[Kaltia] Once Upon a Time 2/2 (NC-17)
Title: Once Upon a Time (two of two)
Author: kaltia
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, fluff
Pairing: Elricest
Notes: Written for the elricsexual Fluff Vs Angst contest. I'm on Team Fluff. Please remember to vote!
Word Count: 13,159. Come on, comment? If I can write that much, you can gimme feedback. :P
VII. In media res
The small battered clock on the mantelpiece counts down the minutes after Valerie leaves, and Edward quietly rubs Al's shoulders. "You didn't tell her all of our story," he says softly, and the old man shakes his head.
"The half that remains is not mine to tell," he murmurs, eyes closed, leaning back into Ed's hands. "She will be back tomorrow for the rest. Will you tell it to her?"
Ed shrugs, sighs. "Maybe," he says softly. "She's a real brat, I don't think she'll stop until she knows."
"You were like that, once," Al points out dryly, and Ed chuckles.
"I wasn't that stubborn, was I?" he asks, already knowing the answer and grinning as he says it. Al turns and throws him an amused look over his shoulder; old age has been graceful with him, and Ed reaches out and traces the curve of his brother's lips with his thumb.
"I love you," and they're not sure which one of them said it, but it doesn't matter, anyway, Ed bending down and Al leaning up and them meeting somewhere along the middle, for a warm, firm kiss.
VIII.
it is bright and sore and hurts and everything is screaming in pain and he's crying with it and -
father's there and he's safe, he's being fed, there's red stuff all around him and he can't see it deformed as he is but he knows it's not food so he eats because father wants him to and besides it feels good and -
and nothing hurts any more and father says he's perfect and he supposes he must be, if father thinks so, though he feels awkward-clumsy with arms and legs and he falls over a lot and father picks him up and laughs and kisses him and he thinks, this is right, this is right -
but then comes the day when he realises father isn't always right because father is in pain, too, and he's got two legs and two eyes but only one arm and ed wait when was his name ed -
his name is was may be edward elric and he's not sure how old he is but father says he's eighteen and if father says so he must be right and father says they have to go someplace called central and ed thinks, okay, and so they pack up and -
he doesn't like trains oh god rumbling noise constant motion reminds him of dusty wrongbad memory that's not his, all motion and an iron bar rising and falling and pain and pain and scarring and the boy that was being beaten can't be him because he has no scars, right, so he's got someone else's memories and he's not sure whose -
and father hands him a fork and he looks at it for a long time and remembers the pain of the tines in his eyeball and he throws the fork away, shuddering at the pain of other-boy's memory, oh the poor thing -
central is really big and he thinks he's been here before but no, no he hasn't, he was born in the desert other-boy must've been here before iron bar and fork and father kisses him on the head and says, be careful now, and he thinks of course and -
Father looks weak and tired, and Ed worries about him this is the first time he's been allowed to see Father since they got to Central and father's in bed and he's got this weird white stuff over his arm and Ed undoes it and wants Father to be proud, so he says, look, and Father -
Is not Father, Father is his brother and it's an important difference. His name is Al, and Ed repeats that to himself in his head and he kisses his brother on the mouth in sunny Rizenbourg -
Red stones in his egg and he knows what they are, but he's not sure if he should tell Al that; his brother's going through pains to keep it a secret. Problem is, the stones are unearthing other-boy's memories, all blood and pain and torture, and Ed's heart aches for the poor hurt thing whose memories are his -
And eight days solid of screaming nightmares, and that's when it clicks, what his brother has done. Oh. Oh. He is the boy in his memories, the boy who met the iron bar, and on the ninth day everything rushes together and he wakes up and says, I know everything now, Al.
And his brother laughs, long and free and not entirely sane.
IX.
He feels weird in his body, the same way he had when the Stones restored him to humanoid form the first time. He's much stronger now than he was before (and despite what he told Al, his memories of Before are fuzzy and in some cases missing entirely) - can probably bench-press a wardrobe - and yet his body feels paradoxically light. Al doesn't know why that is, and isn't willing to hazard a guess. Ed supposes it's because his brother has the same vague suspicion he does.
"It's because I'm missing a soul," Ed says flatly one day, watching his brother cook. Things have gotten tense between them recently, and he's not entirely sure why; a week since the red stones unlocked something in him, and the first day Al spent holding him and crying and whispering things into his hair. Edward hadn't said anything.
"No, you're not," Al replies after a tiny pause, smashing an egg on the side of a measuring jug and prying it open with his nails. "I... I know you have one." He glances pointedly at the gleam of metal between his shirt sleeve and the glove he's wearing, and Ed rolls his eyes.
He slinks off, rather than cause a fight over something he's not entirely sure he understands; Al finds him twenty minutes later, sprawled over the couch in the living room, flipping through alchemy textbooks with a quiet, pensive expression on his face. "What are you thinking?" he asks, sliding down to sit behind his older brother, who makes some room for him.
Ed shrugs uncommunicatively. Some days he feels like a traitor for identifying himself with that name; a traitor to the boy who died out in the desert, the one Al loved. Still, he's not sure what else he'd rather be called, and until then, he supposes the name will do. "Nothing," he says softly, and Al sighs.
"Brother," he murmurs, gently, and raises a hand to touch. Ed flinches away, then tosses the alchemy textbook onto the little rickety coffee table beside the couch and stands, frowning. Al swallows, closes his eyes, and whispers, "I'm sorry." He says it multiple times a day, mostly during the night when he clutches Ed to him and begs for forgiveness. Ed knows what for; for the sins he's done. He thinks he ought to hate Alphonse for this soulless life he has, for the terrible memories that awake him every night, whimpering and helpless; he ought to, and sometimes he thinks he's close, but he's never been able to succeed. Some part of him, the old-him, loves Alphonse with such strength and intensity it hurts.
"I know you are," he says simply, wrapping his arms around his chest, and Alphonse draws his legs up on the couch, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees. In that moment, Ed hates him and loves him so much he aches; he ruffles Al's hair over the back of the couch instead and turns, heading up the stairs, knowing Al won't follow him.
He closes the door of their room and flops over their bed, and has a striking double-memory of having done something just like this before; a bunk-bed and a suit of armour tucking a blanket over him, thick leather fingers pressing against the flesh of his shoulder. "Al," he thinks, and sighs. His right arm isn't really automail anymore, for all it looks like it. That was Winry's first clue - Al made his brother perfect, but Al doesn't know anything about automail, the complicated twist of wires and the placement of bolts and the shape of the metal support structures. He'd tried, but what was there, where Ed's arm and leg were silver and cold, was an organic structure.
There is a brief rap of Al's knuckles against the wood of the door, and Ed rolls over; Al tries the handle, but the deadbolt's been drawn across. "Brother? Brother, I bought you some soup..." Al voice trails off, and Ed snorts.
"I don't need to eat," he points out acidly, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed but not attempting to stand up.
"No, but doing so doesn't hurt you," Al replies, and sighs. "Brother, please unlock the door, or else I'll transmute it open."
"What, like I can't?" Ed snipes, and is more put-out when Al snorts. "What?"
"You sound like a stroppy teenager," Al says and Ed can hear the grin in his voice. "Brother, please open the door. We need to talk."
Ed growls under his breath, but jumps to his feet and draws the deadbolt back, opening the door for Alphonse. Al has a tray in his hands, and true to his words, there's hot tomato soup in a green bowl; Ed snorts at it, but takes it anyway, and balances it on his lap when he goes to sit back down on the bed.
Al sits carefully beside him, not close enough to touch, and Ed hunches his shoulders slightly at the feel of his little brother's gaze on him. He eats the soup, regardless; it doesn't fill him at all, but he can still enjoy the taste, so he might as well.
"Brother," Al says, and sighs. "I don't..."
"I love you," Ed interrupts flatly, "Or rather, he loves you. It's making resentment hard. Father."
Al flinches at that, and he feels guilty for saying that. Still. He was born in the desert, made from seven lives and an arm; he loved his father unconditionally and all his father ever wanted was the old-him, the tortured boy. He was fed stones to bring back his memory, and the memories were harsh and cold and cruel; his father wants him to live through more of them, progress backwards through the life that was not his until he can become old-him again, the Edward who laughed and lived and fucked Al senseless in a house nineteen blocks from here.
"I love you," Ed continues softly, "And I hate you because of it. Why did you do this to me, Al? I - I can't even do alchemy anymore, I'm a soulless being and I can't die."
Al screws his eyes shut, looking away; takes a deep breath and shakes his head, pressing the heel of his hands to his eyes. "I did it because I didn't want to lose you," he whispers, "I did it because I... because I..."
"Because you were in love?" Ed offers with a derisive snort. "Don't pussyfoot around it, I know what he felt.
"Yeah," Al replies quietly, "Because I was in love."
X.
Despite what he says, Ed keeps sleeping in Al's bed. He gets some measure of comfort from it, or at least old-him does; he's not the only one, though, and Al sleeps a lot easier with an arm over his waist, face pressed into the curve of his neck. It's a position Al's obviously long used to adopting.
Ed's really not sure on where he stands, despite his words of contempt and resentment, his feelings of pure acid jealousy and his guilt at being so. Old-him doesn't need to be hated, and he knows why with every powerful, flashing nightmare.
He reads up on the nature of the human soul, whether Al's looking or not; pours over books and says nothing when he writes lists of book titles he wants for Al to call Roy and ask him to bring over. They don't have many visitors other than the older man; Al takes up gardening to pass the time, and sometimes Ed helps him. One day he pauses, on his haunches with dirt over his hands. Each of the brothers took a flowerbed on either side of the lawn; Al's is bursting with spring flowers, crocus and daffodil and snowdrop, bright and colourful. Ed's is filled with poppies, bright red and vivid.
"What are you thinking about?" Al asks quietly, standing perhaps three feet behind Ed, a mug of hot cocoa in each hand; Ed runs a thumb over the petal of a poppy and shakes his head.
"Do flowers have souls?" he asks quietly, and Al shrugs.
"I don't see why not," he says softly. "Animals must do, surely, why not plants?"
"Yeah," Ed murmurs, "Humans, animals and plants. But not the undead, right?"
"Brother, you're not a zombie," Al replies wearily, and Ed snorts.
"I'm not your brother, either," he snaps, and storms inside, leaving Al out there with the cocoa and a forlorn expression on his face.
This is the twelfth time he's said something similar, and Al has reacted the same on each occasion; the thirteenth time, however, brings change.
"I'm not your brother," he says, and then loses all the air from his lungs when Al, instead of crumpling into himself, gives him a good hard shove to the chest, knocking him onto the couch.
"No," Al snarls, and his eyes are dancing bright with an emotion the old-him remembers and cherishes: anger. "No, brother, you listen to me. You. You. Are my brother. Got that?"
Ed rolls his eyes, which proves to be a mistake; Al growls and leans forward. He's taller than Ed, if not as strong, and definitely broader; his body is lean and strong, and Ed tells himself that's why he doesn't try to escape when Al kisses him, wetly.
It doesn't explain why he sits up, hauls Al onto his lap, and proceeds to make out with him as passionately as old-him ever did. Al tastes the way his dusty memories sing that he always has; feels the way that he always has, snuggles close the way that he always has and sharpens his teeth lightly on Ed's lower lip, nibbling and nipping, the way he always has.
It occurs to Ed in a moment of shock that the only non-painful memories he has yet from old-him have been of Al.
"I love you," Al is whispering frantically into the lines of his face. "I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I was -"
Ed closes his eyes and can feel the tension bleed from him, quiet as anything. "Shut up," he says instead, and slips his hands up the back of Al's shirt.
Afterwards he leaves Al sleeping on the couch and throws on a pair of boxers and a shirt, padding over to the kitchen. He finds a skillet in the cupboard and some bacon in the icebox, and settles to making Al some fried bread and bacon for what passes for lunch.
It's three in the afternoon; the kitchen is silent, save for the clock fastened to the wall over the sink ticking merrily away. Alphonse doesn't even snore, back in the living room, although at one point he does roll right off the couch.
As he pokes the bacon around a bit to make room for the bread, Ed bends down and quietly rubbed at the tattoo on his left thigh, the smooth black lines marking him as something non-human. But does it even matter? When he was old-him and newly sixteen, he and Alphonse went and got matching tattoos, on the back of their hands. Right hand for Al, left for Edward, and he remembers the pain of the needle. The flamel, the old symbol stamped on the back of Ed's red coat and the shoulder of Al's armour.
"This doesn't mean anything," he remembers saying to Alphonse, drowsy and content. The air had been heavy with sex and spice; Alphonse had been pressed tight against him, eyes mere crescents of bronze as he watched Ed trace the lines and curves of the tattoo with an index finger. "This doesn't make us closer or anything. It's just a way of telling the world what we already know, right?"
Al had smiled, the sweet smile of an angel, though Ed could have personally testified that he wasn't. "That's philosophical, for you," he'd said, and Ed had laughed and kissed him, whispered multiple I love yous into the wetness of his mouth.
And he did, and he does, he realises, softly. He's still sore about being used, but there was never any old-him and new-him, there was just him, always. And Alphonse saw that, he thinks; saw that and knew the second transmutation was successful. Al didn't give his life to create his brother; he used those who had taken it in the first place to do that, and turned the others into food. He gave up himself for the second transmutation, the most powerful one; affixing Ed's soul into the new body, making Ed... Ed.
Al is on the floor still when Ed returns to the living room, the food on a small plate; his brother moans weakly and cranks open an eye, giving him a smile tinged with caution. "Hey," Alphonse says.
"Hey," Edward replies, and steps over him to put the food on the coffee table. "I made lunch."
"For me?"
"For us," Ed corrects, and the shy, sweet line of Al's smile is beautiful.
XI.
Al watches him as he does the dishes, plentiful after a wonderful Sunday roast. It is dark outside; spring is bleeding into summer, but there is enough winter still present for the night to come early. "So what made you think you didn't have a soul?" Al asks, running his thumb over the edge of a chipped orange plate, holding a purple tea towel in the other hand.
"I felt weird," Ed replies quietly, honestly. "I mean... I felt too light all the time, right? Like something was missing? And I thought, okay, it must be the soul, since the soul apparently weighs twenty-one grams, but..."
"But?" Al asks gently, stacking the plate and taking the last item, the gravy jug, as Ed pulls the plug and winds the chain around the tap. "What was it?"
"The automail," Ed admits sheepishly. "I mean, for years I was carrying around pounds of metal and then... well... this stuff works, but it isn't exactly steel." He flexes his arm, folding his fingers and hearing them clink. Close enough to the real thing to fool casual observers.
"Of course," Al says with a chuckle. "I wonder why I didn't realise that."
"Because you were too busy dealing with me being an irritating adolesent homunculus?" Ed offers with a grin, and Al flashes a bright, beautiful smile for him.
"I love you," Al whispers, leaning over and giving Ed a kiss on the forehead. He whaps at his brother with the towel, and Ed rips it out of his hands and bundles it up, pitching it at the kitchen counter, before comfortably slipping both his hands around the back of Al's head to tug him down into a heated kiss.
"Love you too," he says quietly, and nips at Al's lower lip. "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom," Al agrees firmly, even as his hands slip around to Ed's hips, pulling the smaller blond comfortably against him.
They barely make it to the bed as it is, leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail behind them, if of their clothing rather than crumbs. Ed pushes Al down first, following eagerly soon after; straddles Al's hips, pulling at those of the buttons on Al's shirt he hadn't managed to rip apart on the stairs.
"Al," he whispers, voice low and scraped and dirty, and Al moans at the hoarse sound and bucks up against him, hard cocks pressing together through three layers of cloth. "Al, God -" He paws hungrily at the shirt, eventually managing to unfasten it, and throws it hard at the wall; that done, he devotes himself to Al's nipples, laving licks and pinches on them until Al's rolling his eyes in his head and whining like he's going to come in his pants, if he has to, and that reminds him.
It's a bit difficult working Al's trousers and pants off - his brother is whimpering and writhing, jerking his chest and then his hips up in the air in a very obvious gesture - but he does so anyway, and his own boxers make it down to maybe his knees before he's sliding down the bed, fixed on his destination. Al yelps at the first draft of warm air against the head of his cock, and it only makes Ed harder, makes him thrust into the mattress even as he opens his mouth for his little brother's dick.
Al's cock is big, bigger than his is, and Ed has no particular wish to choke deepthroating the thing, even if he won't die from it. He settles for licking a slow line up the soft vein on the underside of the shaft, swirling his tongue around the head and teasing the foreskin; his brother's hands are fisted tight in the sheets and he's whimpering breathlessly.
Ed backs off just before he makes Al come; reaches out to the bedside cabinet for the tiny glass bottle of lube and hopes they remembered to cap the stuff from yesterday. They did, and he moans as he pours it over his hand, penetrates Al roughly with a slippery index finger. Al throws his head back, gasping; bitches briefly about the lack of warning, but his heart isn't really into it, and there's no such complaining when the second finger is added.
Ed keeps his fingers there and fumbles the bottle over, accidentally spilling half the contents over the covers and his free hand, the faux-automail one. Purring quietly under his breath he slicks the oil over his cock, gasping as he imagines what Al will feel like inside - his baby brother, his father, his creator, his lover - and withdraws his left hand, grabbing Al's hips firmly as he lines himself up.
Al flings his head back when Ed pushes in, baring his throat in what has to be the sexiest thing since... since... since when he did it yesterday. His younger brother is intoxicating, dizzying; when he growls fuck me Ed can't help but obey, slipping all the way in. He ought to be worried, he thinks vaguely with the part of his brain not fried by the sex, by the scent and heat and taste of Al, that his little brother has so much power over him; but then he withdraws and Al cries out at the loss of him, and he thinks, amused, I have as much control over him as he does over me.
Al comes first, with a soft breathless sigh and a rush of hot, sticky liquid over Ed's chest. His eyes close and he seems perfectly content; Ed can't help but come soon after, pulling out and flopping next to his brother. He's not tired, though he is temporarily sated. Homunculi have astounding recovery time, and sometimes he wonders if he were born Lust.
He's not aware he's said this out loud until Al rolls over, kissing his forehead, and says, "You were born 'Edward,' brother."
XII. aeternum vale
The imp is sitting on the roof of the house when Valerie returns, early in the morning. He is dressed entirely in black; black boots, black trousers, black tunic, black gloves, and she thinks it is a silly thing to do. "You know you really stick out in the snow dressed like that, don't you?" she asks, sharply.
"Werewolves are blind and hunt by scent alone," he replies solemnly, with a perfect poker face. "Did you bring another apple?"
She tosses it up to him and he catches it, neatly. "Where's the wizard?"
"Al?" He raises his eyebrows and she pulls a face at him. "He's inside, gnawing on children's bones. When he's stripped the meat off them, we're going to build a sleigh out of them."
"I'm not five," she snaps, in a tone of voice that suggests that she thinks that maybe he is. "I wanted to give him this." She holds up her basket, and he hops off the roof to take it, removing the cover and poking through the contents. Silver hunting knife, flint arrowheads, a block of cheese, three more apples and a fresh loaf of bread; not bad.
"Thanks," he says, and grins at her. "You want to go in and give it to him?"
"Sure." She pauses on the threshold of the door, however, and turns to him; her expression is thoughtful. "Edward?"
"Yeah?" He's pulling his gloves off, revealing a hand of metal and a hand of flesh, an odd tattoo on the back of the flesh one. "What's the matter, Valerie?"
"Thank you for stopping the Drachnians last month," she mutters, and he glances up at her bright eyes and grins.
"You must be wrong," he says cheerfully, "'s angels that protect your village, everyone knows that."
"Angels cause technical failures in military tanks? They really are amazing creatures," she says with a grin, and he smirks and takes a bite of the apple. "How is Grandpa Alphonse today, anyway?"
"He's fine, and I'm so not letting him live that nickname down." Ed's grinning, his teeth very white in his tanned face; Valerie chuckles and pushes the door open. "Happy twentieth birthday, Valerie," he calls after, and she waves acknowledgement as she closes it behind her.
He flops on the doorstep, stretching his legs out in front of him and munching on his apple; Valerie's a good kid, and Al really appreciates her company. She was the only child brave enough to come and face that which the village feared, and even now, years later, she returns every month to hear a little bit more of the story.
Theirs is a story which goes on forever, always changing; someday, and someday soon if her talk of Ivan is an indication, Valerie will tell that story to her children. Their story evolves, adapts and always shoulders on, Ed thinks... just like them.
He stands, brushing off his clothing; pitches the apple core several metres away, and goes inside to hear it again.
-fini
<- Back to part one
Hope you like, don't forget to comment ON PAIN OF PAIN, pirate a song on your way out, the usual.
Author: kaltia
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, fluff
Pairing: Elricest
Notes: Written for the elricsexual Fluff Vs Angst contest. I'm on Team Fluff. Please remember to vote!
Word Count: 13,159. Come on, comment? If I can write that much, you can gimme feedback. :P
VII. In media res
The small battered clock on the mantelpiece counts down the minutes after Valerie leaves, and Edward quietly rubs Al's shoulders. "You didn't tell her all of our story," he says softly, and the old man shakes his head.
"The half that remains is not mine to tell," he murmurs, eyes closed, leaning back into Ed's hands. "She will be back tomorrow for the rest. Will you tell it to her?"
Ed shrugs, sighs. "Maybe," he says softly. "She's a real brat, I don't think she'll stop until she knows."
"You were like that, once," Al points out dryly, and Ed chuckles.
"I wasn't that stubborn, was I?" he asks, already knowing the answer and grinning as he says it. Al turns and throws him an amused look over his shoulder; old age has been graceful with him, and Ed reaches out and traces the curve of his brother's lips with his thumb.
"I love you," and they're not sure which one of them said it, but it doesn't matter, anyway, Ed bending down and Al leaning up and them meeting somewhere along the middle, for a warm, firm kiss.
VIII.
it is bright and sore and hurts and everything is screaming in pain and he's crying with it and -
father's there and he's safe, he's being fed, there's red stuff all around him and he can't see it deformed as he is but he knows it's not food so he eats because father wants him to and besides it feels good and -
and nothing hurts any more and father says he's perfect and he supposes he must be, if father thinks so, though he feels awkward-clumsy with arms and legs and he falls over a lot and father picks him up and laughs and kisses him and he thinks, this is right, this is right -
but then comes the day when he realises father isn't always right because father is in pain, too, and he's got two legs and two eyes but only one arm and ed wait when was his name ed -
his name is was may be edward elric and he's not sure how old he is but father says he's eighteen and if father says so he must be right and father says they have to go someplace called central and ed thinks, okay, and so they pack up and -
he doesn't like trains oh god rumbling noise constant motion reminds him of dusty wrongbad memory that's not his, all motion and an iron bar rising and falling and pain and pain and scarring and the boy that was being beaten can't be him because he has no scars, right, so he's got someone else's memories and he's not sure whose -
and father hands him a fork and he looks at it for a long time and remembers the pain of the tines in his eyeball and he throws the fork away, shuddering at the pain of other-boy's memory, oh the poor thing -
central is really big and he thinks he's been here before but no, no he hasn't, he was born in the desert other-boy must've been here before iron bar and fork and father kisses him on the head and says, be careful now, and he thinks of course and -
Father looks weak and tired, and Ed worries about him this is the first time he's been allowed to see Father since they got to Central and father's in bed and he's got this weird white stuff over his arm and Ed undoes it and wants Father to be proud, so he says, look, and Father -
Is not Father, Father is his brother and it's an important difference. His name is Al, and Ed repeats that to himself in his head and he kisses his brother on the mouth in sunny Rizenbourg -
Red stones in his egg and he knows what they are, but he's not sure if he should tell Al that; his brother's going through pains to keep it a secret. Problem is, the stones are unearthing other-boy's memories, all blood and pain and torture, and Ed's heart aches for the poor hurt thing whose memories are his -
And eight days solid of screaming nightmares, and that's when it clicks, what his brother has done. Oh. Oh. He is the boy in his memories, the boy who met the iron bar, and on the ninth day everything rushes together and he wakes up and says, I know everything now, Al.
And his brother laughs, long and free and not entirely sane.
IX.
He feels weird in his body, the same way he had when the Stones restored him to humanoid form the first time. He's much stronger now than he was before (and despite what he told Al, his memories of Before are fuzzy and in some cases missing entirely) - can probably bench-press a wardrobe - and yet his body feels paradoxically light. Al doesn't know why that is, and isn't willing to hazard a guess. Ed supposes it's because his brother has the same vague suspicion he does.
"It's because I'm missing a soul," Ed says flatly one day, watching his brother cook. Things have gotten tense between them recently, and he's not entirely sure why; a week since the red stones unlocked something in him, and the first day Al spent holding him and crying and whispering things into his hair. Edward hadn't said anything.
"No, you're not," Al replies after a tiny pause, smashing an egg on the side of a measuring jug and prying it open with his nails. "I... I know you have one." He glances pointedly at the gleam of metal between his shirt sleeve and the glove he's wearing, and Ed rolls his eyes.
He slinks off, rather than cause a fight over something he's not entirely sure he understands; Al finds him twenty minutes later, sprawled over the couch in the living room, flipping through alchemy textbooks with a quiet, pensive expression on his face. "What are you thinking?" he asks, sliding down to sit behind his older brother, who makes some room for him.
Ed shrugs uncommunicatively. Some days he feels like a traitor for identifying himself with that name; a traitor to the boy who died out in the desert, the one Al loved. Still, he's not sure what else he'd rather be called, and until then, he supposes the name will do. "Nothing," he says softly, and Al sighs.
"Brother," he murmurs, gently, and raises a hand to touch. Ed flinches away, then tosses the alchemy textbook onto the little rickety coffee table beside the couch and stands, frowning. Al swallows, closes his eyes, and whispers, "I'm sorry." He says it multiple times a day, mostly during the night when he clutches Ed to him and begs for forgiveness. Ed knows what for; for the sins he's done. He thinks he ought to hate Alphonse for this soulless life he has, for the terrible memories that awake him every night, whimpering and helpless; he ought to, and sometimes he thinks he's close, but he's never been able to succeed. Some part of him, the old-him, loves Alphonse with such strength and intensity it hurts.
"I know you are," he says simply, wrapping his arms around his chest, and Alphonse draws his legs up on the couch, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees. In that moment, Ed hates him and loves him so much he aches; he ruffles Al's hair over the back of the couch instead and turns, heading up the stairs, knowing Al won't follow him.
He closes the door of their room and flops over their bed, and has a striking double-memory of having done something just like this before; a bunk-bed and a suit of armour tucking a blanket over him, thick leather fingers pressing against the flesh of his shoulder. "Al," he thinks, and sighs. His right arm isn't really automail anymore, for all it looks like it. That was Winry's first clue - Al made his brother perfect, but Al doesn't know anything about automail, the complicated twist of wires and the placement of bolts and the shape of the metal support structures. He'd tried, but what was there, where Ed's arm and leg were silver and cold, was an organic structure.
There is a brief rap of Al's knuckles against the wood of the door, and Ed rolls over; Al tries the handle, but the deadbolt's been drawn across. "Brother? Brother, I bought you some soup..." Al voice trails off, and Ed snorts.
"I don't need to eat," he points out acidly, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed but not attempting to stand up.
"No, but doing so doesn't hurt you," Al replies, and sighs. "Brother, please unlock the door, or else I'll transmute it open."
"What, like I can't?" Ed snipes, and is more put-out when Al snorts. "What?"
"You sound like a stroppy teenager," Al says and Ed can hear the grin in his voice. "Brother, please open the door. We need to talk."
Ed growls under his breath, but jumps to his feet and draws the deadbolt back, opening the door for Alphonse. Al has a tray in his hands, and true to his words, there's hot tomato soup in a green bowl; Ed snorts at it, but takes it anyway, and balances it on his lap when he goes to sit back down on the bed.
Al sits carefully beside him, not close enough to touch, and Ed hunches his shoulders slightly at the feel of his little brother's gaze on him. He eats the soup, regardless; it doesn't fill him at all, but he can still enjoy the taste, so he might as well.
"Brother," Al says, and sighs. "I don't..."
"I love you," Ed interrupts flatly, "Or rather, he loves you. It's making resentment hard. Father."
Al flinches at that, and he feels guilty for saying that. Still. He was born in the desert, made from seven lives and an arm; he loved his father unconditionally and all his father ever wanted was the old-him, the tortured boy. He was fed stones to bring back his memory, and the memories were harsh and cold and cruel; his father wants him to live through more of them, progress backwards through the life that was not his until he can become old-him again, the Edward who laughed and lived and fucked Al senseless in a house nineteen blocks from here.
"I love you," Ed continues softly, "And I hate you because of it. Why did you do this to me, Al? I - I can't even do alchemy anymore, I'm a soulless being and I can't die."
Al screws his eyes shut, looking away; takes a deep breath and shakes his head, pressing the heel of his hands to his eyes. "I did it because I didn't want to lose you," he whispers, "I did it because I... because I..."
"Because you were in love?" Ed offers with a derisive snort. "Don't pussyfoot around it, I know what he felt.
"Yeah," Al replies quietly, "Because I was in love."
X.
Despite what he says, Ed keeps sleeping in Al's bed. He gets some measure of comfort from it, or at least old-him does; he's not the only one, though, and Al sleeps a lot easier with an arm over his waist, face pressed into the curve of his neck. It's a position Al's obviously long used to adopting.
Ed's really not sure on where he stands, despite his words of contempt and resentment, his feelings of pure acid jealousy and his guilt at being so. Old-him doesn't need to be hated, and he knows why with every powerful, flashing nightmare.
He reads up on the nature of the human soul, whether Al's looking or not; pours over books and says nothing when he writes lists of book titles he wants for Al to call Roy and ask him to bring over. They don't have many visitors other than the older man; Al takes up gardening to pass the time, and sometimes Ed helps him. One day he pauses, on his haunches with dirt over his hands. Each of the brothers took a flowerbed on either side of the lawn; Al's is bursting with spring flowers, crocus and daffodil and snowdrop, bright and colourful. Ed's is filled with poppies, bright red and vivid.
"What are you thinking about?" Al asks quietly, standing perhaps three feet behind Ed, a mug of hot cocoa in each hand; Ed runs a thumb over the petal of a poppy and shakes his head.
"Do flowers have souls?" he asks quietly, and Al shrugs.
"I don't see why not," he says softly. "Animals must do, surely, why not plants?"
"Yeah," Ed murmurs, "Humans, animals and plants. But not the undead, right?"
"Brother, you're not a zombie," Al replies wearily, and Ed snorts.
"I'm not your brother, either," he snaps, and storms inside, leaving Al out there with the cocoa and a forlorn expression on his face.
This is the twelfth time he's said something similar, and Al has reacted the same on each occasion; the thirteenth time, however, brings change.
"I'm not your brother," he says, and then loses all the air from his lungs when Al, instead of crumpling into himself, gives him a good hard shove to the chest, knocking him onto the couch.
"No," Al snarls, and his eyes are dancing bright with an emotion the old-him remembers and cherishes: anger. "No, brother, you listen to me. You. You. Are my brother. Got that?"
Ed rolls his eyes, which proves to be a mistake; Al growls and leans forward. He's taller than Ed, if not as strong, and definitely broader; his body is lean and strong, and Ed tells himself that's why he doesn't try to escape when Al kisses him, wetly.
It doesn't explain why he sits up, hauls Al onto his lap, and proceeds to make out with him as passionately as old-him ever did. Al tastes the way his dusty memories sing that he always has; feels the way that he always has, snuggles close the way that he always has and sharpens his teeth lightly on Ed's lower lip, nibbling and nipping, the way he always has.
It occurs to Ed in a moment of shock that the only non-painful memories he has yet from old-him have been of Al.
"I love you," Al is whispering frantically into the lines of his face. "I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I was -"
Ed closes his eyes and can feel the tension bleed from him, quiet as anything. "Shut up," he says instead, and slips his hands up the back of Al's shirt.
Afterwards he leaves Al sleeping on the couch and throws on a pair of boxers and a shirt, padding over to the kitchen. He finds a skillet in the cupboard and some bacon in the icebox, and settles to making Al some fried bread and bacon for what passes for lunch.
It's three in the afternoon; the kitchen is silent, save for the clock fastened to the wall over the sink ticking merrily away. Alphonse doesn't even snore, back in the living room, although at one point he does roll right off the couch.
As he pokes the bacon around a bit to make room for the bread, Ed bends down and quietly rubbed at the tattoo on his left thigh, the smooth black lines marking him as something non-human. But does it even matter? When he was old-him and newly sixteen, he and Alphonse went and got matching tattoos, on the back of their hands. Right hand for Al, left for Edward, and he remembers the pain of the needle. The flamel, the old symbol stamped on the back of Ed's red coat and the shoulder of Al's armour.
"This doesn't mean anything," he remembers saying to Alphonse, drowsy and content. The air had been heavy with sex and spice; Alphonse had been pressed tight against him, eyes mere crescents of bronze as he watched Ed trace the lines and curves of the tattoo with an index finger. "This doesn't make us closer or anything. It's just a way of telling the world what we already know, right?"
Al had smiled, the sweet smile of an angel, though Ed could have personally testified that he wasn't. "That's philosophical, for you," he'd said, and Ed had laughed and kissed him, whispered multiple I love yous into the wetness of his mouth.
And he did, and he does, he realises, softly. He's still sore about being used, but there was never any old-him and new-him, there was just him, always. And Alphonse saw that, he thinks; saw that and knew the second transmutation was successful. Al didn't give his life to create his brother; he used those who had taken it in the first place to do that, and turned the others into food. He gave up himself for the second transmutation, the most powerful one; affixing Ed's soul into the new body, making Ed... Ed.
Al is on the floor still when Ed returns to the living room, the food on a small plate; his brother moans weakly and cranks open an eye, giving him a smile tinged with caution. "Hey," Alphonse says.
"Hey," Edward replies, and steps over him to put the food on the coffee table. "I made lunch."
"For me?"
"For us," Ed corrects, and the shy, sweet line of Al's smile is beautiful.
XI.
Al watches him as he does the dishes, plentiful after a wonderful Sunday roast. It is dark outside; spring is bleeding into summer, but there is enough winter still present for the night to come early. "So what made you think you didn't have a soul?" Al asks, running his thumb over the edge of a chipped orange plate, holding a purple tea towel in the other hand.
"I felt weird," Ed replies quietly, honestly. "I mean... I felt too light all the time, right? Like something was missing? And I thought, okay, it must be the soul, since the soul apparently weighs twenty-one grams, but..."
"But?" Al asks gently, stacking the plate and taking the last item, the gravy jug, as Ed pulls the plug and winds the chain around the tap. "What was it?"
"The automail," Ed admits sheepishly. "I mean, for years I was carrying around pounds of metal and then... well... this stuff works, but it isn't exactly steel." He flexes his arm, folding his fingers and hearing them clink. Close enough to the real thing to fool casual observers.
"Of course," Al says with a chuckle. "I wonder why I didn't realise that."
"Because you were too busy dealing with me being an irritating adolesent homunculus?" Ed offers with a grin, and Al flashes a bright, beautiful smile for him.
"I love you," Al whispers, leaning over and giving Ed a kiss on the forehead. He whaps at his brother with the towel, and Ed rips it out of his hands and bundles it up, pitching it at the kitchen counter, before comfortably slipping both his hands around the back of Al's head to tug him down into a heated kiss.
"Love you too," he says quietly, and nips at Al's lower lip. "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom," Al agrees firmly, even as his hands slip around to Ed's hips, pulling the smaller blond comfortably against him.
They barely make it to the bed as it is, leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail behind them, if of their clothing rather than crumbs. Ed pushes Al down first, following eagerly soon after; straddles Al's hips, pulling at those of the buttons on Al's shirt he hadn't managed to rip apart on the stairs.
"Al," he whispers, voice low and scraped and dirty, and Al moans at the hoarse sound and bucks up against him, hard cocks pressing together through three layers of cloth. "Al, God -" He paws hungrily at the shirt, eventually managing to unfasten it, and throws it hard at the wall; that done, he devotes himself to Al's nipples, laving licks and pinches on them until Al's rolling his eyes in his head and whining like he's going to come in his pants, if he has to, and that reminds him.
It's a bit difficult working Al's trousers and pants off - his brother is whimpering and writhing, jerking his chest and then his hips up in the air in a very obvious gesture - but he does so anyway, and his own boxers make it down to maybe his knees before he's sliding down the bed, fixed on his destination. Al yelps at the first draft of warm air against the head of his cock, and it only makes Ed harder, makes him thrust into the mattress even as he opens his mouth for his little brother's dick.
Al's cock is big, bigger than his is, and Ed has no particular wish to choke deepthroating the thing, even if he won't die from it. He settles for licking a slow line up the soft vein on the underside of the shaft, swirling his tongue around the head and teasing the foreskin; his brother's hands are fisted tight in the sheets and he's whimpering breathlessly.
Ed backs off just before he makes Al come; reaches out to the bedside cabinet for the tiny glass bottle of lube and hopes they remembered to cap the stuff from yesterday. They did, and he moans as he pours it over his hand, penetrates Al roughly with a slippery index finger. Al throws his head back, gasping; bitches briefly about the lack of warning, but his heart isn't really into it, and there's no such complaining when the second finger is added.
Ed keeps his fingers there and fumbles the bottle over, accidentally spilling half the contents over the covers and his free hand, the faux-automail one. Purring quietly under his breath he slicks the oil over his cock, gasping as he imagines what Al will feel like inside - his baby brother, his father, his creator, his lover - and withdraws his left hand, grabbing Al's hips firmly as he lines himself up.
Al flings his head back when Ed pushes in, baring his throat in what has to be the sexiest thing since... since... since when he did it yesterday. His younger brother is intoxicating, dizzying; when he growls fuck me Ed can't help but obey, slipping all the way in. He ought to be worried, he thinks vaguely with the part of his brain not fried by the sex, by the scent and heat and taste of Al, that his little brother has so much power over him; but then he withdraws and Al cries out at the loss of him, and he thinks, amused, I have as much control over him as he does over me.
Al comes first, with a soft breathless sigh and a rush of hot, sticky liquid over Ed's chest. His eyes close and he seems perfectly content; Ed can't help but come soon after, pulling out and flopping next to his brother. He's not tired, though he is temporarily sated. Homunculi have astounding recovery time, and sometimes he wonders if he were born Lust.
He's not aware he's said this out loud until Al rolls over, kissing his forehead, and says, "You were born 'Edward,' brother."
XII. aeternum vale
The imp is sitting on the roof of the house when Valerie returns, early in the morning. He is dressed entirely in black; black boots, black trousers, black tunic, black gloves, and she thinks it is a silly thing to do. "You know you really stick out in the snow dressed like that, don't you?" she asks, sharply.
"Werewolves are blind and hunt by scent alone," he replies solemnly, with a perfect poker face. "Did you bring another apple?"
She tosses it up to him and he catches it, neatly. "Where's the wizard?"
"Al?" He raises his eyebrows and she pulls a face at him. "He's inside, gnawing on children's bones. When he's stripped the meat off them, we're going to build a sleigh out of them."
"I'm not five," she snaps, in a tone of voice that suggests that she thinks that maybe he is. "I wanted to give him this." She holds up her basket, and he hops off the roof to take it, removing the cover and poking through the contents. Silver hunting knife, flint arrowheads, a block of cheese, three more apples and a fresh loaf of bread; not bad.
"Thanks," he says, and grins at her. "You want to go in and give it to him?"
"Sure." She pauses on the threshold of the door, however, and turns to him; her expression is thoughtful. "Edward?"
"Yeah?" He's pulling his gloves off, revealing a hand of metal and a hand of flesh, an odd tattoo on the back of the flesh one. "What's the matter, Valerie?"
"Thank you for stopping the Drachnians last month," she mutters, and he glances up at her bright eyes and grins.
"You must be wrong," he says cheerfully, "'s angels that protect your village, everyone knows that."
"Angels cause technical failures in military tanks? They really are amazing creatures," she says with a grin, and he smirks and takes a bite of the apple. "How is Grandpa Alphonse today, anyway?"
"He's fine, and I'm so not letting him live that nickname down." Ed's grinning, his teeth very white in his tanned face; Valerie chuckles and pushes the door open. "Happy twentieth birthday, Valerie," he calls after, and she waves acknowledgement as she closes it behind her.
He flops on the doorstep, stretching his legs out in front of him and munching on his apple; Valerie's a good kid, and Al really appreciates her company. She was the only child brave enough to come and face that which the village feared, and even now, years later, she returns every month to hear a little bit more of the story.
Theirs is a story which goes on forever, always changing; someday, and someday soon if her talk of Ivan is an indication, Valerie will tell that story to her children. Their story evolves, adapts and always shoulders on, Ed thinks... just like them.
He stands, brushing off his clothing; pitches the apple core several metres away, and goes inside to hear it again.
-fini
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