Clockwork.
Tic tac, another line drawn, another dream lost, another life wasted, another smile flickering in and out, in and out, in and out. Envy arching off, curling around him with a body that's too small, too fragile, too false; Alphonse is shattering, breaking down into inexistence again and embracing it all the same.
He waits.
Tic tac, it's a matter of compromise, of hating for the sake of survival and compassion for the sake of being; it's Envy waning a bit at the edges and Alphonse hardening bit by bit. Hair that slips through his fingers like wet sand, glinting mockingly like the eyes of The Gate.
They wait.
Tic tac, hours dripping on the walls, little stains of stolen time; another minute ticking by, smearing its nameless face against the surface of the mirror. Guilt gnawing on a distant corner of his mind and Envy parting his body and baring his soul: emptiness.
Time crawls some more.
Tic tac, there's blood in his hands and tears in his eyes, because they aren't who they should be: the numbers drift apart and another little eternity is contained in silence. Skin cold to the touch, lips pliant under his teeth; nails scraping wildly and a whimper that doesn't come out right.
No one's home.
Tic tac, and then the bells sing merrily, another disrupted petal of hatred torn away from the rose; Alphonse melting into his hands, Envy marveling at the willingness of the sacrifice. Music muted against the mourning of their song, it's a very convincing farce.
They're going home.
Tic tac, and it begins, again, once more, déjà vu.