FMA -- Underneath
Title: Underneath
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Miles/Alfons
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Warnings: CANONSMASH, I take my crackships seriously, post-coital schmoooooop
Summary: Sometimes fingertips say more than words, and sometimes life offers more than dreams.
Author's Note: For Phindus. Because he's the best. ♥ And because HeiMiles foeva. \o/
UNDERNEATH
Maybe there’s an infinity of heavens out there, if you know where to look-maybe everyone’s is slightly different, tailored to their tastes. Alfons can think of a few places he’d retreat to, if he had the option-places with books, with plans, with stars, with skyline silhouettes. Solace comes in many forms.
At the moment, though, his favorite heaven is this one that he’s living.
He drags his fingers slowly through Miles’s pale hair, watching the way it parts around his knuckles, grazing Miles’s scalp with his fingernails. His skin prickles a little as the sweat cools between his shoulder-blades, but under the tangled sheets, it’s still warm.
“If I’d known you were going to find my hair so entertaining,” Miles says, face entirely blank but for the unmistakable spark of amusement in his dark red eyes, “I would have washed it.”
Alfons tugs gently, trying very hard to scowl instead of grinning. “Don’t laugh.”
Miles is all wide, ruby-eyed innocence. “I’m not laughing.”
“This,” Alfons says, prodding with a fingertip at the tiny quirk at the corner of Miles’s lips, “means laughing loudly, for you.”
“What unfounded calumny,” Miles says, mouth twitching more.
“I am deaf, from your laughing,” Alfons says. He twists a silvery lock around his first finger. Miles has rather lovely ears. “It is only… there is no one like you, where I come from.”
“And you’re a scientist,” Miles says, leaning into the touch, eyes sliding halfway closed. “So the difference fascinates you.”
“Yes,” Alfons says helplessly, “but-it is not… not just this.” He strokes a few white wisps back from Miles’s forehead. “It is… it is more.”
It’s too difficult to struggle with the tangling sounds and jangled syllables of Amestrian when his heart is about to overflow. It’s your spirit. It’s your strength. It’s your quietness, and the power underneath it. It’s the Briggs wall around you, and the way you open to me-only to me, as though I’m special-and how warm you are beneath the snow.
“It is also,” Alfons says, “it is very much-this.”
He flattens his hand over the center of Miles’s chest.
Miles blinks at him. “It’s my sternum?”
Alfons smacks his shoulder roundly. “You-!” This time, Miles really does laugh-fully, brightly, warmly. “Well, it is certainly not your sense of humor!”
Miles shifts up onto one elbow-Alfons’s heart skips a little at the way the rumpled sheet slides down to his hip; and a rather different part of his anatomy jumps, too-and leans forward to kiss him soundly. Alfons lets his eyes drift shut, lifting his hand to run just the pads of his fingertips over the muscles in Miles’s arm. His breath comes short from his scarred lungs, but his whole body’s singing, and he’s just so… warm. Safe. Loved.
“Ah,” Miles murmurs against his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his collarbones, after they part. “It’s my animal sex appeal, isn’t it?”
Alfons smiles, and shivers, and smiles a little more.
“Something like that,” he says.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Miles/Alfons
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Warnings: CANONSMASH, I take my crackships seriously, post-coital schmoooooop
Summary: Sometimes fingertips say more than words, and sometimes life offers more than dreams.
Author's Note: For Phindus. Because he's the best. ♥ And because HeiMiles foeva. \o/
UNDERNEATH
Maybe there’s an infinity of heavens out there, if you know where to look-maybe everyone’s is slightly different, tailored to their tastes. Alfons can think of a few places he’d retreat to, if he had the option-places with books, with plans, with stars, with skyline silhouettes. Solace comes in many forms.
At the moment, though, his favorite heaven is this one that he’s living.
He drags his fingers slowly through Miles’s pale hair, watching the way it parts around his knuckles, grazing Miles’s scalp with his fingernails. His skin prickles a little as the sweat cools between his shoulder-blades, but under the tangled sheets, it’s still warm.
“If I’d known you were going to find my hair so entertaining,” Miles says, face entirely blank but for the unmistakable spark of amusement in his dark red eyes, “I would have washed it.”
Alfons tugs gently, trying very hard to scowl instead of grinning. “Don’t laugh.”
Miles is all wide, ruby-eyed innocence. “I’m not laughing.”
“This,” Alfons says, prodding with a fingertip at the tiny quirk at the corner of Miles’s lips, “means laughing loudly, for you.”
“What unfounded calumny,” Miles says, mouth twitching more.
“I am deaf, from your laughing,” Alfons says. He twists a silvery lock around his first finger. Miles has rather lovely ears. “It is only… there is no one like you, where I come from.”
“And you’re a scientist,” Miles says, leaning into the touch, eyes sliding halfway closed. “So the difference fascinates you.”
“Yes,” Alfons says helplessly, “but-it is not… not just this.” He strokes a few white wisps back from Miles’s forehead. “It is… it is more.”
It’s too difficult to struggle with the tangling sounds and jangled syllables of Amestrian when his heart is about to overflow. It’s your spirit. It’s your strength. It’s your quietness, and the power underneath it. It’s the Briggs wall around you, and the way you open to me-only to me, as though I’m special-and how warm you are beneath the snow.
“It is also,” Alfons says, “it is very much-this.”
He flattens his hand over the center of Miles’s chest.
Miles blinks at him. “It’s my sternum?”
Alfons smacks his shoulder roundly. “You-!” This time, Miles really does laugh-fully, brightly, warmly. “Well, it is certainly not your sense of humor!”
Miles shifts up onto one elbow-Alfons’s heart skips a little at the way the rumpled sheet slides down to his hip; and a rather different part of his anatomy jumps, too-and leans forward to kiss him soundly. Alfons lets his eyes drift shut, lifting his hand to run just the pads of his fingertips over the muscles in Miles’s arm. His breath comes short from his scarred lungs, but his whole body’s singing, and he’s just so… warm. Safe. Loved.
“Ah,” Miles murmurs against his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his collarbones, after they part. “It’s my animal sex appeal, isn’t it?”
Alfons smiles, and shivers, and smiles a little more.
“Something like that,” he says.