Where do you draw the line of human? Where does it begin, and where does it end?
The man beside him snarls and he cringes at the sharp, raking breath against his neck. It cuts a deep invisible scar through his skin, wiggling through his jugular to the tricky vein canals. He shivers but pushes away that trembling, gritting his teeth into metal chill.
The scything blade of his arm wrenches against the man's defense, creaking and sparking. He pushes deeper, deeper, past the black and the white, and the infinite shades of gray. (maybe color does exist)
He grimaces at the tension between the two blades, the blow of rancid breath and the joy that bursts like grapes inside his blood, despite it all. He cannot deny this happiness, this fulfillment he knows to be disgusting.
He vaults back into arcing space, releasing the shuddering tension between two see-saws; the man stumbles forward in front of him, a clumsy half-step. He has long legs when he fights; he is tall and lithe and strong, he can imagine. The feeling of the swing possesses him with counterfeit grace, and he bends flexible and easily, muscles taut.
Breathing hard, the man charges at him; he sidesteps the charge and sends the arm-blade plunging through existence, through the saw-bone flesh. The body engulfs his arm in strange and tingling warmth.
He withdraws his wet arm before he can enjoy it. (before the pleasure thrills me)
The man hacks a repercussive cough that runs through the entire body before being let out in a deluge. He watches the man watching him and offers no condolences but his bare back.
A blue shiver moment later, his arm reverts to normal (the wetness is still there) and he can feel himself again; the grapes have simmered in his veins. This is when the sickness sets in, deep in the stomach. He sighs silently.
He stoops over to pull on his red cloak, sliding it over his shoulders.
God, when will you stop me?
-
His mother is crying and he does not feel sad.
The tragedy does not touch him, only inclines him to eeriness, to frightening indifference. The sorrow slithers past him, brushes his cheek, and then scatters away like wind. Al is crouched beside him, trembling in his joints, his lips pressed and pale.
"Ed," whispers Al. "This is it."
He does not nod or shake his head, only clasps his jaw shut and stares.
"This is what we've wanted for so long," says Al, in quiet awe, not yet registering— "This is really it."
Is it? he can't help but wonder. Does she love us? Do I love her?
He keeps his head locked in place because he feels if he moves it, even just the slightest bit, it will unhinge and he will truly lose it.
The woman sobs, rocking on her knees, her hair stringing from her slender fingers. My sons, she sobs.
He cannot hear the words in her cries, the syllables in her choking.
Al moves to embrace her, his small feet padded and strange in this dappled light. Ed stands still above, not moving a muscle, but watching, eternally watching. Al gingerly brings her into his arms, beautifully uncertain with those tender boy arms, so newly wrought with flesh. He hugs her awkwardly and she collapses into him. (you sweet drummer fool, Al)
When the tears wet his shoulder, Al, too, begins to cry. "Mom," he croaks. Ed watches his brother's eyes fill with stinging tears.
He wants to taste the crinkling salt in those eyes, but finds his tongue is dead. His eyes have forgotten their loveless function.
This woman is not for him and this boy—
He is hers.
His brother looks up to him with free streaming eyes that have not cried for too long. They deserve this cry, this glorious pouring of water. He should not be jealous. This bondage is his own—he fettered the chains himself and fitted the size about his wrists to the perfect centimeter.
I am happy, he tells himself, and the blue smile curves on his lips.
Short junkie piece. The thing that sucks is that I really don't know FMA too well, so I don't know what to do with the characters. Still trying ot get the hang of this, so excuse me.