Definition of Soul: Things That Aren't Mine
Title: Things That Aren’t Mine
Genre: drabble?
Rating: G
Pairing: Al/Wrath
Warnings: series spoilers!
Previous: 1
Things That Aren't Mine
I’m in my room when I first hear the shouting. It isn’t really my room, of course, it’s the room the girl and the old woman use for all their patients. The yelling bothers me, and I want to go outside, but this new automail is slow to respond and I’m not used to the pain of having non-organic additions attached to my human-like body. I lurch forward, banging my feeling shin on the doorframe and cry out, but this time no one rushes to my side; they’re too busy making an angry and irritating racket.
“You’re not him, Al, and no amount of pretending is going to change that,” I hear the girl screeching. She only does that when someone she loves has really upset her, and for a moment I’m glad no one loves me enough to get that angry with me.
“I know I’m not him, I may not remember anything but I’m not stupid! What do you want me to do, just sit around here and play outside, like a little kid?” But you are a little kid, Alphonse, I tell him in my mind, and I surprise myself at how I’m starting to think in human terms about age.
As far as I have been able to recall, I am only eight years old myself, and while I appear to humans as a child, in my own mind the term no longer applies. Anyone who has seen their mother destroyed, right before his very eyes; anyone who has had the limbs torn right off his body; anyone who has been betrayed and lied to and mislead his entire life; anyone who has had a life like mine cannot ever be a child again.
He is screaming at the girl that no one understands him, and I take that to mean that even he doesn’t understand what he is.
I finally get the mechanical limb to function properly, and soon I am slamming the door shut, leaving the yelling and hollering behind, heading for a spot I favor here, by the side of the river under a tree.
I can’t stay here; not under this tree, and not in this house. It can never be my home. I’ll never have a home, for as long as I live, and judging by what I know of the other homunculi it will be longer than any human can survive. When the world has moved on, and not a thing is still remembered about Alphonse and Edward Elric, I will still be here, with my child like appearance and unfeeling limbs.
A shadow falls over the water in front of me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who is behind me. “Are you done making all that noise?” I ask roughly, and he doesn’t answer, only sniffles.
He crashes to his knees, his hands making fists in the grass, tearing it out and clutching it tightly for a moment before tossing it aside. Finally he looks at me, sidelong, suspicious like his brother. “What are you doing here?” he asks, subdued, curious.
I lean back against the tree, folding my flesh hand behind my head and starting at its mate: the mechanical one lying limp at my side. Right. With a different part of my brain, I tell it to move, but I can’t get the same fluid motion as my real arm and when I get it where I want it, I find that the metal digs uncomfortably at the back of my head.
I smirk, and try to tinge it with a little innocence, so that he won’t yell like that at me too. “I like taking other people’s things,” I tell him, making my eyes as big as possible, my voice as young-sounding as I can. “And this is your spot, isn’t it?”
But this human isn’t looking at my face, he’s looking at my feet, stretched out in front of me. “You should be wearing shoes,” he tells me, and I frown.
“Why?” I ask, dropping the act in favor of curiosity.
He’s looking down, picking at the grass he uprooted a moment ago. “The grass,” he says in explanation. “It will catch in the joints. Winry will be angry.”
Ah, but she will get mad at me for damaging her creation. She will get mad at him for damaging himself. “You know why she doesn’t want you to leave,” I say abruptly, leaning over, inspecting the joints myself and picking out the debris I could get at with my fingers. “She doesn’t want to lose you.” I glance up, noticing something new, and, unsure how to react, I return to looking after my automail.
He’s dressed like his brother.
The leather pants, the red coat, the layers, at a glance even I am fooled. Now that one I never would have guessed.
Alphonse Elric likes to take other people’s things too.
Even more that we have in common.
I watch as he sits forwards on his knees, hurling a rock into the river, and sitting back again as it makes contact with a satisfying crash and sinks to the bottom. “Nobody understands what it’s like!” he cries out, across the water, his perfect face twisted with frustration.
Before thinking, I reach out with my flesh hand, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him backward, and now he’s on the ground looking up at me, upside down. “You think I don’t understand you?” I say blandly. “Or you think I don’t count?”
He struggles to sit up, but now my hand presses on his chest, pinning him down, and I am the stronger of the two of us.
“You’re no more of a child than I am,” I say, and watch his face as the words sink in. You’re no more human than I am, I want to tell him, but I know he won’t believe me. Not yet. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose your mother? You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose your… brother?” I say, the term feeling odd on my tongue, and for a moment I think maybe I’ve never said it before. But if Envy wasn’t an older brother, then what was he to me? “You think I don’t know what it’s like to wake up from nightmares about a pair of doors that open to reveal hundreds of creatures with violet eyes, that reach, and take, and destroy?” The last sentence leaves me breathless. Maybe it is those creatures, and not the other homunculi after all, who are my siblings.
I let go of him, and he springs up, brushing the grass off his clothing. I don’t know what I expect from him, but it isn’t the sympathy I see in those wide grey eyes. He leans forward and says, “I didn’t know you have nightmares too.” He reaches towards me, and I shrink back instinctively. It doesn’t look like he is going to hit me, but for once I don’t understand him.
He’s on his knees in front of me, he’s wrapping his arms around mine and pressing his cheek to mine, and the last time someone’s touched me like this it’s been my mother and I let myself relax into it.
He is so close, and so trusting, and if he really was the brother he was dressed like I could have killed him with my bare hands, but he, despite his appearance, isn’t like the older one.
He’s more like me.
When we return to the house the girl is just closing the door, and I know that she is going out to look for him because she stops on the porch when she sees us.
He’s holding my hand, and even though I know that it’s just to help me walk, just because the automail is new, I can’t help but notice how much I like the closeness.
As we climb the steps to the front door, him much faster that me, she is looking at me with suspicion. “You found him?” she asks, and I know that tone in her voice. I remember it well. She’s jealous. She wanted to find him by the water. She wanted to offer him comfort. But instead, all the comfort came to me.
I make my eyes big again, and make my voice young. “We talked,” I say simply, although we didn’t really say much.
She looks at my feet. “Take those shoes off before you go inside,” she instructs, her voice brisk. “I bet they’re full of mud, and I don’t want it tracked all over the floors.”
Next: Feeling Like Home
Genre: drabble?
Rating: G
Pairing: Al/Wrath
Warnings: series spoilers!
Previous: 1
Things That Aren't Mine
I’m in my room when I first hear the shouting. It isn’t really my room, of course, it’s the room the girl and the old woman use for all their patients. The yelling bothers me, and I want to go outside, but this new automail is slow to respond and I’m not used to the pain of having non-organic additions attached to my human-like body. I lurch forward, banging my feeling shin on the doorframe and cry out, but this time no one rushes to my side; they’re too busy making an angry and irritating racket.
“You’re not him, Al, and no amount of pretending is going to change that,” I hear the girl screeching. She only does that when someone she loves has really upset her, and for a moment I’m glad no one loves me enough to get that angry with me.
“I know I’m not him, I may not remember anything but I’m not stupid! What do you want me to do, just sit around here and play outside, like a little kid?” But you are a little kid, Alphonse, I tell him in my mind, and I surprise myself at how I’m starting to think in human terms about age.
As far as I have been able to recall, I am only eight years old myself, and while I appear to humans as a child, in my own mind the term no longer applies. Anyone who has seen their mother destroyed, right before his very eyes; anyone who has had the limbs torn right off his body; anyone who has been betrayed and lied to and mislead his entire life; anyone who has had a life like mine cannot ever be a child again.
He is screaming at the girl that no one understands him, and I take that to mean that even he doesn’t understand what he is.
I finally get the mechanical limb to function properly, and soon I am slamming the door shut, leaving the yelling and hollering behind, heading for a spot I favor here, by the side of the river under a tree.
I can’t stay here; not under this tree, and not in this house. It can never be my home. I’ll never have a home, for as long as I live, and judging by what I know of the other homunculi it will be longer than any human can survive. When the world has moved on, and not a thing is still remembered about Alphonse and Edward Elric, I will still be here, with my child like appearance and unfeeling limbs.
A shadow falls over the water in front of me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who is behind me. “Are you done making all that noise?” I ask roughly, and he doesn’t answer, only sniffles.
He crashes to his knees, his hands making fists in the grass, tearing it out and clutching it tightly for a moment before tossing it aside. Finally he looks at me, sidelong, suspicious like his brother. “What are you doing here?” he asks, subdued, curious.
I lean back against the tree, folding my flesh hand behind my head and starting at its mate: the mechanical one lying limp at my side. Right. With a different part of my brain, I tell it to move, but I can’t get the same fluid motion as my real arm and when I get it where I want it, I find that the metal digs uncomfortably at the back of my head.
I smirk, and try to tinge it with a little innocence, so that he won’t yell like that at me too. “I like taking other people’s things,” I tell him, making my eyes as big as possible, my voice as young-sounding as I can. “And this is your spot, isn’t it?”
But this human isn’t looking at my face, he’s looking at my feet, stretched out in front of me. “You should be wearing shoes,” he tells me, and I frown.
“Why?” I ask, dropping the act in favor of curiosity.
He’s looking down, picking at the grass he uprooted a moment ago. “The grass,” he says in explanation. “It will catch in the joints. Winry will be angry.”
Ah, but she will get mad at me for damaging her creation. She will get mad at him for damaging himself. “You know why she doesn’t want you to leave,” I say abruptly, leaning over, inspecting the joints myself and picking out the debris I could get at with my fingers. “She doesn’t want to lose you.” I glance up, noticing something new, and, unsure how to react, I return to looking after my automail.
He’s dressed like his brother.
The leather pants, the red coat, the layers, at a glance even I am fooled. Now that one I never would have guessed.
Alphonse Elric likes to take other people’s things too.
Even more that we have in common.
I watch as he sits forwards on his knees, hurling a rock into the river, and sitting back again as it makes contact with a satisfying crash and sinks to the bottom. “Nobody understands what it’s like!” he cries out, across the water, his perfect face twisted with frustration.
Before thinking, I reach out with my flesh hand, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him backward, and now he’s on the ground looking up at me, upside down. “You think I don’t understand you?” I say blandly. “Or you think I don’t count?”
He struggles to sit up, but now my hand presses on his chest, pinning him down, and I am the stronger of the two of us.
“You’re no more of a child than I am,” I say, and watch his face as the words sink in. You’re no more human than I am, I want to tell him, but I know he won’t believe me. Not yet. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose your mother? You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose your… brother?” I say, the term feeling odd on my tongue, and for a moment I think maybe I’ve never said it before. But if Envy wasn’t an older brother, then what was he to me? “You think I don’t know what it’s like to wake up from nightmares about a pair of doors that open to reveal hundreds of creatures with violet eyes, that reach, and take, and destroy?” The last sentence leaves me breathless. Maybe it is those creatures, and not the other homunculi after all, who are my siblings.
I let go of him, and he springs up, brushing the grass off his clothing. I don’t know what I expect from him, but it isn’t the sympathy I see in those wide grey eyes. He leans forward and says, “I didn’t know you have nightmares too.” He reaches towards me, and I shrink back instinctively. It doesn’t look like he is going to hit me, but for once I don’t understand him.
He’s on his knees in front of me, he’s wrapping his arms around mine and pressing his cheek to mine, and the last time someone’s touched me like this it’s been my mother and I let myself relax into it.
He is so close, and so trusting, and if he really was the brother he was dressed like I could have killed him with my bare hands, but he, despite his appearance, isn’t like the older one.
He’s more like me.
When we return to the house the girl is just closing the door, and I know that she is going out to look for him because she stops on the porch when she sees us.
He’s holding my hand, and even though I know that it’s just to help me walk, just because the automail is new, I can’t help but notice how much I like the closeness.
As we climb the steps to the front door, him much faster that me, she is looking at me with suspicion. “You found him?” she asks, and I know that tone in her voice. I remember it well. She’s jealous. She wanted to find him by the water. She wanted to offer him comfort. But instead, all the comfort came to me.
I make my eyes big again, and make my voice young. “We talked,” I say simply, although we didn’t really say much.
She looks at my feet. “Take those shoes off before you go inside,” she instructs, her voice brisk. “I bet they’re full of mud, and I don’t want it tracked all over the floors.”
Next: Feeling Like Home