→ dear x-ray machine.
fullmetal alchemist. edward/alfons. g. 231 words
He owns four changes of clothes (most too big for him - the sleeves of his shirts all but cover his hands if he doesn't roll them up), a pair of well-worn white gloves, two notebooks, a bottle of ink, and a letter - my invitation to let him live with me, the paper permanently creased from being folded and unfolded countless times. He doesn't know that I know of that last one; I find it in the pocket of his coat when I volunteer to hang it up, and decide not to mention it.
When I turn back around, he's slumped over the kitchen table, resting his head on his arms. I'd like to brush the strands of hair away from his face, to go and find a blanket to lay over him, lean down and whisper a goodnight in his ear, but he'd only pull away and refuse to meet my eyes. So instead I shake his shoulder, tell him “Edward, you can't fall sleep here-” and he sighs and reluctantly agrees.
That night, he falls asleep almost immediately, but no matter how long I lay there, eyes closed, I can't manage to follow suit. Instead, I listen to the steady sound of his breathing, feel the unspoken words crushing my lungs, and I know that I won't have a good night's sleep for a very long time.