daymare [ fullmetal alchemist; edward, alfons, al ]
Title: daymare
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa
Characters: Edward, Alphonse, Alfons, and a mention of Noah
Rating: PG
Genre: Annnnnnngst; stream-of-thoughtish
Notes: Unbeta'd 'cause I'm lazy and wanted to throw this up quickly. In memoriam of Alfons Heiderich's death ;////;
Summary: He wants this all to be a dream. Some horrific nightmare, and the irony isn’t lost on him, because he’d once believed that his entire life with Alfons, in Munich, was nothing more than fancy. But this is no dream.
He hates the smell of lilies. The cloying scent that clings to their dark, dark suits after that memorial. Another graveyard, another grave, another death, and just like that first funeral so many years ago, death has followed them like the scent of lilies follows the passing procession. Lilies are death and he knows death so intimately, he knows lilies. And he hates it.
Somehow, it’s different this time. It’s not the loss of a life of some person he’s barely known, the loss of lives connected to his but still entirely separate. It’s the loss of the anchor he had had for two years when he’d been set adrift in a world not his own. The anchor is back, in a different form and different shape, but he can’t dwell on that long because Alphonse is and never will be Alfons, even though it sometimes feels like he’s seeing Alfons looking at him through molten mercury colored eyes. Like he had once thought he saw Alphonse looking at him through eyes the shade of Resembool’s summer skies. One anchor has been traded for another, crumbling beryllium aluminium for tempered steel and bronze.
The smell of lilies is so strong now, it makes him sick. He’s turning away from the gravestone where most of the lilies have been situated and he can feel Al’s worried gaze following him as Al turns away as well. He feels sick, like the nausea that came to him when he’d first stepped foot in this fucked up world, forced into another boy's body. Like when he first saw the crumpled body and accompanying bloodstain in Noah’s lap upon returning. The urge to vomit, collapse, heave up the contents of his stomach, like he had the night he and Al-
Al won’t understand. He still doesn’t, soft inquiries spoken quietly with uncertainty, despite the determination Al had had in his voice when he’d revealed himself. He can’t really blame his little brother. Anyone would find it unsettling to see the body of a distorted mirror image of himself, even more so by that distortion rent with a gunshot wound through the back. Al must have known who he was too. Because the night before the funeral, as they curled up in his and Alfons’ old bed, reacquainting themselves after so many years apart, Al had shared one thing that now, as he recalls it, makes the urge to vomit grow. I saw you, Brother, Al had whispered to him in the deep of the night when he tried to keep the image of Alfons’ corpse out of his mind. A momentary distraction found in the warm, comforting arms of his brother. Arms he hadn't felt in six years. In my dreams, I saw you, and we were building rockets to the stars...
He wants this all to be a dream. Some horrific nightmare, and the irony isn’t lost on him, because he’d once believed that his entire life with Alfons, in Munich, was nothing more than fancy. A fantasy, a hallucination, maybe concocted in his mind as his ruptured heart pumped the last of his blood onto the floor in Dante’s place. That happened sometimes, didn’t it? People experiencing lifelike dreams that felt so real, a replacement for the life they were losing at that moment. Maybe Al never had revived him and he never did wake up, and this was all some sort of massive trip... He almost wants it to be. Wouldn’t be easier if it was?
But it’s not a dream. He’s already woken up, had been woken up by the brutal force of an arm throwing him into stairs. Woken up by the sheer g-forces inflicted on him as the one-seater rocket sent him hurtling back into his world. Forced to realize that Alfons, Munich, and the world on the other side of the Gate weren’t just products of his imagination, because such products couldn‘t burst through the Gate like they had, bringing destruction and death to Central. Bringing war from one world to another. They weren’t just the wild visions of a man breathing his last breath either. Because through Alfons, it had been real to Al too, who had experienced it all through his own wild dreams.
He’s thinking too much, his brain feels so full. As if passing through the Gate twice more had forced more information than it had previously, making it impossible to focus. He has to focus. Al’s hurrying to his side, to where he’s standing under a tree with automail fingers digging into the bark as he tries to regain some semblance of balance. Balance to his body, balance to his life, balance to his world. And Al’s reaching out, steadying him, pulling him down to the ground where they are entwined in a heap that allows him to rest his forehead on his little brother’s shoulder. And he can still smell the cloying scent of lilies in Al’s coat.
(It’s not Al’s, a distant part of his mind tells him, it’s Alfons’ coat. But the clothes Alfons had left behind would have to go to Al. Al is replacing Alfons and what would Alfons think? What would he say? Why should there be any replacing at all? And why did Alfons have to die?)
There’s still so much to do, he tells himself, reminding himself, chastising himself. There’s the apartment they’ll have to clear out, the clothes and items they’ll have to pack, the bomb they’ll have to find. The weight of this new world is on their shoulders, his own still so very uneven and aching after being weighted with automail for the first time in two years.
"Edward." The familiar voice of his brother cuts through his jumbled thoughts, like the vestige of a dream, but he’s still not dreaming. A slim hand (Al’s, his mind supplies, because there’s no one else’s it could be) tilts his chin up and at first, all he sees are Al’s eyes, so unlike the glint of light he had once thought he'd seen from within an empty suit of armor, looking at him. It takes a moment, a blink, and it’s then that he realizes the boy looking back at him isn’t Al. Not his little brother, but still Al, and Al’s eyes take on the slightly cynical slant that he recognized so well from someone else.
A ghost, a dream, something he doesn’t quite understand that makes panic rise just a little, but Al is smiling at him. His lips are moving with a soft "Edward."
All he can do is stare.
It’s not possible. At least, it shouldn’t be, but Noah could see a person’s entire life with a touch of their hand. Their entire dreams with just a bit more. And Al said he had seen his brother through the eyes of a stranger. So maybe...
Maybe...
Eyes watering from how long he's been staring, he’s forced to blink, and just like that, the moment seems to pass. Al is squeezing his eyes shut, brows furrowed, and it’s clear he’s trying his best not to yawn. Nodding off slowly as they remain slumped together underneath the tree’s canopy. The past several days must have been too overwhelming for his still fresh form, a body created only two years ago. Al is slowly falling asleep against him, and maybe that’s how it had worked. In that brief moment, those few seconds in time, when reality and dreaming blur, someone else had broken through.
It’s probably too much to hope (and even having that sliver of hope makes him feel as if he’s betraying Al somehow). Too much for them both and for Alfons, and the scent of lilies is growing stronger again as Noah slowly approaches. It’s time to go. It’s time to leave Alfons behind (as much as he doesn’t want to). It’s time to leave the last lily on the fresh mound and find the path they need to take.
It’s time to wake up, he tells himself. Not from any dream because this is reality and there’s no escaping it. It's time to wake up and take control of this new reality. It’s time to leave and forget the smell of lilies.
plurk discussions about dreams and reality and how they totally could've played with both concepts a bit more in conqueror of shamballa. that's where this came from. yep. also, because it's november 8th, anniversary of Alfons' death ;A;
thoughts and input would be greatly appreciated! ♥
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa
Characters: Edward, Alphonse, Alfons, and a mention of Noah
Rating: PG
Genre: Annnnnnngst; stream-of-thoughtish
Notes: Unbeta'd 'cause I'm lazy and wanted to throw this up quickly. In memoriam of Alfons Heiderich's death ;////;
Summary: He wants this all to be a dream. Some horrific nightmare, and the irony isn’t lost on him, because he’d once believed that his entire life with Alfons, in Munich, was nothing more than fancy. But this is no dream.
He hates the smell of lilies. The cloying scent that clings to their dark, dark suits after that memorial. Another graveyard, another grave, another death, and just like that first funeral so many years ago, death has followed them like the scent of lilies follows the passing procession. Lilies are death and he knows death so intimately, he knows lilies. And he hates it.
Somehow, it’s different this time. It’s not the loss of a life of some person he’s barely known, the loss of lives connected to his but still entirely separate. It’s the loss of the anchor he had had for two years when he’d been set adrift in a world not his own. The anchor is back, in a different form and different shape, but he can’t dwell on that long because Alphonse is and never will be Alfons, even though it sometimes feels like he’s seeing Alfons looking at him through molten mercury colored eyes. Like he had once thought he saw Alphonse looking at him through eyes the shade of Resembool’s summer skies. One anchor has been traded for another, crumbling beryllium aluminium for tempered steel and bronze.
The smell of lilies is so strong now, it makes him sick. He’s turning away from the gravestone where most of the lilies have been situated and he can feel Al’s worried gaze following him as Al turns away as well. He feels sick, like the nausea that came to him when he’d first stepped foot in this fucked up world, forced into another boy's body. Like when he first saw the crumpled body and accompanying bloodstain in Noah’s lap upon returning. The urge to vomit, collapse, heave up the contents of his stomach, like he had the night he and Al-
Al won’t understand. He still doesn’t, soft inquiries spoken quietly with uncertainty, despite the determination Al had had in his voice when he’d revealed himself. He can’t really blame his little brother. Anyone would find it unsettling to see the body of a distorted mirror image of himself, even more so by that distortion rent with a gunshot wound through the back. Al must have known who he was too. Because the night before the funeral, as they curled up in his and Alfons’ old bed, reacquainting themselves after so many years apart, Al had shared one thing that now, as he recalls it, makes the urge to vomit grow. I saw you, Brother, Al had whispered to him in the deep of the night when he tried to keep the image of Alfons’ corpse out of his mind. A momentary distraction found in the warm, comforting arms of his brother. Arms he hadn't felt in six years. In my dreams, I saw you, and we were building rockets to the stars...
He wants this all to be a dream. Some horrific nightmare, and the irony isn’t lost on him, because he’d once believed that his entire life with Alfons, in Munich, was nothing more than fancy. A fantasy, a hallucination, maybe concocted in his mind as his ruptured heart pumped the last of his blood onto the floor in Dante’s place. That happened sometimes, didn’t it? People experiencing lifelike dreams that felt so real, a replacement for the life they were losing at that moment. Maybe Al never had revived him and he never did wake up, and this was all some sort of massive trip... He almost wants it to be. Wouldn’t be easier if it was?
But it’s not a dream. He’s already woken up, had been woken up by the brutal force of an arm throwing him into stairs. Woken up by the sheer g-forces inflicted on him as the one-seater rocket sent him hurtling back into his world. Forced to realize that Alfons, Munich, and the world on the other side of the Gate weren’t just products of his imagination, because such products couldn‘t burst through the Gate like they had, bringing destruction and death to Central. Bringing war from one world to another. They weren’t just the wild visions of a man breathing his last breath either. Because through Alfons, it had been real to Al too, who had experienced it all through his own wild dreams.
He’s thinking too much, his brain feels so full. As if passing through the Gate twice more had forced more information than it had previously, making it impossible to focus. He has to focus. Al’s hurrying to his side, to where he’s standing under a tree with automail fingers digging into the bark as he tries to regain some semblance of balance. Balance to his body, balance to his life, balance to his world. And Al’s reaching out, steadying him, pulling him down to the ground where they are entwined in a heap that allows him to rest his forehead on his little brother’s shoulder. And he can still smell the cloying scent of lilies in Al’s coat.
(It’s not Al’s, a distant part of his mind tells him, it’s Alfons’ coat. But the clothes Alfons had left behind would have to go to Al. Al is replacing Alfons and what would Alfons think? What would he say? Why should there be any replacing at all? And why did Alfons have to die?)
There’s still so much to do, he tells himself, reminding himself, chastising himself. There’s the apartment they’ll have to clear out, the clothes and items they’ll have to pack, the bomb they’ll have to find. The weight of this new world is on their shoulders, his own still so very uneven and aching after being weighted with automail for the first time in two years.
"Edward." The familiar voice of his brother cuts through his jumbled thoughts, like the vestige of a dream, but he’s still not dreaming. A slim hand (Al’s, his mind supplies, because there’s no one else’s it could be) tilts his chin up and at first, all he sees are Al’s eyes, so unlike the glint of light he had once thought he'd seen from within an empty suit of armor, looking at him. It takes a moment, a blink, and it’s then that he realizes the boy looking back at him isn’t Al. Not his little brother, but still Al, and Al’s eyes take on the slightly cynical slant that he recognized so well from someone else.
A ghost, a dream, something he doesn’t quite understand that makes panic rise just a little, but Al is smiling at him. His lips are moving with a soft "Edward."
All he can do is stare.
It’s not possible. At least, it shouldn’t be, but Noah could see a person’s entire life with a touch of their hand. Their entire dreams with just a bit more. And Al said he had seen his brother through the eyes of a stranger. So maybe...
Maybe...
Eyes watering from how long he's been staring, he’s forced to blink, and just like that, the moment seems to pass. Al is squeezing his eyes shut, brows furrowed, and it’s clear he’s trying his best not to yawn. Nodding off slowly as they remain slumped together underneath the tree’s canopy. The past several days must have been too overwhelming for his still fresh form, a body created only two years ago. Al is slowly falling asleep against him, and maybe that’s how it had worked. In that brief moment, those few seconds in time, when reality and dreaming blur, someone else had broken through.
It’s probably too much to hope (and even having that sliver of hope makes him feel as if he’s betraying Al somehow). Too much for them both and for Alfons, and the scent of lilies is growing stronger again as Noah slowly approaches. It’s time to go. It’s time to leave Alfons behind (as much as he doesn’t want to). It’s time to leave the last lily on the fresh mound and find the path they need to take.
It’s time to wake up, he tells himself. Not from any dream because this is reality and there’s no escaping it. It's time to wake up and take control of this new reality. It’s time to leave and forget the smell of lilies.
plurk discussions about dreams and reality and how they totally could've played with both concepts a bit more in conqueror of shamballa. that's where this came from. yep. also, because it's november 8th, anniversary of Alfons' death ;A;
thoughts and input would be greatly appreciated! ♥