FMA -- Crossed
Title: Crossed
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: (light) PG-13
Word Count: 605
Warnings: unwarranted postmodernism; language; major spoilers for FMA '03 and "Conqueror of Shamballa"
Summary: A binary system in motion.
Author's Note: Crap, I postmodern'd so bad. Uh, for geth-metal! Someone tell me that makes it okay.
CROSSED
In the end, they fall apart for the same reason they fell together: because their hearts align in constellational complement. Because they both love too hard, too much, too violently for anyone’s good. Because they’re both waiting for cracks to creep through the foundations, and when the fissures show, they dig their fingers in to prove that they knew it all along. Because a heart can’t break if you don’t give it time to register the impact.
Right?
Ed wears his battered heart on his blood-red sleeve, and the light of it is blinding. Can’t you see how much I fucking love you? Why won’t you just let me?
But Roy’s heart resides under deserts and oceans and pale sheets to protect it from the dust; Roy’s heart is subterranean; it is secret; it is hushed. The distance dulls the pounding to a baseline very few can hear. Would it kill you to lower your voice?
It would. Ed fights face-to-face, tackles head-on, loves wholehearted; there’s no point getting out of bed if you’re not going to give the morning everything you’ve got. Roy is made of stone and steel and white marble; Ed is slamming his fists into a blank wall, and raising his voice is the only outlet he’s got left.
Jesus fuck, if this suitcase isn’t the only thing he can count on some days. Some lifetimes. He never should’ve lived this long; he was never meant to; with enough time, he always takes the good stuff and tears it open and fucks it up.
Brother, he needs you.
Like hell he does.
I don’t mean in a romantic way. I mean that he breathes you, Brother.
Well, he can go fuck himself. Literally. That’s all he ever really wanted, and you know it.
The first time you were gone, he-
I know what he did. Grand fucking gestures are all good and well when I’m gone-but when I’m here, in the fucking day-to-day, minute-to-minute shit-he’s still fucking snowed-in, you know that? And I can’t spend my whole life digging him out.
Brother-
I’ll-see you later, Al.
Roy looks at the world sidelong so it won’t notice his attention. He plans on top of his plans, because contingencies kill, and he has lost too much, too many. He cannot be weak; weakness is a target. He cannot be open; openness is an invitation for invasion. He cannot be loved; love is for the deserving. It can’t be simple; nothing is simple; there must be something underneath the promise. He hasn’t earned promise, or promises, or honesty. He cannot be happy; happiness is a complicated lie. Once he untangles it, he’ll have been right from the beginning, right to question, right to doubt-
Sir.
Lieutenant?
I need you here, sir.
I’m sitting right in front of you.
Roy. I need you here.
I… know. But-
As far as I can tell, sir, this juncture actually makes things relatively easy for you.
In precisely what way is any of this ea-
If you can live without him, you will move on. If you can’t, then you will make the compromises and the sacrifices required to get him back.
How-
Stop thinking. Stop over-thinking. And drink your coffee, sir.
…yes, Lieutenant.
In the end, they fit again for the same reason they fragmented: because when their jagged edges meet, the join is almost seamless.
In the end, it was never an ending; the serpent can’t distinguish tail and tongue. In the end, the circle turns, and the constellation smolders in the sky.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: (light) PG-13
Word Count: 605
Warnings: unwarranted postmodernism; language; major spoilers for FMA '03 and "Conqueror of Shamballa"
Summary: A binary system in motion.
Author's Note: Crap, I postmodern'd so bad. Uh, for geth-metal! Someone tell me that makes it okay.
CROSSED
In the end, they fall apart for the same reason they fell together: because their hearts align in constellational complement. Because they both love too hard, too much, too violently for anyone’s good. Because they’re both waiting for cracks to creep through the foundations, and when the fissures show, they dig their fingers in to prove that they knew it all along. Because a heart can’t break if you don’t give it time to register the impact.
Right?
Ed wears his battered heart on his blood-red sleeve, and the light of it is blinding. Can’t you see how much I fucking love you? Why won’t you just let me?
But Roy’s heart resides under deserts and oceans and pale sheets to protect it from the dust; Roy’s heart is subterranean; it is secret; it is hushed. The distance dulls the pounding to a baseline very few can hear. Would it kill you to lower your voice?
It would. Ed fights face-to-face, tackles head-on, loves wholehearted; there’s no point getting out of bed if you’re not going to give the morning everything you’ve got. Roy is made of stone and steel and white marble; Ed is slamming his fists into a blank wall, and raising his voice is the only outlet he’s got left.
Jesus fuck, if this suitcase isn’t the only thing he can count on some days. Some lifetimes. He never should’ve lived this long; he was never meant to; with enough time, he always takes the good stuff and tears it open and fucks it up.
Brother, he needs you.
Like hell he does.
I don’t mean in a romantic way. I mean that he breathes you, Brother.
Well, he can go fuck himself. Literally. That’s all he ever really wanted, and you know it.
The first time you were gone, he-
I know what he did. Grand fucking gestures are all good and well when I’m gone-but when I’m here, in the fucking day-to-day, minute-to-minute shit-he’s still fucking snowed-in, you know that? And I can’t spend my whole life digging him out.
Brother-
I’ll-see you later, Al.
Roy looks at the world sidelong so it won’t notice his attention. He plans on top of his plans, because contingencies kill, and he has lost too much, too many. He cannot be weak; weakness is a target. He cannot be open; openness is an invitation for invasion. He cannot be loved; love is for the deserving. It can’t be simple; nothing is simple; there must be something underneath the promise. He hasn’t earned promise, or promises, or honesty. He cannot be happy; happiness is a complicated lie. Once he untangles it, he’ll have been right from the beginning, right to question, right to doubt-
Sir.
Lieutenant?
I need you here, sir.
I’m sitting right in front of you.
Roy. I need you here.
I… know. But-
As far as I can tell, sir, this juncture actually makes things relatively easy for you.
In precisely what way is any of this ea-
If you can live without him, you will move on. If you can’t, then you will make the compromises and the sacrifices required to get him back.
How-
Stop thinking. Stop over-thinking. And drink your coffee, sir.
…yes, Lieutenant.
In the end, they fit again for the same reason they fragmented: because when their jagged edges meet, the join is almost seamless.
In the end, it was never an ending; the serpent can’t distinguish tail and tongue. In the end, the circle turns, and the constellation smolders in the sky.