(no subject)
... I will return to the AU. I promise hope. But my mind is whirling with images. But it's really wordy images. I'm not sure I want to continue, but here's a taste of what my mind is doing:
They met in the war, amidst sand and ash, bodies and bullets, under the sweltering sun and the distant moon that watched them with grey disapproval, waiting to assert its gentle dominion once more. She was already weary of war, the stalwart soldier, the bloodied veteran, hands calloused with killing, skin and clothing chafed by sun and sand. He was the State Alchemist, young and unmarked by Ishvar and its cold, burning anger, another commander, a new set of orders, wonder and death in his very fingertips. The other was the Intelligence officer, the friend and the correspondent between that far off place called Home and Here, a strange man that could somehow smile and laugh and live within this Land of the Dead.
War did what it usually does, destroyed and ruined and ravished bodies and minds and hearts, stripping, stripping until it left behind something that only resembled will, a mechanical desire to live, an inexplicable and hateful desperation. It affected them all, but the young Major most of all; she’d endured the war too long to feel its effects anymore and the other never stayed long enough for the poison to fully taint his blood, work its way into his heart, lodge there and fester like disease. But the Major, he killed, he killed like she never did, in numbers and seconds, raining death to the beat of his snapping, beating out a song of death.
But in the nights, the long nights, he would quietly fall apart.
She doesn’t remember when she started to comfort him; she can’t say what made her do it-why she cared for this man-or why he let her. Maybe because he still hurt, maybe because he was still human, maybe because she wanted to touch that humanity, grasp it, and find her way back to that existence, pulling herself hand over hand, towards him, towards purpose. Maybe because he wanted her to, wanted to rest his cheek against her shoulder, close his eyes and pretend that he didn’t hold fire in his hands, that the end was coming. Those were quiet nights, long nights, her arms wrapped around him, their hearts beating through their clothing, the lungs filled with dust and the smell of smoke and gunpowder.
He made her feel human. He made her feel vulnerable. At the end of the night, she wanted someone to hold her.
She never asked him to; she never bared her pain. But someone noticed. The other, that smiling, laughing, living man. He’d visit came and would know, with a look, that it had been a bad night. And he would smile and laugh and joke and touch her-gentle gestures, warmth and support, a hand squeezing hers-life and goodness.
She was the variable in this equation, falling between the two constants as unknowingly and effortlessly as breathing.
Mustang stole her heart first, but Hughes laid first claim to her body.
I'm not sure I want to continue.
They met in the war, amidst sand and ash, bodies and bullets, under the sweltering sun and the distant moon that watched them with grey disapproval, waiting to assert its gentle dominion once more. She was already weary of war, the stalwart soldier, the bloodied veteran, hands calloused with killing, skin and clothing chafed by sun and sand. He was the State Alchemist, young and unmarked by Ishvar and its cold, burning anger, another commander, a new set of orders, wonder and death in his very fingertips. The other was the Intelligence officer, the friend and the correspondent between that far off place called Home and Here, a strange man that could somehow smile and laugh and live within this Land of the Dead.
War did what it usually does, destroyed and ruined and ravished bodies and minds and hearts, stripping, stripping until it left behind something that only resembled will, a mechanical desire to live, an inexplicable and hateful desperation. It affected them all, but the young Major most of all; she’d endured the war too long to feel its effects anymore and the other never stayed long enough for the poison to fully taint his blood, work its way into his heart, lodge there and fester like disease. But the Major, he killed, he killed like she never did, in numbers and seconds, raining death to the beat of his snapping, beating out a song of death.
But in the nights, the long nights, he would quietly fall apart.
She doesn’t remember when she started to comfort him; she can’t say what made her do it-why she cared for this man-or why he let her. Maybe because he still hurt, maybe because he was still human, maybe because she wanted to touch that humanity, grasp it, and find her way back to that existence, pulling herself hand over hand, towards him, towards purpose. Maybe because he wanted her to, wanted to rest his cheek against her shoulder, close his eyes and pretend that he didn’t hold fire in his hands, that the end was coming. Those were quiet nights, long nights, her arms wrapped around him, their hearts beating through their clothing, the lungs filled with dust and the smell of smoke and gunpowder.
He made her feel human. He made her feel vulnerable. At the end of the night, she wanted someone to hold her.
She never asked him to; she never bared her pain. But someone noticed. The other, that smiling, laughing, living man. He’d visit came and would know, with a look, that it had been a bad night. And he would smile and laugh and joke and touch her-gentle gestures, warmth and support, a hand squeezing hers-life and goodness.
She was the variable in this equation, falling between the two constants as unknowingly and effortlessly as breathing.
Mustang stole her heart first, but Hughes laid first claim to her body.
I'm not sure I want to continue.