for the things you do endear you to me
More second person. More lowercase letters. MORE ANIME!VERSE. I seem to have developed a writing style. Too bad it SUCKS. )8
home isn't a place, it's a person.
you first realize this on a sticky-hot summer night in august. he's been sent to meet someone in another city, some suited, important businessman involved in funding or whatever, you don't particularly know or care, and naturally he's dragged you along. anything to get out of that apartment, you'd said, only to end up in an even smaller hotel room that smells faintly of cabbage and socks.
even all the books you'd stuffed into your suitcase can't hold your attention for long; it's too humid to concentrate on anything except for the fact that you're sweating buckets and damn it, it never got this hot in amestris - but maybe your memory's warped and faded by the near-constant rain here.
after what feels like years of lying there, watching the ceiling fan spin ineffectively, the door opens with a groan of rusted metal and he's back (finally, you think), arms overflowing with all sorts of papers, diagrams and formulas and who knows what else, and as you help him collect them and set them in piles on the table by the door, he tells you how his evening went. "he's donating-" he names quite a generous sum of money- "we'll definitely be able to get all the supplies we need now."
"great. that's great," you tell him, leaning against his shoulder and grinning.
he pushes you away with a shrug of his shoulder, laughs. "it's too hot out for that, ed."
"fine."
you're content to stand at arms length, to exchange smiles with him and talk about meaningless things like the weather and the best restaraunts in town and which of you is paying for what, because as much as you wish you could go home, he's your home now.
home isn't a place, it's a person.
you first realize this on a sticky-hot summer night in august. he's been sent to meet someone in another city, some suited, important businessman involved in funding or whatever, you don't particularly know or care, and naturally he's dragged you along. anything to get out of that apartment, you'd said, only to end up in an even smaller hotel room that smells faintly of cabbage and socks.
even all the books you'd stuffed into your suitcase can't hold your attention for long; it's too humid to concentrate on anything except for the fact that you're sweating buckets and damn it, it never got this hot in amestris - but maybe your memory's warped and faded by the near-constant rain here.
after what feels like years of lying there, watching the ceiling fan spin ineffectively, the door opens with a groan of rusted metal and he's back (finally, you think), arms overflowing with all sorts of papers, diagrams and formulas and who knows what else, and as you help him collect them and set them in piles on the table by the door, he tells you how his evening went. "he's donating-" he names quite a generous sum of money- "we'll definitely be able to get all the supplies we need now."
"great. that's great," you tell him, leaning against his shoulder and grinning.
he pushes you away with a shrug of his shoulder, laughs. "it's too hot out for that, ed."
"fine."
you're content to stand at arms length, to exchange smiles with him and talk about meaningless things like the weather and the best restaraunts in town and which of you is paying for what, because as much as you wish you could go home, he's your home now.