Living Room Space: Atlas Man -- Edward Elric (Part 2)
Title: Living Room Space
Author: Terracotta Bones
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: EdWinry
Spoilers: end of the series, end of the movie
Disclaimer: FANfiction.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1: Machine Language
Summary: Sometimes we dream of the people we love. Al still dreams, though he can look Ed in the eye. Edward has nightmares.
Author's Note: Go here to hear the song that inspired the story (and watch the hereby disclaimed anime video).
Chapter 2: Atlas Man
Part 2
______________________________________________________________________________
‘Cause you’re afraid to find out all this hope
You had sent into the sky by now had crashed
And it did
Because of me
______________________________________________________________________________
In a town like this, he bet that the stars looked great in the middle of the night. But he couldn’t tell.
Ed bent over a railing and threw up into someone’s bushes.
“Ed!” Al squawked. Ed could just see his brother’s mouth drop.
“C’est la vie,” he remarked, coughing. He continued with, “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” The words slithered out of his mouth like - like dribble through puffy, beat-up lips. Like vomit on a tongue.
He threw up again. This time he didn’t make it to the bush, and multi-colored barf flew onto the sidewalk.
Soon his head would spin off and land somewhere across the street, where he would have to search for it, blind and headless.
Honestly, he’d hoped for more when he and his brother arrived in Xenotime a few days ago. Lemon pie would have been nice, a few visits to old acquaintances - he could ignore the topic of Mugyar and the red water - but then the trees hadn’t grown back yet, and the gold hadn’t returned, and Russell Tringham was still Russell Tringham, and he and that punk just weren’t meant to be.
Maybe he should’ve been pleasanter - or not a complete asshole, as Al had reminded him every night. Maybe he should’ve stayed sober.
Naturally, thoughts like that run up the puke.
“God, you’re a mess,” Al groaned, and took his brother’s arm in order to drag him along.
He tried to wriggle free. Failing that, he quipped, “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, little brother!”
He gagged on his own words; he pictured a cathedral with a rose window, streets with cobblestones, England and Germany.
“Ed, shut up!” Al shook him. Ed could feel his brother’s glare on the back of his head. “Since when do you care about God?”
“You live in a psycho-religious place like Europe for a while, and you pick up a few things. Lemme go.”
There it was again - the tightness in his chest - the line he could never cross, the tale he would never tell. A cathedral with a rose window, and an old bespectacled man with a golden beard. This place called Europe where he’d been imprisoned for three years; this place that lived outside the blushing naiveté floating in his little brother’s face.
Al nearly dropped him on the sidewalk. “If you weren’t falling down drunk, I’d leave you behind.”
“Good thing I’m not falling down, then,” Ed retorted. Then he tripped, and retched over the side of the curb.
Al rolled his eyes. “How can you have that much in your stomach?”
Ed didn’t answer. He stayed crouched on the ground, dead certain that his entire body was being sucked up through his esophagus and onto the asphalt road. Maybe the roar in his head and his chest would go with it.
Honestly, he’d hoped things would go a little better.
He closed his eyes, and wished he could sink into the ground.
The truth behind all truths.
Life isn’t always better than death. Sidewalk is always better than drunk. He wiped his eyes.
Al sat down next to him, a good distance from any possible vomit spray. Ed heard his shoes crunch the gravel in the road, and hoped, ridiculously, that when he sat down it was with a straight back. When did he become his brother’s father?
He threw up, and wished he hadn’t gotten drunk.
His vision swam he was so nauseous, and Al was angry at him, again. The acid in his throat sizzled like comeuppance.
“You getting tired of me, Al?” he whispered.
Al didn’t even hesitate. “You’re my brother, Ed,” he said, just as softly.
Like a brother means anything, Ed thought bitterly, and not bitterly - not unkindly. He wondered who he was upset with - not Al. Never. But it was our only reason.
The ground wanted to swallow him in, whole. Piece by piece. And he would go under and not come up.
The curb beckoned to him.
A ripple ran through his body, and another gulp of breakfast, lunch, and dinner washed onto the road. Under the pool of light from the street lamp, it looked violet. Strange. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
The last time he’d done this, he was German.
Did you know I lived with Dad while I was in Europe?
“We just gonna wait here until I start dry heaving?”
“That or sober,” Al said, looking at his hands.
Ed blinked, hard, and stared at his brother to stay lucid. Alphonse. In three years, Al looked just like he’d imagined, considering that he hadn’t known he would be thirteen when they finally met again. His hair was short, unruly, and burnished gold. Ed hadn’t seen those ocean-gray eyes in eight years. Al looked like their mother - slender and lean, rather than thick and broad like their father. Al’s face was round, thin, and soft where Ed’s was hard. He held his body like a cat - gentle, and unobtrusive. He only came up to Ed’s chin, but that, unfortunately, would change soon.
In Europe, Ed couldn’t have dreamed of more. He’d spent half his life trying to get the boy in front of him back to the boy in front of him. It was all he ever wanted.
And Al didn’t remember.
They’d used the Philosopher’s Stone, the one fueled on human lives, to bring each other back. To return what they’d so foolishly lost. Ed had become a State Alchemist, had killed people, and the Gate had swallowed him like a dead soul, like alcohol or cement in the sidewalk. Worse than that. They’d sold the world just to save themselves, or almost - and voilà, the product of their sacrifices.
Voilà. Right.
He coughed bile out of his throat.
I’m glad you don’t remember.
He saw no lines in his brother’s face, no shadows, no demons. If they hadn’t tried, so long ago - if they hadn’t tried, maybe his brother would have grown up to be this boy in front of him, as innocent as he could ever wish.
Equivalent exchange finally gave him what he wanted, so to speak. Only, he was alone, again, in half a lifetime of catastrophe.
Homunculi. Mother. Automail chimera Roy Mustang Hughes Nina Shou Tucker military Lab Five Scar Greed Dante Lust; every eye-opening Gate crossing that ever destroyed his life. Nina. Hughes. His father.
Europe, and eight years, and nightmares.
There were places to lock up the things he didn’t want to think about. He just had to find them. Then Al could wonder for the rest of his life about the reality of what happened after their transmutation rebounded. Ed had tried for so long to take the world on his shoulders. Now he could.
Al shoved a handkerchief in his brother’s face, and Ed took it to wipe his mouth. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Al said, leaning back with his palms on the sidewalk. “You know, Fletcher said something to me.”
Ed managed to sit up. He only heard half of what his brother said, then he tilted his head up to look at the stars, and tried vainly to count the pinpricks. His brain was clouded.
In America, we call that the Big Dipper.
He knew these constellations. Nothing new or unfamiliar about them. A little boy’s shapes in the sky.
Mind the crab grass. It’s a weed.
He knew the kinds of grass - he knew long, sweeping fields and wind and herds of sheep. He knew Resembol. After three years in Europe, he was good at it. All he had to do was close his eyes and there she’d be - Resembol. Long fields, and his once-upon-a-time of a childhood.
“He said that we should go home.”
Ed grunted, blinked. Somewhere along the line, the fabric split into threads. He put his head in his hands. The line he couldn’t cross - which side was he on? Somehow he couldn’t imagine standing with Al, oblivious, looking over the divide. In the valley, he stood blinded, looking up.
Welcome to my humble abode, Mister Elric! Oh, this is my baby daughter, Lucy.
His name was Oberth, a German scientist.
Nina. Hughes. Baby pictures on the bulletin board in Winry’s kitchen.
Why did he decide to miss Europe now, of all times? Why did he miss Europe at all? He’d spent the whole time partway insane, dreaming. He didn’t remember half of anything, or tried not to, but here were the words and faces, planted next to his alchemy and ghosts. The valley of the shadow of - he didn’t remember it now.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, Elric.
CHAPTER 2: PART 1
CHAPTER 2: PART 3
Author: Terracotta Bones
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: EdWinry
Spoilers: end of the series, end of the movie
Disclaimer: FANfiction.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1: Machine Language
Summary: Sometimes we dream of the people we love. Al still dreams, though he can look Ed in the eye. Edward has nightmares.
Author's Note: Go here to hear the song that inspired the story (and watch the hereby disclaimed anime video).
Chapter 2: Atlas Man
Part 2
______________________________________________________________________________
‘Cause you’re afraid to find out all this hope
You had sent into the sky by now had crashed
And it did
Because of me
______________________________________________________________________________
In a town like this, he bet that the stars looked great in the middle of the night. But he couldn’t tell.
Ed bent over a railing and threw up into someone’s bushes.
“Ed!” Al squawked. Ed could just see his brother’s mouth drop.
“C’est la vie,” he remarked, coughing. He continued with, “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” The words slithered out of his mouth like - like dribble through puffy, beat-up lips. Like vomit on a tongue.
He threw up again. This time he didn’t make it to the bush, and multi-colored barf flew onto the sidewalk.
Soon his head would spin off and land somewhere across the street, where he would have to search for it, blind and headless.
Honestly, he’d hoped for more when he and his brother arrived in Xenotime a few days ago. Lemon pie would have been nice, a few visits to old acquaintances - he could ignore the topic of Mugyar and the red water - but then the trees hadn’t grown back yet, and the gold hadn’t returned, and Russell Tringham was still Russell Tringham, and he and that punk just weren’t meant to be.
Maybe he should’ve been pleasanter - or not a complete asshole, as Al had reminded him every night. Maybe he should’ve stayed sober.
Naturally, thoughts like that run up the puke.
“God, you’re a mess,” Al groaned, and took his brother’s arm in order to drag him along.
He tried to wriggle free. Failing that, he quipped, “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, little brother!”
He gagged on his own words; he pictured a cathedral with a rose window, streets with cobblestones, England and Germany.
“Ed, shut up!” Al shook him. Ed could feel his brother’s glare on the back of his head. “Since when do you care about God?”
“You live in a psycho-religious place like Europe for a while, and you pick up a few things. Lemme go.”
There it was again - the tightness in his chest - the line he could never cross, the tale he would never tell. A cathedral with a rose window, and an old bespectacled man with a golden beard. This place called Europe where he’d been imprisoned for three years; this place that lived outside the blushing naiveté floating in his little brother’s face.
Al nearly dropped him on the sidewalk. “If you weren’t falling down drunk, I’d leave you behind.”
“Good thing I’m not falling down, then,” Ed retorted. Then he tripped, and retched over the side of the curb.
Al rolled his eyes. “How can you have that much in your stomach?”
Ed didn’t answer. He stayed crouched on the ground, dead certain that his entire body was being sucked up through his esophagus and onto the asphalt road. Maybe the roar in his head and his chest would go with it.
Honestly, he’d hoped things would go a little better.
He closed his eyes, and wished he could sink into the ground.
The truth behind all truths.
Life isn’t always better than death. Sidewalk is always better than drunk. He wiped his eyes.
Al sat down next to him, a good distance from any possible vomit spray. Ed heard his shoes crunch the gravel in the road, and hoped, ridiculously, that when he sat down it was with a straight back. When did he become his brother’s father?
He threw up, and wished he hadn’t gotten drunk.
His vision swam he was so nauseous, and Al was angry at him, again. The acid in his throat sizzled like comeuppance.
“You getting tired of me, Al?” he whispered.
Al didn’t even hesitate. “You’re my brother, Ed,” he said, just as softly.
Like a brother means anything, Ed thought bitterly, and not bitterly - not unkindly. He wondered who he was upset with - not Al. Never. But it was our only reason.
The ground wanted to swallow him in, whole. Piece by piece. And he would go under and not come up.
The curb beckoned to him.
A ripple ran through his body, and another gulp of breakfast, lunch, and dinner washed onto the road. Under the pool of light from the street lamp, it looked violet. Strange. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
The last time he’d done this, he was German.
Did you know I lived with Dad while I was in Europe?
“We just gonna wait here until I start dry heaving?”
“That or sober,” Al said, looking at his hands.
Ed blinked, hard, and stared at his brother to stay lucid. Alphonse. In three years, Al looked just like he’d imagined, considering that he hadn’t known he would be thirteen when they finally met again. His hair was short, unruly, and burnished gold. Ed hadn’t seen those ocean-gray eyes in eight years. Al looked like their mother - slender and lean, rather than thick and broad like their father. Al’s face was round, thin, and soft where Ed’s was hard. He held his body like a cat - gentle, and unobtrusive. He only came up to Ed’s chin, but that, unfortunately, would change soon.
In Europe, Ed couldn’t have dreamed of more. He’d spent half his life trying to get the boy in front of him back to the boy in front of him. It was all he ever wanted.
And Al didn’t remember.
They’d used the Philosopher’s Stone, the one fueled on human lives, to bring each other back. To return what they’d so foolishly lost. Ed had become a State Alchemist, had killed people, and the Gate had swallowed him like a dead soul, like alcohol or cement in the sidewalk. Worse than that. They’d sold the world just to save themselves, or almost - and voilà, the product of their sacrifices.
Voilà. Right.
He coughed bile out of his throat.
I’m glad you don’t remember.
He saw no lines in his brother’s face, no shadows, no demons. If they hadn’t tried, so long ago - if they hadn’t tried, maybe his brother would have grown up to be this boy in front of him, as innocent as he could ever wish.
Equivalent exchange finally gave him what he wanted, so to speak. Only, he was alone, again, in half a lifetime of catastrophe.
Homunculi. Mother. Automail chimera Roy Mustang Hughes Nina Shou Tucker military Lab Five Scar Greed Dante Lust; every eye-opening Gate crossing that ever destroyed his life. Nina. Hughes. His father.
Europe, and eight years, and nightmares.
There were places to lock up the things he didn’t want to think about. He just had to find them. Then Al could wonder for the rest of his life about the reality of what happened after their transmutation rebounded. Ed had tried for so long to take the world on his shoulders. Now he could.
Al shoved a handkerchief in his brother’s face, and Ed took it to wipe his mouth. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Al said, leaning back with his palms on the sidewalk. “You know, Fletcher said something to me.”
Ed managed to sit up. He only heard half of what his brother said, then he tilted his head up to look at the stars, and tried vainly to count the pinpricks. His brain was clouded.
In America, we call that the Big Dipper.
He knew these constellations. Nothing new or unfamiliar about them. A little boy’s shapes in the sky.
Mind the crab grass. It’s a weed.
He knew the kinds of grass - he knew long, sweeping fields and wind and herds of sheep. He knew Resembol. After three years in Europe, he was good at it. All he had to do was close his eyes and there she’d be - Resembol. Long fields, and his once-upon-a-time of a childhood.
“He said that we should go home.”
Ed grunted, blinked. Somewhere along the line, the fabric split into threads. He put his head in his hands. The line he couldn’t cross - which side was he on? Somehow he couldn’t imagine standing with Al, oblivious, looking over the divide. In the valley, he stood blinded, looking up.
Welcome to my humble abode, Mister Elric! Oh, this is my baby daughter, Lucy.
His name was Oberth, a German scientist.
Nina. Hughes. Baby pictures on the bulletin board in Winry’s kitchen.
Why did he decide to miss Europe now, of all times? Why did he miss Europe at all? He’d spent the whole time partway insane, dreaming. He didn’t remember half of anything, or tried not to, but here were the words and faces, planted next to his alchemy and ghosts. The valley of the shadow of - he didn’t remember it now.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, Elric.
CHAPTER 2: PART 1
CHAPTER 2: PART 3