Decided to write this after re-watching FMA Brotherhood for the hundredth time. I'm actually surprised there is so little content of this pairing, although I'm not surprised most people retcon Marcoh's deformity. I think there's value in love after forgiveness, and physical beauty is overrated anyway. Scar doesn't have time for that shallow bs.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and whether or not you do, please leave a review
His hands explore the face that he himself distorted not that long ago. The touches are light, careful. He traces the lines with care, following the paths they create like a map leading to an unknown destination. His hands cease their exploration just under the eyes, seizing up at the sight of tears. The voice that speaks is sputtered and hitched, trembling with uncertainty and self-doubt. "How… how can you touch me like this? What I look like… what I did to your people… how?"
The Ishvalan man, the nameless man, looks down into the eyes of Dr. Tim Marcoh. He sits there, searching their color for the self-hatred that floods them: pitch black. The ink of academia. The abyss of despair. All of this and more lie within the dark mirrors that reflect his image back at him, causing them to overflow with sorrow, creating rivers that cascade down into his palms. He doesn't respond, not with words. They aren't needed. He leans down, inclining the older man's head upwards, gently smirking at the gasp of surprise. His lips replace his hands, mapping the skin more gently than his calloused hands ever could. He kisses away the haunted man's tears, the bitter tinge of the salty liquid not hindering his intentions in the slightest.
It was all true. The man before him was indeed partially responsible for the deaths of many of his countryman. And his face, misshapen by the hands that now held it from fury now lost, could never again be compared to anything close to handsome. But neither fact no longer concerned him. The good doctor had more than earned redemption. He had readily accepted his fate at the whim of the man now holding him in his arms, and had worked tirelessly to remedy both the relationship between their two peoples, as well as his own sins. As for his face, the Ishvalan never cared for appearances. He didn't see ugliness in the patchwork skin, in the aging wrinkles and scars. He saw knowledge, humility, and a different kind of beauty.
And so his lips continue to explore this exciting new landscape, gently marking the intersections of scars with newfound vigor. If he stops for just a moment, he can hear utterances of "Thank you" and "Forgive me" being spoken in small prayers of reverence.
'That he should speak like that to me of all people…' Knowing that he as well is not without sins, he quickly silences the words that he knows in his hearts are painful to speak. The final gasp of shock lasts only an instant, as chapped lips soak into blistered ones, melding into a shared pain that only the two of them can understand, a pain that only the two of them can find comfort in.
He folds the doctor's hands into his own, brings the smaller frame into his embrace, and takes the prayers into his breath. Dusk gives way to night in the world outside of the one that they've created, and in this new world, he takes the broken man as a lover, and their bodies show each other forgiveness, and begin to heal.