FMA -- Auspicious
Title: Auspicious
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Miles/Alfons
Rating: PG
Word Count: 750
Warnings: CANONSMASH!
Summary: First kisses should be a cause for celebration - no?
Author's Note: It was the one-year anniversary of the good ship HeiMiles on the 9th!! \o/ In an effluence of feels, I wrote this piece of crap on Tuesday, in the twenty minutes before work started and then while I was off-stage during a rehearsal that night. Hence the quality or lack thereof. Phin, my forever dude, thank you for everything you are and everything you do. ♥
AUSPICIOUS
It’s not that Alfons ever thinks consciously that burying his hands in the white fur lining and clinging to Miles’s lapels is a good idea-it’s just that the world is shaking itself to pieces, and his instinct is to hold to something.
There’s no such thing as fate. Life is a series of discrete mathematical coincidences; the universe is infinite and indifferent and unkind. He believes that; he has always believed that; fate is a bedtime story for the weak and scared and inconsolable; he is a tower of atoms that will someday crumble into something new.
He believes that. He trusts it like the lazy turn of the constellations overhead.
But the stars are different here.
There’s something in these blank, echoey halls that is twisting his components into another shape; there is something in this cramped and claustrophobic room he paces nightly that has altered him.
And there’s something about gasping in Miles’s breath that just-
Feels-
Like-
Everything has come together all at once.
Their skin is still so cold, but he can feel the heat rising from the hollow of Miles’s throat; beneath his curled hands the muscles shift, and through the haze of staggering amazement at the way their mouths fit-the gentle sweep of Miles’s tongue, the brush of his eyelashes, the ragged edge of his indrawn breath-
And then a thread of trepidation winds down his spine and slices through the warmth.
He’s not unaccustomed to being pitied-or humored. He started this; he leapt like a wolf on the scent of blood; he’s holding so fast to Miles’s coat that the man couldn’t get away if he wanted to, at least not without bruising Alfons’s wrists so badly that General Armstrong might just see fit to break his neck.
What if Miles is just being polite?
Alfons’s stomach drops, and his heart-
The humiliation blazes through his whole body, burning just beneath the skin, and then the shame burgeons brightly in his chest-scalding, swelling, choking him; it’s too late for dignity, but all the same, he’ll be a fragment less pathetic if he pulls away-
But just as he starts to move, Miles’s fingers wind into his hair and then tilt his head back gently.
And-
Oh, God, he hadn’t thought it could get better-
He’s clutching Miles’s coat for dear life now, but that’s the thing, really-dear life, precious, spectacular, lightning-veined, heart-thudding, head-spinning, nerve-sparking life has never been quite this… wonderful.
There’s no room left in his ribcage for his lungs-he’s heat and want and wonder straight through; he’s sublimity and amazement and disbelief.
Miles’s mouth parts from his, and the cold rushes in-but only the bitter cold of steel and stone and snow. His heart won’t freeze again; it’s shattered through the tundra and opened to the sun.
And Miles’s eyes are coals.
“I’m-sorry,” he says. “I-I hadn’t-meant…”
“What did you not mean?” Alfons asks. Miles’s taste still tingles on his lips, and Miles’s palms still lay against both sides of his neck, and there are a thousand consequences roiling in those eyes, but Alfons cannot detect a fragment of regret. “For this to happen?” He watches for a change; finds nothing. “Or for it to matter?”
Miles steps back, but his hands slide down over Alfons’s shoulders and drag at the collar of his sweater before they fall away. Alfons knows reluctance when he sees it-it would be downright difficult to miss it when he feels it literally tugging at his clothes.
“For it to interfere,” Miles says. His jaw tightens, slightly, but he doesn’t look away. “For you to know.”
Alfons unclenches his fingers from amongst the fur trimming Miles’s lapels and smoothes it down instead. Miles doesn’t move away. This all seems rather… silly.
“It is-strange,” he says. “It is not that I do not fear the General. Or that I think these… things, these-this-could ever be… what do you say? Simple.” He traces around the circumference of the topmost brass button on Miles’s coat. “But this is… the first time I am remembering that I do not feel…” He looks up into Miles’s eyes. “Afraid. Not of anything.”
There’s a sadness in them now, and a hot-white excitement, and a puzzlement dug in deep, and a steely-cold resolve.
“No?” Miles asks. “That is strange.” As his right hand slides again up along Alfons’s jaw, the pulse in his fingers quickens. “This is the first time in as long as I can remember that I’ve had something to lose.”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Miles/Alfons
Rating: PG
Word Count: 750
Warnings: CANONSMASH!
Summary: First kisses should be a cause for celebration - no?
Author's Note: It was the one-year anniversary of the good ship HeiMiles on the 9th!! \o/ In an effluence of feels, I wrote this piece of crap on Tuesday, in the twenty minutes before work started and then while I was off-stage during a rehearsal that night. Hence the quality or lack thereof. Phin, my forever dude, thank you for everything you are and everything you do. ♥
AUSPICIOUS
It’s not that Alfons ever thinks consciously that burying his hands in the white fur lining and clinging to Miles’s lapels is a good idea-it’s just that the world is shaking itself to pieces, and his instinct is to hold to something.
There’s no such thing as fate. Life is a series of discrete mathematical coincidences; the universe is infinite and indifferent and unkind. He believes that; he has always believed that; fate is a bedtime story for the weak and scared and inconsolable; he is a tower of atoms that will someday crumble into something new.
He believes that. He trusts it like the lazy turn of the constellations overhead.
But the stars are different here.
There’s something in these blank, echoey halls that is twisting his components into another shape; there is something in this cramped and claustrophobic room he paces nightly that has altered him.
And there’s something about gasping in Miles’s breath that just-
Feels-
Like-
Everything has come together all at once.
Their skin is still so cold, but he can feel the heat rising from the hollow of Miles’s throat; beneath his curled hands the muscles shift, and through the haze of staggering amazement at the way their mouths fit-the gentle sweep of Miles’s tongue, the brush of his eyelashes, the ragged edge of his indrawn breath-
And then a thread of trepidation winds down his spine and slices through the warmth.
He’s not unaccustomed to being pitied-or humored. He started this; he leapt like a wolf on the scent of blood; he’s holding so fast to Miles’s coat that the man couldn’t get away if he wanted to, at least not without bruising Alfons’s wrists so badly that General Armstrong might just see fit to break his neck.
What if Miles is just being polite?
Alfons’s stomach drops, and his heart-
The humiliation blazes through his whole body, burning just beneath the skin, and then the shame burgeons brightly in his chest-scalding, swelling, choking him; it’s too late for dignity, but all the same, he’ll be a fragment less pathetic if he pulls away-
But just as he starts to move, Miles’s fingers wind into his hair and then tilt his head back gently.
And-
Oh, God, he hadn’t thought it could get better-
He’s clutching Miles’s coat for dear life now, but that’s the thing, really-dear life, precious, spectacular, lightning-veined, heart-thudding, head-spinning, nerve-sparking life has never been quite this… wonderful.
There’s no room left in his ribcage for his lungs-he’s heat and want and wonder straight through; he’s sublimity and amazement and disbelief.
Miles’s mouth parts from his, and the cold rushes in-but only the bitter cold of steel and stone and snow. His heart won’t freeze again; it’s shattered through the tundra and opened to the sun.
And Miles’s eyes are coals.
“I’m-sorry,” he says. “I-I hadn’t-meant…”
“What did you not mean?” Alfons asks. Miles’s taste still tingles on his lips, and Miles’s palms still lay against both sides of his neck, and there are a thousand consequences roiling in those eyes, but Alfons cannot detect a fragment of regret. “For this to happen?” He watches for a change; finds nothing. “Or for it to matter?”
Miles steps back, but his hands slide down over Alfons’s shoulders and drag at the collar of his sweater before they fall away. Alfons knows reluctance when he sees it-it would be downright difficult to miss it when he feels it literally tugging at his clothes.
“For it to interfere,” Miles says. His jaw tightens, slightly, but he doesn’t look away. “For you to know.”
Alfons unclenches his fingers from amongst the fur trimming Miles’s lapels and smoothes it down instead. Miles doesn’t move away. This all seems rather… silly.
“It is-strange,” he says. “It is not that I do not fear the General. Or that I think these… things, these-this-could ever be… what do you say? Simple.” He traces around the circumference of the topmost brass button on Miles’s coat. “But this is… the first time I am remembering that I do not feel…” He looks up into Miles’s eyes. “Afraid. Not of anything.”
There’s a sadness in them now, and a hot-white excitement, and a puzzlement dug in deep, and a steely-cold resolve.
“No?” Miles asks. “That is strange.” As his right hand slides again up along Alfons’s jaw, the pulse in his fingers quickens. “This is the first time in as long as I can remember that I’ve had something to lose.”