drabbles
Two drabbles before I start miokohagata's Ed/Al fic ^.^;
implications
gen/Edo-centric/106 words
In his dreams, the stone is melting; it pools in his outstretched hand like blood, slides between his fingers, fizzles like acid through the earth beneath him because it, unlike his own driving ambition, his own intense need and desire for this one thing-the earth is insubstantial and will not last.
Edward thinks that, even if he were to die, this terrible fire in his chest would not; it would live on and maybe, maybe-that would be enough.
He refuses to consider the implications of blood, and dreams, and fast-melting stones because those can't possibly be signs of any good to come.
gloves
gen/RoyxEd/292 words
Really, it would have been so much more convenient if he'd had the arrays tattooed on his hands, like the Crimson Alchemist had done; perfectly inked and perfectly permanent, and he'd never have to worry about fraying edges or tears or being caught without them; he wouldn't have to worry about ever being without his weapons.
Edward would ask why, but he doesn't because he knows now. Whenever Roy stumbles into his dorm room when Al's buying groceries and Ed is groggy after a long night of research and has slept in, he doesn't have his gloves on; whenever they are in his office, and the door is locked and the shades are pulled, he tugs gently on the stainless tips and slides the smooth material off his long, slender fingers.
“It doesn't matter,” the Colonel had said once, and only once-“It doesn't matter how many times they have to be replaced; it doesn't matter if they're white or black or blue-it's still these gloves I wore in Ishbal, it's this symbol.” He looked at Edward then, beneath him and half-dressed and all-aroused for the first time; eyes hooded and pupils dilated in the low light and Roy with an expression at once both monstrous and quietly questioning; they ask for redemption. “Without them, I'm Colonel Roy Mustang, soon-to-be Fuhrer,” and of course the last bit is a small splash of comic relief to alleviate some of the weight of his words. “And when I put them on, I'm-” he tells Edward in no uncertain terms that he is a murderer sometimes, and he lowers his head so they are temple-to-temple.
“And I would have no right to touch you with a murderer's hands.”
Sleep time now >.>
implications
gen/Edo-centric/106 words
In his dreams, the stone is melting; it pools in his outstretched hand like blood, slides between his fingers, fizzles like acid through the earth beneath him because it, unlike his own driving ambition, his own intense need and desire for this one thing-the earth is insubstantial and will not last.
Edward thinks that, even if he were to die, this terrible fire in his chest would not; it would live on and maybe, maybe-that would be enough.
He refuses to consider the implications of blood, and dreams, and fast-melting stones because those can't possibly be signs of any good to come.
gloves
gen/RoyxEd/292 words
Really, it would have been so much more convenient if he'd had the arrays tattooed on his hands, like the Crimson Alchemist had done; perfectly inked and perfectly permanent, and he'd never have to worry about fraying edges or tears or being caught without them; he wouldn't have to worry about ever being without his weapons.
Edward would ask why, but he doesn't because he knows now. Whenever Roy stumbles into his dorm room when Al's buying groceries and Ed is groggy after a long night of research and has slept in, he doesn't have his gloves on; whenever they are in his office, and the door is locked and the shades are pulled, he tugs gently on the stainless tips and slides the smooth material off his long, slender fingers.
“It doesn't matter,” the Colonel had said once, and only once-“It doesn't matter how many times they have to be replaced; it doesn't matter if they're white or black or blue-it's still these gloves I wore in Ishbal, it's this symbol.” He looked at Edward then, beneath him and half-dressed and all-aroused for the first time; eyes hooded and pupils dilated in the low light and Roy with an expression at once both monstrous and quietly questioning; they ask for redemption. “Without them, I'm Colonel Roy Mustang, soon-to-be Fuhrer,” and of course the last bit is a small splash of comic relief to alleviate some of the weight of his words. “And when I put them on, I'm-” he tells Edward in no uncertain terms that he is a murderer sometimes, and he lowers his head so they are temple-to-temple.
“And I would have no right to touch you with a murderer's hands.”
Sleep time now >.>