AN: Based off another fanfic about Heidrich and Al. I really liked the idea, and this little nugget of writing popped into my grey matter.
Just like it always and constantly did, time passed. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and months slowly turned to years. Summers and winters passed so easily; they slid into each other like the way the stream would meet the river at our favourite spot. I liked to believe that because we spent so much of that precious time at that spot, we were truly happy. Genuinely and utterly happy. You got me a new kitten awhile back and, for once, it wouldn't hiss at you like the old one used to. I think that made you happy. Not only because the kitten was nice to you, but because the tiny fur ball made me smile. I know you love the way I smile at you; when it's just for and you alone.
Everyone has their days and you and I are no exception. Despite that we've been together so long—I sometimes forget we're not married—we still have our moments of arguments: You yelling at me, me signing angrily back and even a few hair pulling sessions. (Although, those usually just playful sort of arguments that I instigated. But, nonetheless, they were a little violent.) But, I knew behind all those arguments that felt so petty days later, both of us had legitimate fears and problems.
I know sometimes that you look at me with those big blue eyes and wish that you could hear me speak to you—to let you know verbally that I'm alright. I know that the signs, the emotions I try to put behind my twisting and looping fingers, aren't enough sometimes…They can't convey an: "I love you" the same as the words do…
I know…
I know that you fear for me whenever I wake up in the middle of the night with wide eyes and a tremor racking, sweating body. Even after all these years, the memories of what happened are still fresh and vivid in my mind. The sharp, searing pain that left my back a mess of pinky, knobby knolls of scarred skin, and the heat that tore my larynx to pieces... Then, there are other things that you know that I can't even write on paper.
I don't know if it helps you or not, but, when you're always there with a soft voice in my ear and a gentle hand on my ravaged back, it helps. It helps to know…to understand your problems…to simply know.
You asked me about it a couple of times when we were younger as you watched her children run about the yard. It was often a casual sort of question with a slight nervous overtone that always gave you away. I'm sorry that I can never give you straight answer about it then or even now. Although, I think watching them grow, to be their uncle, was enough for you… Or at least I think that's enough. Just like I can even write or sign to you some of my problems, you can't draw your problems up from your weak lungs and out onto your lips and into the air.
But, we have each other and we have the days and the nights and all the precious, precious time we're allowed. Besides, there are much, much worse things that could've happened…
