Philophobia
We take risk every moment, of every second, of every day. Just by being alive, by breathing, we're taking risk – the risk of an eternally stifled breath, the risk of death. I have realized this and have come to terms with these feelings, no matter how much contempt I harbor for them…
I know my feelings are an abomination to life, a risk in itself, and it would be best if I were to not share them with him or anyone… however, whether or not I vocalize them, I'm quite sure he's aware of them; whether his lack of reaction is acceptance or rejection, I do not know.
"Edward…. Edward…." he calls to me, melting my bronzed nerves with the smooth, deliquescent repetition of my name, "Edward…."
"Yes, Al-Alphonse?" my lips burn as I stutter his own. Kneeling next to me as I lay anxiously across the tussled bed, he gently places his palm delicately over the hind side of my iron-alloy knuckles, brushing and caressing the grooves and peaks. Sighing bitterly, I observe his touches, unable to feel the curious warmth of his roaming fingers.
As if sensing the decline in my ambiance, he states, "You can't feel this…."
"No, I cannot." I confirm, although it was evidently unneeded.
Suddenly, I inhale sharply, biting my lip and shuttering as he crawls and mounts himself atop my perturbed body, both of his legs sprawled on opposite sides as he pinches at the tanned skin of my blood and flesh knuckles, examining. He then pinches his own in comparison.
"They are just like mine…" he sighs, brushing his feathery fleshly fingertips over my knuckles once more.
I chortle sullenly, "Yes, Al-Alphonse. They are the same." my voice chokes out. It's a lie, I know. Although we are comprised of similar elements and compounds… through my veins run risk… the risk of fear, incompetence, disappointment, rejection, an eternally stifled breath… love. For him.
We are not the same.
He sits stilled, straddled over my midsection, an air of mild awkwardness blanketing over us, threatening to suffocate. His platinum-auburn orbs pierce through the irises of my own uncertain, harvest-golden ones, gazing intently, yet smolderingly.
Swiftly, without severing focus, he gingerly splays his fingers over my lips, pressing somewhat firmly.
My heart stops, fear clenching at my lungs. It then sinks, hitting the bottom of my hallow chest with a solitary 'thump.' I dare not speak or even move my lips, breathe. Love might consume me, compel me, propel me to kiss his delicate fingers, to love him subtly… but I cannot. Silently, he retracts, briskly pressing his tips against his lips… an indirect kiss?
I felt a pang of hope well up inside.
"Your lips… are like mine too." he states in a vague sweetness that resonates to me moderately cynical… I could be mistaken.
"Yeah… but mine are just a bit bigger, Al-Alphonse…."
"Really…? I want to compare… brother."
Unsure of what he might be implying or referring to, I breathe deeply to calm my senses. Maybe he is urging me for a sign of affection? Unfortunately, I cannot sate him… the risk if displaying too much affection, considering my current… "condition"…
"What do you mean 'compare'… Al-Alphonse…?" I croak dryly, swallowing whatever remnant of moisture my mouth can conjure up on such short notice. I study his sweet, sugar lips as he licks at them attentively; he's doing the same, studying my lips, I'm sure.
His fingers gently clutch the front of my buttoned shirt, tugging it towards him slightly. "I want to do… a side-by-side comparison…." he whispers, ending with a rosy blush of his cheeks.
My head is buzzing with a pathetic hopefulness, rendering me light-headed and fairly gleeful…
… But I can't… the risk….
I know this is just innocent observations, him wanting to touch, to feel everything now that his body has been restored. He's just curious about the shapes, the sizes, the textures, the sensations… it's not love. For me. Just the sensations…
I shift, preparing to slide him off of my waist. "I'm sorry Al-Alphonse… I can't… we can't…."
His blush profusely reddens, his body trembling lightly. "O-oh, m-my apologies, E-Edward…. It was a st-stupid request…" he utters, swinging his legs off the side of the mattress, allowing me to get up.
"It's alright, Al-Alphonse…" I walk away from him to conceal my internal staggering, my back still facing him. "I just… don't want to risk losing you again…."
After a moment of no response, I take my leave, exiting the room and closing the door behind me quietly.
The End .
If you don't know what Philophobic means, it's the fear of being loved or falling in love.
I was feeling very emo at school the other day… don't question it. It produces good stuff, so read it and be merry (or spiteful, but if that's the case, don't complain to me .)!