[fic] One Difference
Title: One Difference
Author: Urplesquirrel
Rating: PG, for the use of the word "bastard."
Warnings: None really
Summary: One thing different would have made me the one sitting alone on the bed, crying in the dark.
“Edward,” Mom says, handing me some blankets, “Take these up to him. It’s cold tonight.”
I don’t have to ask which him she means. Only one person can give mom that particular that particular look on her face. That look is part of the reason I don’t like him.
The other reason I don’t like him is that I’m scared of him. More accurately, I’m scared of how close I came to becoming him. One difference in my life, and it would be me with the automail arm and leg, carrying around the mountains of guilt.
I stop outside the door to his room (he’s been here less than a month. When did it become ‘his room’?) and look inside. He’s sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head in his arms. His shoulders are shaking, and his breath sounds ragged.
Is he crying? I look again, just to be sure. Sure enough, his shoulders are trembling and he is muffling the sobs against his knees.
This is completely wrong. He’s supposed to be an obnoxious, annoying shrimp. He’s not supposed to cry. He’s not supposed to make me think about how one thing different would have made me the one sitting alone on the bed, crying in the dark.
I enter the room. He doesn’t notice me until I drop a blanket onto his shoulders. I’m almost out of the door again before he speaks.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” he asks.
I turn around to look at him. He’s not looking at me, but rather staring at his hand. The automail one.
“I would do anything just to have Al back. My Al,” he clarifies, though I know he’s not talking about my brother.
He turns to look at me, slowly, “And you... You lucky bastard. You’ve got Al, Mom, your arm and leg, Dad, your home. You’ve got everything. Do you even appreciate it?”
I’m angry that he could think I don’t appreciate my family, and a little miffed that Dad is so far down on the list, “I know that haven’t seen even half the things you have. I probably never will. I hope I never will. But I have seen enough to know that I’m lucky.”
He looks away from me, but I can hear the sneer in his voice as he says, “And what have you seen?”
“I’ve seen you.”
Heh. I think I may have rendered him speechless. That’s a first.
I turn to leave, eager to distance myself from this side of him. It makes me feel sympathetic towards him, and it’s easier to tease someone who’s just a short, short-tempered demanding brat. This makes him seem like a real person, and I’m not sure I like that.
I pause as I close the door, “And if you’re supposed to be me, quit crying. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re so short.”
I slam the door against the tirade of “WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT THAT HE COULD BE MISTAKEN FOR A GIRL?!?!”
I smile. He’s yelling again. That’s much better.
I go back downstairs, putting the image of him crying silently firmly out of my mind. I can handle screaming hissy-fits, but crying is another story.
Sorry about earlier. I had read the rules, I'd just thought I'd post the story and then make the archive. I didn't realize that it had to be done the other way around. *is a stupid n00b*
Author: Urplesquirrel
Rating: PG, for the use of the word "bastard."
Warnings: None really
Summary: One thing different would have made me the one sitting alone on the bed, crying in the dark.
“Edward,” Mom says, handing me some blankets, “Take these up to him. It’s cold tonight.”
I don’t have to ask which him she means. Only one person can give mom that particular that particular look on her face. That look is part of the reason I don’t like him.
The other reason I don’t like him is that I’m scared of him. More accurately, I’m scared of how close I came to becoming him. One difference in my life, and it would be me with the automail arm and leg, carrying around the mountains of guilt.
I stop outside the door to his room (he’s been here less than a month. When did it become ‘his room’?) and look inside. He’s sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head in his arms. His shoulders are shaking, and his breath sounds ragged.
Is he crying? I look again, just to be sure. Sure enough, his shoulders are trembling and he is muffling the sobs against his knees.
This is completely wrong. He’s supposed to be an obnoxious, annoying shrimp. He’s not supposed to cry. He’s not supposed to make me think about how one thing different would have made me the one sitting alone on the bed, crying in the dark.
I enter the room. He doesn’t notice me until I drop a blanket onto his shoulders. I’m almost out of the door again before he speaks.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” he asks.
I turn around to look at him. He’s not looking at me, but rather staring at his hand. The automail one.
“I would do anything just to have Al back. My Al,” he clarifies, though I know he’s not talking about my brother.
He turns to look at me, slowly, “And you... You lucky bastard. You’ve got Al, Mom, your arm and leg, Dad, your home. You’ve got everything. Do you even appreciate it?”
I’m angry that he could think I don’t appreciate my family, and a little miffed that Dad is so far down on the list, “I know that haven’t seen even half the things you have. I probably never will. I hope I never will. But I have seen enough to know that I’m lucky.”
He looks away from me, but I can hear the sneer in his voice as he says, “And what have you seen?”
“I’ve seen you.”
Heh. I think I may have rendered him speechless. That’s a first.
I turn to leave, eager to distance myself from this side of him. It makes me feel sympathetic towards him, and it’s easier to tease someone who’s just a short, short-tempered demanding brat. This makes him seem like a real person, and I’m not sure I like that.
I pause as I close the door, “And if you’re supposed to be me, quit crying. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re so short.”
I slam the door against the tirade of “WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT THAT HE COULD BE MISTAKEN FOR A GIRL?!?!”
I smile. He’s yelling again. That’s much better.
I go back downstairs, putting the image of him crying silently firmly out of my mind. I can handle screaming hissy-fits, but crying is another story.
Sorry about earlier. I had read the rules, I'd just thought I'd post the story and then make the archive. I didn't realize that it had to be done the other way around. *is a stupid n00b*