"Oh, hello, brother." Alphonse flashed the smaller boy a smile, startled but pleased. "I didn’t hear you come outside."
There is immortality deep within us that has nothing to do with corruptible flesh and earthly demise.
It is to such a morning that Alphonse wakes up, light pouring in through the blinds and over the bed sheets.
It made a lovely picture, with the moonlight streaming in thick and silver under the curtains, and Edward silently cursed everything that came to mind...
Sometimes he feels like an actor, playing to an especially difficult audience.
Why was Ed still letting this fear haunt him? How long was the lingering pain of these old wounds going to hang between them?
He had never dared to dream that things could get better, astounded as he'd been by the way air tasted spilling over his tongue...
There were precious few memories remaining, now, dimmed with the passage of time and the years that he’d spent lacking a flesh body, but he kept them close to him all the same.
This new life was staggering - more so, the feel of Alphonse's shoulder, warm and flesh beneath his cheek as the train lurched out of the station.
Sometimes Al thinks that somewhere back in the Armstrong family tree lurks an alchemical accident in a sequin factory.
Al can see his handwriting -- which closely resembles the marks a tap-dancing spider might make if it fell in an ink pot first.
"It's cheating," he declared at last, "To pick a fight while I ache."
People all have different ideas of beauty, Al knows, and no two ever appear to be the same.
It's a paradoxical situation; Alphonse is closer to Edward than he has ever been, yet somehow he feels as if they don't know each other at all.
How do you find someone who barely existed in this world now that they're gone?
He runs out of ink halfway through the page, and with a quiet sigh dips his finger in the inkwell...
"Yeah," Fuery chips in, "you're always the one to stop Ed from doing weird stuff, not the other way around."
He was just moving to light the stove, casting about for a match to begin the flames that would cook their dinner, when the voice drifted in from the other room.
"Up," said the demon, as the blinding force of a million suns illuminated its frame and set an evil light to its eyes.
His brother seemed to like it when the leather left marks, a residual token of ownership, even when the collar (by job-dictated necessity) had to be removed.
I'm going to kill Ed when he gets back, Al told the General. I just thought I should tell you in advance in case there's paperwork.
See him move, see him train, see him jump into that air and swing his leg in a complete arch before he lands heavily to the ground in a perfect execution of Sensei's teachings.
That was when the nightmare had begun, when the world had become stone walls, sterilized laboratories, and lights so bright as to make little red capillaries snake across both boys' eyes.
If it didn't rain so often, Ed thought, he might feel a little more like he could make plans.
"He's the Fullmetal Alchemist," Alphonse interrupted, tapping his pen against his clipboard. "Are you sure you're up to the task?"
The sweet morning snaps like a fragile pane of glass and Al is sobbing, the sounds tearing up out of his chest and throat before he can stop them.
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
It is snowing in earnest by the time the fire has begun to burn low, but neither boy wants to move to add more wood.
With no warning at all, something changed in the air between them, and the fight turned dirty.
Typical Ed; overprotective, hypocritical, condescending, and for some reason fundamentally incapable of treating Al as an equal.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
Fingertips drifted over curves, up over hips and thighs and the dimple of ribs, and if my eyes were closed, I could have told you in detail every perfect flaw and scar.
Apparently, years of stress had jaded Ed into thinking that if things were looking good now, then something terrible must be around the corner.
The first time was not a night of magic or fireworks, not something dreams were made of, not something that either of them planned on repeating again.
Alphonse settled for a barely audible sigh and hoped that his brother knew what he was doing.
Everything — Ed's wishes, his remaining dignity, even his trust — was going to have to come second to Ed's life.
A collection of 100 word ficlets.
A collection of 100 word ficlets.
His tone was all weary patience, as though explaining to a child why candy was out of the question until after dinner.
"Don't worry about it," he says bossily. "I know what to do. Give me the book--don't close it--ah, thanks."
For an instant, a look passed between them, and Alphonse could almost imagine that he saw his own emotions reflected within the eyes of his brother.
I know what I feel, I know what I think, and I don't need to chickenscratch the shit down and have the risk of it falling into the wrong hands.
There were many things that Edward Elric didn't want the world to know, secrets to be protected at all cost.
Al crouches down on a dune looking down on the camp and draws an array in the sand, thinking of Gunnar with a dull pang of grief.
"Are you saying," Al inquired, slowly, "that you never believed that I didn't blame you?"
He could imagine the words Fix typed as coming from his brother, and it afforded him a little bit of indulgence in his horrible, sinful, uncontrollable urges.
"All this will do is give your soul access to the feelings that should be in your body right now, just like a normal teenage boy."