him and lean your head on his shoulder. "I know."
"It's funny about butterflies, though, isn't it? You can try and catch them, but they usually die, or they're too hurt to fly."
You nod.
"But if you don't, if you just leave them alone, eventually, they'll fly away."
"If I were a butterfly, I'd rather be left alone," you say, trying to make a joke, because there's a sort of sadness to the way he says it that you've only heard once before. Christmas. That mumbled... whatever it was.
"Really?"
"Mhm."
***
"Ed, I can't do this any more."
He's sitting at the kitchen table, hands on his knees, slumped over so you can't see his face.
You put down the book on engines you've been flipping through. "What, work? But you love it-"
Sigh. "Not work. I mean... us. We can't do this any more."
And all of a sudden you're having trouble breathing.
"I- you- what- if this has anything to do with what the doctor told you-" you manage to gasp, though it feels like someone's just punched you in the stomach. Hard.
"It doesn't. Well, um, that's part of it, but..." Even if you can't see it, you know exactly what his face looks like right now. Sad blue eyes. "It's just- what if you do find a way back?"
"There isn't a way back." You know. You looked, for the longest time, you read the university's library, every book on every shelf, twice, you asked all the professors, you drew arrays on the bedroom floor in chalk, you drew them in your own blood. Nothing worked. You gave up hope.
"But what if there is? I can't go with you. You can't stay here-"
"I could." It's a lie, but fuck, he can't be doing this to you. Not now.
His head snaps up. "I know you, Ed. You couldn't. You wouldn't even think twice. At least you wouldn't have, six months ago." And you'd hesitate now, because of me. He doesn't even have to say it, but you know just what he's thinking.
"But it can be like it used to be, before we- well. We'll still be friends."
No, we won't. We can't be.
"It's better this way. Really."
It isn't.
"It's better this way," he repeats, but there's a hint of doubt in his voice.
***
Empty classrooms at the university, as it turns out, are very good places to disappear to for an hour or so.
He breaks a particularly long and involved kiss, struggling to catch his breath. "I told you, we can't keep- mm - can't keep doing this, someone might find out and-"
"Who cares what they think?"
"This is the last time, Ed."
"Fine. One last time," you breathe into his neck, and return to your previous task of trying to get his shirt off as fast as you possibly can.
He says each time is the last time. But there's always one more last time. Always.
***
It's summer now, and you go for a walk in the park alone, needing some time away from your research and the ink stains on your hands and the most recent call from the doctor, about... whatever was wrong with him. He hadn't been home, so you'd answered it. The next half hour or so is still a bit blurry, but you remember one word, crystal clear:
Incurable.
You hadn't cried over it. You don't cry anymore. Maybe tears work differently in this world. But you'd nearly been sick and had to sit down for a while. He'd come home to find you asleep at the kitchen table, a medical textbook and your own notes on alchemy around you.
You should be enjoying the day. It's beautiful, cloudless skies and stupid twittering birds and kids in brightly colored clothes running all over the place. But everything suddenly seems a few shades more gray.
A butterfly - what a stupid fucking coincidence - flutters past your face, and you're tempted to just hit it out of the air. Stupid butterfly metaphors, stupid figurative language, stupid, beautiful, dying roommate-best friend-whatever it was you are now-
You can catch a butterfly. You can turn its wings to dust, in parts, but if you're careful with it, it'll live out the rest of its lifespan, you think.
But when you're gone, what's that poor insect going to do without you?
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Alfons/Edward (or Edward/Alfons, more accurately)
Rating: PG-15... ish? |D;;
Warnings: FAIL. And lots of it. Language; using the second person POV again; unnecessary angst; did not do the research about butterflies.
Author's note: Written at 3 AM. Excuse the incoherency. Also, excuse any OOC-ness here - I know I'm probably writing both of them all wrong and I messed up TONS of facts and... argh. ALSO STUPID, LONG, NONSENSICAL METAPHOR IS STUPID, LONG, AND NONSENSICAL.
I should just die. *goes to make self taller*
Sometimes you can't help but question the way he acts around you, like you're fragile, some breakable object to be treated with the utmost care. You're not used to that, and it half-annoys, half-scares you - what does he think, that the slightest bit of stress would drive you mad?
You think about the time when you were young and, after trying for what felt like the longest time, finally caught a butterfly, only to have it stagger weakly from your cupped hands and fall to the ground, wings fluttering feebly.
When you came home to your mother, stomach twisted with guilt, and explained, she'd put her hand on your shoulder and explained that butterfly wings are so delicate, the slightest touch could just simply - melt them away.
***
Your first kiss is in the small, cramped kitchen of the apartment, both of you half-drunk and not entirely in control, and it's sloppy and probably wrong in about twenty different ways and neither of you can stop laughing, but it's something, and, you reason, probably less awkward than some percentage of first kisses. Not that there's a scientific study of that sort of thing - although if there was one, you, at least, would know a little better what to do - and he would've read the whole thing through at least twice more than was needed and practiced beforehand.
Not that he needs to, you think with the one portion of your brain that hasn't shorted out to a sort of static of he'skissingmehe'sactuallyfinallykissingme.
You wonder vaguely if he has had practice and if he has, who was it with? but - it's better to break off that thought before it has a chance to consume you.
***
He deserves so much better, you think as the two of you walk down the street, arms weighed down with groceries, keeping far enough apart so not to arouse suspicion. Someone who'll let him kiss them in public, who's normal, someone - you glance bitterly at your prosthetic arm - whole.
A redheaded girl, hair in loose braids tied with bits of blue ribbon, passes you, pausing to look up at the slate-gray sky. Someone like her, you think. The moment it crosses your mind, you can see it, some future where she walks hand in hand with the boy standing beside you now, trading smiles and shoulders brushing accidentally-on-purpose. The two of them on opposite sides of a table of some restaurant somewhere, laughing at some private joke. The bedroom of the apartment, your books and papers no longer scattered across every available surface, but instead her coat left haphazardly on top of the dresser, and you can't move, can't make a sound, can't tear your eyes away as he presses his lips to hers and reaches for the buttons on her blouse-
"Are you all right? You look a bit pale."
And just like that, you're back on the street and she's gone and his hand is on your shoulder.
You shake it off, as gently as you can, and tell him you're fine. Even though it feels like your insides are collapsing in on themselves.
***
For Christmas the first year, he buys you a new coat, dark brown and warm and smelling like the store he bought it from. "Because I know my extra one doesn't fit you," he mutters, looking at the floor. "Sorry, I know it's not very fancy, or- or anything..."
But you're already slipping it on, holding your arms out to check the length of the sleeves. It's amazing how well it fits, almost as if he's had it tailor-made, but that can't be possible. You haven't been fitted for anything since you got here, excluding the arm and leg, of course, and you can't remember him ever asking you about measurements... Either way, resourcefulness or just dumb luck, you love it. It's the first Christmas present you've ever been given.
You hadn't known you were supposed to give him anything. How could you have? You'd never even heard of this holiday before.
"... I'm sorry," you end your long, rambling explanation of why there's no carefully wrapped gift waiting for him to open. "But at least I know to get you something next year."
He mutters something. You catch an "if I'm" and the rest is all just a jumble of unrecognizable syllables, but you notice that he half frowns and closes his eyes as he says it
"What?"
"Nothing. Stop apologizing, you-" He laughs, but it's forced. "You crazy alien."
***
"I'm back from the doctor's," he calls from the kitchen one night. You're lying in - or more accuractely, on - bed, still dressed. You've got reading you should do, but whenever you pick up a book, the diagrams seem to swim on the page and the words are all in the wrong order. So you've been here for the past two hours. Thinking.
"What're you so preoccupied with, hm?" he asks, sitting down next to you.
You think about it for a moment. "Butterflies."
"Butterflies - it's barely April, Ed. It won't be warm enough for butterflies for at least a few months." He swings his legs up onto the bed, lies down next to you.
"Yeah." You shift over towards him and lean your head on his shoulder. "I know."
"It's funny about butterflies, though, isn't it? You can try and catch them, but they usually die, or they're too hurt to fly."
You nod.
"But if you don't, if you just leave them alone, eventually, they'll fly away."
"If I were a butterfly, I'd rather be left alone," you say, trying to make a joke, because there's a sort of sadness to the way he says it that you've only heard once before. Christmas. That mumbled... whatever it was.
"Really?"
"Mhm."
***
"Ed, I can't do this any more."
He's sitting at the kitchen table, hands on his knees, slumped over so you can't see his face.
You put down the book on engines you've been flipping through. "What, work? But you love it-"
Sigh. "Not work. I mean... us. We can't do this any more."
And all of a sudden you're having trouble breathing.
"I- you- what- if this has anything to do with what the doctor told you-" you manage to gasp, though it feels like someone's just punched you in the stomach. Hard.
"It doesn't. Well, um, that's part of it, but..." Even if you can't see it, you know exactly what his face looks like right now. Sad blue eyes. "It's just- what if you do find a way back?"
"There isn't a way back." You know. You looked, for the longest time, you read the university's library, every book on every shelf, twice, you asked all the professors, you drew arrays on the bedroom floor in chalk, you drew them in your own blood. Nothing worked. You gave up hope.
"But what if there is? I can't go with you. You can't stay here-"
"I could." It's a lie, but fuck, he can't be doing this to you. Not now.
His head snaps up. "I know you, Ed. You couldn't. You wouldn't even think twice. At least you wouldn't have, six months ago." And you'd hesitate now, because of me. He doesn't even have to say it, but you know just what he's thinking.
"But it can be like it used to be, before we- well. We'll still be friends."
No, we won't. We can't be.
"It's better this way. Really."
It isn't.
"It's better this way," he repeats, but there's a hint of doubt in his voice.
***
Empty classrooms at the university, as it turns out, are very good places to disappear to for an hour or so.
He breaks a particularly long and involved kiss, struggling to catch his breath. "I told you, we can't keep- mm - can't keep doing this, someone might find out and-"
"Who cares what they think?"
"This is the last time, Ed."
"Fine. One last time," you breathe into his neck, and return to your previous task of trying to get his shirt off as fast as you possibly can.
He says each time is the last time. But there's always one more last time. Always.
***
It's summer now, and you go for a walk in the park alone, needing some time away from your research and the ink stains on your hands and the most recent call from the doctor, about... whatever was wrong with him. He hadn't been home, so you'd answered it. The next half hour or so is still a bit blurry, but you remember one word, crystal clear:
Incurable.
You hadn't cried over it. You don't cry anymore. Maybe tears work differently in this world. But you'd nearly been sick and had to sit down for a while. He'd come home to find you asleep at the kitchen table, a medical textbook and your own notes on alchemy around you.
You should be enjoying the day. It's beautiful, cloudless skies and stupid twittering birds and kids in brightly colored clothes running all over the place. But everything suddenly seems a few shades more gray.
A butterfly - what a stupid fucking coincidence - flutters past your face, and you're tempted to just hit it out of the air. Stupid butterfly metaphors, stupid figurative language, stupid, beautiful, dying roommate-best friend-whatever it was you are now-
You can catch a butterfly. You can turn its wings to dust, in parts, but if you're careful with it, it'll live out the rest of its lifespan, you think.
But when you're gone, what's that poor insect going to do without you?