Drabble: I Feel Sick: Ed/Envy
I Feel Sick
FMA
Ed/Envy
PG13 for language
Slightly more incestuous than normal, but so subtle you can’t call it out. AU, end of FMA spoilers, Envy-centric. Kind of sad, kind of crazy, with sarcasm thrown in for flavor. For 15minuteficlets.
620 Words
This fever’s killing him.
Images go high and wide and small and squinty too fast, so fast the afterimages overlap one another, he wants to cough, he wants to line his throat with lead, he wants the world to stop the goddamn spinning but mostly most of all, more than anything, Envy really wants to die. He remembers being sick. He remembers what came after it, and he’d rather die.
Only, that happened. And dying hadn’t made anything better.
He whimpers in his chest and curses at the pain, and the cracking brittle phlegm of his throat, at the blood he’s sure is flooding down and drowning his lungs. This isn’t worth it; the price of living’s far too high, fuck the alchemists, fuck the rules, fuck Everything if it means he just won’t feel this pain anymore.
Envy (he’s still him, still him even if he is human (temporary, it’s only temporary, it’s nothing to panic about it can’t last), even if he’s fucked up in so many ways he’s still Envy dark beautiful and perfect) almost moans in pleasure, relief, comes close to begging for another cold solid touch on his forehead, on his cheeks.
There’s a soft noise in the exploding/imploding fuzzy splodge of color above him, annoyed and gentle. Something smelly and disgusting and greasy coats his chest. It feels like he’s wearing a thick red woolen vest losers wear with old cooking grease on the inside.
He moans again, and life trickles down his throat, organic and silvery metallic, smooth.
For a moment, he thinks of his-could he call him that? Now? Now that he was dead? Envy considers, feeling his walls of who he is (was? No, he still is, he has to still be him) and who he could be (if he ever feels like it, if he ever really wants to and he never will) waver, and decides no, the old blond bastard built like a Neanderthal was still a bastard, and not to be spoken of.
Still, he can’t help thinking of him.
He prays he’s dreaming. Then he prays he isn’t. Then he wonders how long it’s been, really been, since he’d done anything remotely close to praying, if he’d ever done anything like that at all.
Then he thinks the fever’s too strong, too painful, for it to be a dream. And he remembers he’s damned, and shouldn’t be praying at all. But then he’s always been so good at doing what he isn’t supposed to, so perhaps that’s all right…?
Darkness envelops him, burning cold and freezing hot, and he wishes one more time he was dead.
When he opens his eyes, he can’t help thinking there’s been dead and gutted fish that look happier than Edward does. And he remembers he’s human. And sick. And in a world that isn’t his at all, in another goddamned fucking cold stony world thick with religion that doesn’t acknowledge him at all…doesn’t remember how beautiful and perfect he could be.
Ed feels his forehead, and Envy can’t help closing his eyes, can’t help a small hum coming from the back of his cool raw throat. One day, he’ll get over being touched, get over to reacting to it. Get over the fucking blond assholes. One day. One fucking day that isn’t today, won’t be tomorrow either if Ed keeps on touching him like that, cold soft and soothing.
“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” Ed says with thick sarcasm (that’s right, Ed hates him, hates Envy for killing him and torturing him and showing up again just again just one more time in his life and staying) “don’t do it on my damn doorstep.”
Why did he wake up?
FMA
Ed/Envy
PG13 for language
Slightly more incestuous than normal, but so subtle you can’t call it out. AU, end of FMA spoilers, Envy-centric. Kind of sad, kind of crazy, with sarcasm thrown in for flavor. For 15minuteficlets.
620 Words
This fever’s killing him.
Images go high and wide and small and squinty too fast, so fast the afterimages overlap one another, he wants to cough, he wants to line his throat with lead, he wants the world to stop the goddamn spinning but mostly most of all, more than anything, Envy really wants to die. He remembers being sick. He remembers what came after it, and he’d rather die.
Only, that happened. And dying hadn’t made anything better.
He whimpers in his chest and curses at the pain, and the cracking brittle phlegm of his throat, at the blood he’s sure is flooding down and drowning his lungs. This isn’t worth it; the price of living’s far too high, fuck the alchemists, fuck the rules, fuck Everything if it means he just won’t feel this pain anymore.
Envy (he’s still him, still him even if he is human (temporary, it’s only temporary, it’s nothing to panic about it can’t last), even if he’s fucked up in so many ways he’s still Envy dark beautiful and perfect) almost moans in pleasure, relief, comes close to begging for another cold solid touch on his forehead, on his cheeks.
There’s a soft noise in the exploding/imploding fuzzy splodge of color above him, annoyed and gentle. Something smelly and disgusting and greasy coats his chest. It feels like he’s wearing a thick red woolen vest losers wear with old cooking grease on the inside.
He moans again, and life trickles down his throat, organic and silvery metallic, smooth.
For a moment, he thinks of his-could he call him that? Now? Now that he was dead? Envy considers, feeling his walls of who he is (was? No, he still is, he has to still be him) and who he could be (if he ever feels like it, if he ever really wants to and he never will) waver, and decides no, the old blond bastard built like a Neanderthal was still a bastard, and not to be spoken of.
Still, he can’t help thinking of him.
He prays he’s dreaming. Then he prays he isn’t. Then he wonders how long it’s been, really been, since he’d done anything remotely close to praying, if he’d ever done anything like that at all.
Then he thinks the fever’s too strong, too painful, for it to be a dream. And he remembers he’s damned, and shouldn’t be praying at all. But then he’s always been so good at doing what he isn’t supposed to, so perhaps that’s all right…?
Darkness envelops him, burning cold and freezing hot, and he wishes one more time he was dead.
When he opens his eyes, he can’t help thinking there’s been dead and gutted fish that look happier than Edward does. And he remembers he’s human. And sick. And in a world that isn’t his at all, in another goddamned fucking cold stony world thick with religion that doesn’t acknowledge him at all…doesn’t remember how beautiful and perfect he could be.
Ed feels his forehead, and Envy can’t help closing his eyes, can’t help a small hum coming from the back of his cool raw throat. One day, he’ll get over being touched, get over to reacting to it. Get over the fucking blond assholes. One day. One fucking day that isn’t today, won’t be tomorrow either if Ed keeps on touching him like that, cold soft and soothing.
“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” Ed says with thick sarcasm (that’s right, Ed hates him, hates Envy for killing him and torturing him and showing up again just again just one more time in his life and staying) “don’t do it on my damn doorstep.”
Why did he wake up?