No Face (Have Not, Want Not, Do Not)
Can't
Fullmetal Alchemist. Alex-Louis angst, some early stretch of time after Ishbal. Just barely squeaks over double-drabble length.
No content warnings; OMG NO PAIRINGS WHUT.
Can't.
Those four letters have become his life.
Father always praised him, growing up, and mother rewarded his efforts, no matter what--but oh, that look; their eyes tightened, the shine went out of their smiles just a bit--even their sparkling auras drooped and diminished.
He dreaded that look.
They don't look him in the eyes, now. They stop moving when he enters a room and half-shout his name when they want his attention, as if he were deaf or a dullard, and never touch him.
He should have died. He's tried to tell them this. He can't.
They never mention the dinner.
He'd crawled under the table, for godsake.
It has no name, this seeing that doesn't stop, eyes open, eyes closed, awake, asleep. He needs spectacles for reading; he'll never see straight again. He didn't blink for two days. He couldn't.
There are new notations in his file, words in red; some of them are the names of tinctures.
One of them is the name of a specialist.
He's never seen his father break into a sweat, not until now. His mother grips his arm.
He wants to tell them what the doctor promised.
He wants to say it will be alright.
He can't.
I have no pink sparkly icon. WOE.
Fullmetal Alchemist. Alex-Louis angst, some early stretch of time after Ishbal. Just barely squeaks over double-drabble length.
No content warnings; OMG NO PAIRINGS WHUT.
Can't.
Those four letters have become his life.
Father always praised him, growing up, and mother rewarded his efforts, no matter what--but oh, that look; their eyes tightened, the shine went out of their smiles just a bit--even their sparkling auras drooped and diminished.
He dreaded that look.
They don't look him in the eyes, now. They stop moving when he enters a room and half-shout his name when they want his attention, as if he were deaf or a dullard, and never touch him.
He should have died. He's tried to tell them this. He can't.
They never mention the dinner.
He'd crawled under the table, for godsake.
It has no name, this seeing that doesn't stop, eyes open, eyes closed, awake, asleep. He needs spectacles for reading; he'll never see straight again. He didn't blink for two days. He couldn't.
There are new notations in his file, words in red; some of them are the names of tinctures.
One of them is the name of a specialist.
He's never seen his father break into a sweat, not until now. His mother grips his arm.
He wants to tell them what the doctor promised.
He wants to say it will be alright.
He can't.
I have no pink sparkly icon. WOE.