alfons/ed - viciously lonely (maybe unfinished?)
Title: Viciously Lonely
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairings/Characters: Alfons/Ed (with, um, some definite Ed/Al... at least one-sided... ;;;)
Rating: PG-13ish? fuck this I don't even know
Warnings: Teh gay. That vest, Emo-ness on both characters' parts.
***
"Without you here I’m viciously lonely
and I can’t remember
the last time I felt holy,
the last time I offered
myself as sanctuary"
- Aaron Smith
***
Maybe I'm no more than his sanctuary. The one safe thing in a world he doesn't understand; the closest thing he has to home now. I know he doesn't really "love" me (and the way he says the word is enough to make it clear) for who I am. It's only that I remind him of something.
Or someone.
I'm nothing more than what he needs.
***
- what're you doing up this late?
- i was worried, okay?
- ... edward.
- what, is that a criminal offense now?
He's trying to look nonchalant, sprawled on the couch with a book on his lap, but I can see lines of worry on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth and it's not fair. He's so young and so beautiful, too beautiful to look so worn and lonely.
Apparently I'm not companionship enough.
- no, that's not what I - never mind.
Something in my chest swells and my heart misses a beat when I realize he's worried about me, me for once, not the other way around, and it makes my skin crawl that I'm taking pleasure in his concern. What kind of sick freak are you?
He frowns, deliberately avoiding my eyes (he knows, he knows, he knows) and crossing his arms. - whatever... alfons.
I know he hates my name. Know he almost leaves it at Al most days, before stammering out a second syllable, almost the same as his brother's and so close that he has to resent it. Has to resent me for being so like him but so unforgivably not him at all.
- ... edward?
- mmmn?
(you can call me by his name if you want to. you can tell me more of your stories, until I can be him for you, if that's what you want. if it would make you love me.)
- it's... er, it's nothing, sorry.
- you're strange, Alfons, he says, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet. - goodnight.
***
I dream, sometimes. Of a time-worn red coat and a small town in a place I don't recognize. Of an almost-familiar voice calling a name that's not quite mine, but not quite someone else's either.
And then I wake up and feel the warm, heavy weight of him against me, his head resting on my shoulder, his breath against my neck, and I wonder if that's part of the dream too.
***
He wears his sadness like a winter coat, too big for him but soft and too big, enveloping him, almost appearing to swallow him whole and somehow, comforting enough that he isn't just about to pull it off and discard it forever.
It's only when I'm pulling off the rest of his clothes, vest, crisp white shirt gone un-ironed too long, and- only then he shrugs it off, leaves it in a corner somewhere, and I could swear that he smiles for the first time I can remember.
***
Drunk and tired, he's slumped on the table across from me, fingers feebly clutching the handle of a mug of beer.
I should leave him alone. I should tell him he'll be fine. Anything except awkwardly resting my hand on his, hoping that this little bit of comfort I can give him will be enough.
- al...
And you tell him - yes, I'm here, because there's nothing else left to say.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairings/Characters: Alfons/Ed (with, um, some definite Ed/Al... at least one-sided... ;;;)
Rating: PG-13ish? fuck this I don't even know
Warnings: Teh gay. That vest, Emo-ness on both characters' parts.
***
"Without you here I’m viciously lonely
and I can’t remember
the last time I felt holy,
the last time I offered
myself as sanctuary"
- Aaron Smith
***
Maybe I'm no more than his sanctuary. The one safe thing in a world he doesn't understand; the closest thing he has to home now. I know he doesn't really "love" me (and the way he says the word is enough to make it clear) for who I am. It's only that I remind him of something.
Or someone.
I'm nothing more than what he needs.
***
- what're you doing up this late?
- i was worried, okay?
- ... edward.
- what, is that a criminal offense now?
He's trying to look nonchalant, sprawled on the couch with a book on his lap, but I can see lines of worry on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth and it's not fair. He's so young and so beautiful, too beautiful to look so worn and lonely.
Apparently I'm not companionship enough.
- no, that's not what I - never mind.
Something in my chest swells and my heart misses a beat when I realize he's worried about me, me for once, not the other way around, and it makes my skin crawl that I'm taking pleasure in his concern. What kind of sick freak are you?
He frowns, deliberately avoiding my eyes (he knows, he knows, he knows) and crossing his arms. - whatever... alfons.
I know he hates my name. Know he almost leaves it at Al most days, before stammering out a second syllable, almost the same as his brother's and so close that he has to resent it. Has to resent me for being so like him but so unforgivably not him at all.
- ... edward?
- mmmn?
(you can call me by his name if you want to. you can tell me more of your stories, until I can be him for you, if that's what you want. if it would make you love me.)
- it's... er, it's nothing, sorry.
- you're strange, Alfons, he says, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet. - goodnight.
***
I dream, sometimes. Of a time-worn red coat and a small town in a place I don't recognize. Of an almost-familiar voice calling a name that's not quite mine, but not quite someone else's either.
And then I wake up and feel the warm, heavy weight of him against me, his head resting on my shoulder, his breath against my neck, and I wonder if that's part of the dream too.
***
He wears his sadness like a winter coat, too big for him but soft and too big, enveloping him, almost appearing to swallow him whole and somehow, comforting enough that he isn't just about to pull it off and discard it forever.
It's only when I'm pulling off the rest of his clothes, vest, crisp white shirt gone un-ironed too long, and- only then he shrugs it off, leaves it in a corner somewhere, and I could swear that he smiles for the first time I can remember.
***
Drunk and tired, he's slumped on the table across from me, fingers feebly clutching the handle of a mug of beer.
I should leave him alone. I should tell him he'll be fine. Anything except awkwardly resting my hand on his, hoping that this little bit of comfort I can give him will be enough.
- al...
And you tell him - yes, I'm here, because there's nothing else left to say.