Fullmetal Alchemist
Drabble One
Convenience
The room was dusty, and he had to do it. Honestly, the bedroom was out of hand from the two years of suspended animation that it had endured. Edward coughed and his eyes watered; really wishing that he left the window opened a crack.
But he would never keep his window open. Skin still so sensitive, that a night draft would cause uncontrollable shakes and bone aches. A luke-warm breeze would scorch his senses, even leaving chaffed skin and darken hairs standing straight up on his arms.
So Edward never open the window.
Kept everything the same. The books were left by the bed in stacks; one opened to a dog eared page, another face down and awkwardly bent. Deformed among the brown blanket and sheets in a heap on the ground. Bent, like the horizon right before a sunset in Risenbul when the sun almost touches the ground, and it seems the earth is warping out to meet it. The pages were twisted like his stomach, when he first walked into the room.
His fingers brushed against the cover, as he squatted to floor level. Dust scattered, and the fingers left a trail. The title was set in engraved, golden italics, and was followed by an unpronounceable, scholarly name. Edward's noise scrunched, as he turned the alchemy book over, the bookmark fluttering down hitting the ground silently brushing his boot.
And so gently. Not leaving a trace of it's own disastrous fall. A death so convenient for everybody around it. So much like Al, Edward thought. To even die so gently.
But that was the moment it really hit him.
The loneliness that had been fended off for so long, hit him. Hard. The finality of death. Edward got that he was dead. Understood death. Knew death. It didn't make a difference. He supposed a part of him was denying it had happened at all until this point.
Picking up the bookmark, his eyes watered. He was probably touching one of the last item his brother ever used.
And it wasn't a sentimental photo of the family; no mother's face smiling with their father's face folded out. Nor was it a revealing letter confessing a beautiful secret.
It was a grocery list. He smiled; a waiting man in a waiting room. Touching the yellowing paper against his nose, maybe hoping to smell the moment, and took in a deep breath.
"You motherfucker." The list contained the usually the brothers shared when Al go his body back. It was just at the end, in over-sized, capital letters, underlined three times, was MILK.
It wasn't funny. But he laughed all the same. Nor meaningful in anyway. But he spent a night grieving over the prospect of milk.
SO just going to do some drabbles here and there. Stuff not long enough to be full developed stories, But ideas I still want to get out there.
Any requests? I'm up for almost anything. :)
Review, so one day I can be a great writer.
