If I owned FMA, it would be slashed up to the high heavens. So it's obvious I don't :D
"Sugar"
theme: violence. hunger. sugar.
They say people leave their loved ones to save them from forever. When you weren't even considered a person, it was different. Having loved ones and facing forever, leeching and abandonment and re-attachments; the series of departures and reunions that made up the perilous road of the average human life. It made him angry. Not because he cared, (he didn't), but because he knew what it was like to be abandoned, and he knew what it was like to live forever. And no matter how many ways he looked at it, no matter how many times, he didn't feel like he'd been saved from anything at all.
The other sins might have been able to relate to his cause, be it they had all been through a similar ordeal-- which was, being born as homunculi, failed humans, created for whatever reasons as abominations of this world-- but so few could ever know what it was really like. The majority of them hardly remembered the dark expanding vastness of the Gate. Many of them weren't sure who to hate, or who they were before; or even how to hate them.
They were followers-- servants of the damned. For what reason? Because their sole desire was to become human, though it was humanity that had cursed them. They had lived entire spans of lives, but Envy alone had seemed to live "forever", a long and arduous 400 years of seething and hating and waiting-- tracking down the Elrics out of spite, thirsting an ungodly amount for the sweetness of a bloody and ruthless revenge. Revenge for having been abandoned as a clump of mass and tissue when he was little more than piles of blinded, breathing flesh, struggling to live, to even exist; an abortion of human alchemy. For his bastard father and Dante, his mother. For the Elric boys who Hohenheim loved so much. For everything. For anything.
And that was what Envy was, after all. The insatiable desire to have something that he did not--so far could not-- have. To take back what was rightfully his. And to become something, someone, anyone, anything else other than the "monster" that he had become.
Wrath very well knew what the Gate looked like. He had waited with those hundreds of pairs of eyes in the darkness for years, biding his time hungrily, impatiently. A young Fullmetal had stumbled in after his brother's soul and provided Wrath with an arm and a leg capable of using alchemy. With that newfound power, Wrath managed to escape the void of the Gate, and lived for however long on the island of his rebirth, where that bitch Izumi had offered him back to Hell, in her own words, as a sacrifice with blood in her mouth and guilt on her hands.
She had tried to take him back to that island and kill him at first; when she had recovered him, when he was innocent, unsuspecting and his mind was blank with lack of memories, heart bereft of violence, intentions laced with an abundance of useless knowledge. When he knew nothing. But he, Envy, had changed him. Transformed. And Izumi knew she was the one who deserved death. Wrath would have given it to her if he could have.
Wrath knew what it was to hate. Hell, he was Wrath, after all.
But what fucking killed him was that Wrath still wanted to be like them after everything they'd done against them, and he wanted to use the very body as a vessel for his new life, Edward Elric's, that he himself had longed to destroy for 400 long years, and even as a 'new' homunculus he knew exactly who he was, when Envy had been far in between every extreme under the sun for so long he had forgotten who and what he really was.
And what really fucking killed him was that even though Wrath was capable of intense hatred and extreme violence, he also knew devotion. He knew what it was to love.
He swore the brat had some kind of mommy complex, because he had gradually attached himself to Sloth, alarmingly attached to her actually, and she had readily accepted him as hers, being the monstrous remains of a dedicated mother as she was.
Envy was the one to change him. The one to tell him that from the moment he accepted his fate as a homunculus and on, he would never again have to be alone in the darkness. He had been the one. He had.
No one had been there for him to tell him that he didn't have to be alone. No one had been there for him to show him the way. And the brat had the nerve to take all of that for granted like it meant nothing at all. And again, Envy envied.
Blood smeared around Envy's mouth, a beard of wet and red and black and thick that dripped down his chin onto the jutting bones of his chest and collar and stained his lips, burbling over the edges, fountainous. When he opened up his mouth, his teeth were colored. His soul was colored. The essence of violence. Hate. Want. Greed.
Jealousy. Cupped between two milk white hands laid a treasure of stones. Glistening from his belly. Seeping in the cracks between his fingers. Wrath crouched at his feet, snarling-- needy digits grabbing and groping for them and the little body poised and waiting right between his thighs, the malicious face that seared his bones with its huge and vengeful eyes turned upward toward him, and the curtains of sleek wild animal hair that cascaded black across the tiny shoulders just like his.
He offered them out and the child whined with hunger. He clambered up the androgynous sin's legs and clawed at him in long strokes, touching his hands with his own and licking the red off his fingers. The tongue flickering over blood. The pitter and pattering of small feet digging in the insides of his thighs.
The heel of his foot rubbed insistently against his skin; the scar, the mark that joined them. He opened up his hands and Wrath lapped up the incomplete stones like water in the desert, spraying red across his cheeks and hanging in fat splatters on the ends of his lashes. When they were gone, Envy crooned his head, eyes dark and serpentine and lit with a sanguine smile. Wrath could see nothing but blackness reflected in those eyes. Black, bottomless mirrors. And in truth, it was the blackness that Wrath craved.
They crawled on the floor like animals, pushing and shoving and then, their mouths one mouth, bleeding blustering red as they tangled and smacked together; always more teeth than lip. Angels and bones and wings as Envy licked his way across the valley of Wrath's jutting hips and felt the life squirm and seep out from underneath him. The beating bending spines like a dancer's back; the way Wrath bent his head against the hollow of Envy's throat, so close that he could hear the plasma in his blood screaming and pounding through his lungs. They bit and clawed and drew long lakes of fire from their open wounds that wetted their coupling in violent splashes. Drops of black blood copper burning holes in the skin.
Envy crouched above the mismatched body-- expression a parasol of darkness and insanity and bared teeth-- his fingers tangling in the fans of long black hair that spread across the floor and absorbed their lovemaking. It was furious, ungentle, unkind; needy and curious and deep deep deep like the depths of the bottom of the world where they both sure as hell belonged. Beasts out of somebody's nightmare, together, they were.
When they were spent they screamed and thrashed butfell alike, paper dolls that crumbled and folded and never quite fit together, always awkwardly slipping and sliding. Breathing hardout of hidden lungs.
And then Wrath growled. His eyes flashed open and he shoved a hand straight through Envy's solar plexus, reached up and grabbed at him from the inside behind his breast plate where it thumped against his ribs. He held Envy's heart squeezing between the valleys of his fingers, pulsing-- reaching through everything that wasn't organically alive to hold it crushed under his thumbs.
He tore it out and held it throbbingin his hand, this whelping clot of blood and muscle, and stared at it, awed and violet-eyed as it thrummed desperately in the arc of his palm. Envy lay dead on his face. The heart spasmed; all the veins in it bulging and angry andbruised-looking.
In a haze of pain, Envy reached out from the puddle of them and his insides on the floor and cupped his fingers over Wrath's, and for a second they both held his heart in a moment of complete stillness before he pried it from the greedy digits and fit it slowly back into the hollow in his chest it had been ripped from. The breast plates melded and fused together in arduous repair; all the dead innards kicking spontaneously back into mock-life. The function of the living for the dead.
Wrath kissed his fingers where Envy's heart had touched them.
"That hurt," the older sin grumbled, still holding his chest.
Wrath looked up from his blood sleeved hand, eyes moist with wonder.
"Envy-nii. . .It's sweet," The little one smiled; something canine, mixing cruelty with love. "It's so sweet."
Envy scoffed and turned away, disdainfully.
"It doesn't mean anything," he said.
Wrath crawled up to him on his hands and knees through the remnants of their violence, mounds of skin and seas of blood and bone chips and splattered seed, cupped his face in his tiny hands and kissed the spot just under Envy's eye with reverence.
"Envy-nii. . .I bet your tears would taste like. . .sugar. Sugary. Just like your blood, I think." He whispered. Smiled.
Envy looked at him and scowled, saying,
"You won't ever see me cry."
And everything was wrong. It just sounded all wrong. But Envy knew what it was to hate. He knew what it was to live forever and he knew what it was like to be abandoned.
And when he swore that Wrath would never be alone, he lied. Because with all his hate, Wrath knew devotion. Colors of the soul, if they had as much as souls at all, that Envy would never possess. And Envy knew that someday he'd abandon Wrath like he had been abandoned all those ages ago.
And maybe it was just to save him from forever; from facing forever with him.
Maybe.
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