Disclaimer: All of FMA including characters, places, names etc. belongs to the brilliant Arakawa Hiromu-san.
Lassitude - Prelude
The door moved slightly, revealing little, letting out a squeal. Curtains hung in stupor, draped across the window, if there was one. The air smelled thickly of immobility, and pause. What little light there was- seeping through a creak in the pane- was lazily dissolving. Despite all, the room seemed exceptionally bright. Mellow odor of hospital lingered, caressing the senses of those whom felt its omnipresence.
The air felt thick with fog, or maybe even mist. It couldn't be said for sure.
Silent cough echoed through the room.
There was a little rustle. Two, almost undistinguishable 'thumps' could be heard. The silhouette of a weary figure could be made out; the silhouette swayed a little. Maneuvering himself around the two stale beds, the man tiptoed to the window stealthily, once again swaying in the process.
The only source of light, now, was a rather tiny table lamp; it shone somewhat feebly. Stopping to a halt in front of the lamp, the man gazed back at the other, still occupied bed. There was no sign of movement, all looked dormant. Reaching an arm out, he promptly flicked the light dead. All thawed into darkness.
Moving on, he fumbled his way through the dimness, finally halting at the window. The curtains felt of silk; they wheezed of only a hundred or so bloodshed. Grasping them, he drew them aside.
The sky- navy to his eyes, maybe even Prussian-bluish, tinted with lamenting violet- struck him as odd. In the pictures he tried to recall, they had seemed much more lighter. His hair reflected in the night sky, almost indistinguishable. Charcoal black.
He leaned forward, as if by swaying.
It felt bizarre, having the chilly glass pressed against his forehead. Cooling, but also prickling. His eyes saw the sky-blue reflected in his eyes.
He shrugged the awkwardness away, and yanked hard at the window.
Once more he tugged at the window. It chose not to budge. Hissing, he took a furious step back. It must have been, once upon a time, an archaic masterpiece, engraved with thyme roses. Stained glasses stood gloom, ever dimming. From closer scrutiny, he could recognize garnet specks, little by little. Through the window, the world seemed picturesque.
If it only were so.
A lock dangled just above his reach point, brewing an irritant sensation in him. His arms hung loose, lost. The burn on is stomach ached from the strain.
A sigh was all he could manage. No chairs were in the room, apart from the two sullen couches crammed in the corner.
By now, the sky had gone charcoal black.
Now there wasn't any silhouette whatsoever. All was engulfed in pitch-black distress.
The silk felt crimson in his hands.
That's one part down. Sorry if characters seem OC. Although, there hasn't been a real confrontation of the characters yet. Thoughtful criticism and reviews are welcome!
Enjoy!
-Eleine