Feel and see you not?
Can it be that
I alone
Hear this wondrous,
Glorious tone,
Softly stealing,
All revealing,
Mildly glowing,
From him flowing
Thro' me pouring
Rising, soaring,
Boldly singing,
Round me ringing?
…

They are rising,

High around me,

Shall I breathe them,

Shall I hear them?

-Tristan and Isolde/ Wagner

Liebestod

Letters: compilations of words and thoughts that all together amount to something- useless. Words and thoughts and idle conversation that is absolutely, utterly, useless. It's pitiable really, considering all those moments, hours, upon hours, days to years' worth of fucking time that could have been utilized-

And now even a letter won't get him very far.

The sound of paper crumpling- a crunching and almost crying sound- is heard for the billionth time that night. Although he cannot see his hand doing the actual destructive motion (for it is his left hand and his left eye only sees his mistakes) he knows he is forcing the paper into a ball. A ball of tree shreds, ink, and whiskey stains. His right eye however is ever aware of the said whiskey, with its ice swimming and clinking in the glass as his hand swirls it. In a swift motion he tosses the paper across the office of his home study and knocks back the half full glass, draining its contents without so much as flinching. The burn pierces his throat stronger than any fire alchemy.

Slamming the glass back down on the desk, he leans forward in his chair and plants his elbows on the sleek, dark wooden surface, dropping his head into his palms.

Words were swarming his head; like a million dead fish in a polluted sea, all belly-up and floating to the surface to taint the world with their stench. Foul, useless words that he had been meaning to say for years and in all that time he had been too cowardly to say them, and in turn let them rot.

He wanted to shout in agony, but when he opened his mouth his throat protested from abuse; how much of that whiskey bottle had he drained? His lungs felt like he had eaten dust off the floor of a tomb. So there he sat with his mouth open, breathing in a way that was somewhere between a sob and a dry-heave.

One more deep breath and he slammed his fists down on the desk. He had to write this letter, and damn it he would. From his already opened drawer he managed to fumble out another piece of paper, and after placing it gently before him he grasped his pen.

Pen to paper, pressure to pen and ink was formed. The writing could have been read like a stutter- his gloveless hands shaking and his eyesight being limited to his one eye.

Where ever you are, you should know that I hate you for being there.

He scratched that out. Too honest, too mean. There had been plenty of arguments between them, but he refused to stoop to the younger man's immature method of provocation.

Ever since I noticed your jaw shaping, and the way your eyes began to harden with age, I have thought of you most inappropriately.

The general scratched that out too; far too blunt and it would have earned him punch in the gut and then a knee to the neck.

Can you hear me? In that place you sacrificed yourself for, can you hear this?

I'm in the worst way

Before he could think of what more to say, the pen fell from his hands and rolled off the desk, as he himself slumped to the side and hit the floor. His vision blurry, he noted how the light of the bold flame set in his fireplace seemed to be mocking him.

-x-

As softly as a phantom, pressure was on his lips and his nose. Snapping his eyes open, he met a brilliant gold. Within an instant, the soft pressure turned violent as jaw met jaw and teeth met teeth and tongue met tongue, and every ounce of hate, every bit of longing was unleashed.

-xx-

The candle light flickered, arrogant in its importance, as it was the only light source in the room. The blond sighed, waving his hand over the top of the flame, playing with the fire out of sheer boredom. His metal hand was curled into a fist, supporting his head as he sat at his desk.

Before him lay a blank piece of stationary and a fountain pen.

His brother lay asleep in one of the two small beds in the room, pushed to the far wall with a window. The younger man breathed quietly, a reassuring and soothing sound to the has-been alchemist.

The wide golden eyes sharpened and curiously he stopped his hand, placing his palm over the tip of the flame.

To his annoyance the burn seemed to be lacking.

Sighing he retracted his hand and grasped his pen. Glancing down at the paper he internally groaned; he was either really sick in the head, or very, very foolish. Foolish and sad. Regardless, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say fuck it and pressed the tip of the pen to the paper.

Sleep had begun to evade him, months and months ago. His mind had become a cesspool of thoughts; so many flooring thoughts, like the gate was stuffing his cranium again, and every intrinsic and extrinsic notion was making itself known at all times. Yet even with all of these things to say and scream and cry about, all he could do was stare at the pen, poised and ready against the paper.

There was a lot he wanted to say, so fucking much he should say and no way to do it. So he sat there like the dunce he was and glared at the paper, willing it to burn away and rid him of its overbearing persistence. For it could do him no good, because the time wasn't now, it had been then. Then, when they had tip-toed around each other, drawn in by a tango of lust, yet still distanced by that underlying fear of reality. Truth was, responsibility was a bitch, and neither of them could have ever backed down from their promises; to friends, to brothers, to themselves, to the piece-of-shit world.

So between them the fire smothered, and the seas never parted.

And they left every God Damn thing unsaid. So now, years and -years- later, as he was closer to the age the Colonel-Bastard had been then, he found himself in a desperate state of regret.

He tucked the long strand of gold that brushed irritatingly against his cheek back and behind his ear. The rest of his long hair fell down his back and over his shoulders, unrestrained as he had pulled out his tie much earlier in frustration. Proof of his frustration could be found in the mound that was building up of his crumpled paper-wasted in his futile efforts to get words out of his head. His brother would no doubt scold him come morning for his foolish waste of precious resources.

He scoffed internally at that; many things here had become a scarce resource; paper, food, clothing, fuel, and trust.

Finally, as he began to notice just how hard he was working to keep his eyes open, with a deep breath (and another for good measure) he let his hand move. So much to say, why not start with anything?

I really, really wish I could see your face right now so I could slug you a good one. Because I'm sure you'd have that fucking smirk on, and you know I fucking hate it when you smirk. So I'd punch you.

With a smirk of his own, he scribbled that out.

Are you at war too?

He frowned at that, for he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it (because there was a really big war brewing outside, festering and gaining strength as people were being persecuted, homes burnt and shops destroyed. But he felt like his thoracic and abdominal regions were duke-ing it out internally, too.) He chose not to scratch it out, to preserve ink of course. Everything was a valuable resource.

I'm sure you would like it here; it use to be all fancy-shmancy and what not, and all the women were once gorgeous.
It's all dark and dreary at the moment however, and the air always seems to smell like gunpowder.

This he scribbled out, considering the Colonel-Bastards history with Ishbal, the blond was certain the statement would be offensive. He also didn't like the idea of the asshole gallivanting around with females (every other person but him).

I hate this place, but if I leave

He decided not to finish that. The answer was a heavy one in his heart and he could internalize it all he wanted, but observing it in written form would take him over the edge. (Because people need me right now, and Al needs me, and this is my world now so this is my responsibility too.)

Using his automail hand to wipe at his eyes, full of frustrated tears, he pushed the fountain pen down with more pressure than he had intended, and ink spurted across the page. With a silent curse, he utilized the bottom third of the paper that remained untarnished.

There's a lot I should have said to you. Mainly more about how big of a conniving dick you are.
I wish I could say those things to your face.

Tossing down the pen into the puddle of ink, he placed his flesh palm over the flame again, snuffing out the fire. In the blanket of darkness, he leaned back in his wooden desk chair, counting Alphonse's breaths.

-xx-

When Ed had found himself standing in the Colonel's office, he should have been surprised. He shrugged it off, considering the high probability he was a dream. The atmosphere was heavy, yet not overbearing, and the night disturbed only by the fire ablaze in the hearth.

The bastard was passed out on the couch. Without a hesitation, the blond made his towards the older man, straddling the hips clad in military blues. Boldly, Ed lay over him, nose just barely touching nose, and lips teasing the older man's. Everything he had always wanted to do, and to say, before him. Dare he? Dark eyes snapped open, and that was all the urging he needed. Within an instant, the soft pressure turned violent as jaw met jaw and teeth met teeth and tongue met tongue, and every ounce of hate, every bit of longing was unleashed.

If this was all he could get, a surreal dream that allowed him only a fleeting moment, Ed would take it.

Confessions in the form of sarcastic remarks overcame them both, and they were both lost in a mix of urgent kissing and the need to get every word in while they could. Between pants and bites and pressure all those things, all of those suffocating thoughts seemed to be exchanged. They could not hear, yet both men were very away of every miniscule vibration. They were blinded by the flame in the fireplace, yet every shadow of the other was ablaze.

The exchanged between them every idea, every moment, every lie, and every truth, and whether it was hours or seconds, everything came undone.

-xx-

What is that world like, Fullmetal?

A kiss to his forehead and another kiss over the black cloth of his eye patch. Lips then hovered, as though afraid, over his own.

Every microtubule of his very being was on fire, and he swore he could feel every hair, every freckle, and every pigment of the tan skin settled over him.

He would have cursed himself for ruining the mood, but really, as it was a figment of his imagination, why not take advantage of it?

Dull. The blond finally responded, planting another soft kiss on the general's lips.

Terrible. The blonde continued, brushing his flesh hand along the bare chest beneath him.

And there is so much noise, complained the blond, as he lay forward, trailing kisses down the flame alchemist's neck.

But it is so fucking silent. With this, the older man, the much, much older man, flipped them over, grasping his once subordinates' thighs, securing one entirely human leg and another entirely fake around his waist.

They were naked-utterly, shamelessly bare before each other, and had been so for what felt like ages that night (yet like seconds at the same time). Roy held himself above Ed on his elbows, staring down into golden eyes as if he had two eyes of his own still. With a smirk, the blond reached up and gripped the eye patch and tore it from the general's head. Before he could complain, Ed kissed him.

Are you going to disappear? Ed frowned.

I've been wondering the same.

Roy could tell they were both stalling, but had no idea what to do for it. His head was swirling. He felt dizzy and overwhelmed, like all those dead fish were alive and thriving and hungry.

Ed, who had been staring at him with a curious expression, suddenly smirked and 'hmphed.'

Are you gonna just sit there? Or are you going to show me why your last name is Mustang?

-x-

Live on, live on, and survive!

x-

A pain in his neck woke him, and he knew it was the kind that would ache for days. As consciousness began to find him once more, he made note of empirical evidence as it came in.

Neck, hurts like hell, head, hurts like fuck all, lower back is a mess, room smells like booze (this thought made him gag, as the very idea of alcohol had his stomach just raging), the only light source came from the dying fire, and since the draped windows had no light peaking through, it is not yet the next day.

Good for him, because he was in no mood to hear the safety of Hawkeye's gun being clicked off. Being late tended to influence these things.

In testament to his strength and will, he sat up despite his protesting body. He needed water, and aspirin, and fuck, maybe one more glass (he cursed himself here, as he dry-heaved at the thought).

His dream had been a painful one to endure, all though a pleasant one to his sensations. It had been unbearably vivid, and this he blamed on some hidden, masochistic need to be punished on a constant basis.

The scent though, had been so damn real. After so long, it had been like inhaling glass shards. The voice too, had been perfect. Deep, aged yet still coated with and edge of annoyance and adulterated often with obscenities. Such a loud voice, and it had seemed as if it had serenaded the night to him.

With a heavy heart, the general sighed.

Grasping the desk, he pulled himself up with great effort. Rubbing his face, he felt the uncomfortable stubble across his cheeks and jaw, and the odd sensation of scar tissue. Gasping, he understood that his eye patch was gone.

Looking down at the desk, he found the letter he had been writing, full of unintelligible lettering, and scratched out paragraphs and-

A handwriting, not his own. All over the paper, like a conversation had been recorded on every inch of the page. He flipped it over to find the other side in the same state. Words, sentences, letters, everywhere, and there was no way to make sense of any of it. The other handwriting had written several things, scratched them out, and tried again, only to repeat this process. A single word here, several sentences there, and none of it made sense. The top half of the paged looked as though ink had been spilled over it. Then he noticed on the corner of the sheet one of the only clear sentences.

I hope you get chicken pox on your testicles, damn Colonel-Bastard-shitface.

The flame alchemist laughed, remembering exactly how lust filled and absolutely wild Ed's eyes had looked when he had said that.

-x-x-

Ed woke with his back aching and his neck throbbing angrily. Sitting up, he groaned at the realization that he had fallen asleep in a mess of ink, and that he most likely was covered on the left side of his face. It would be a bitch to clean up.

Observing his surroundings, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he noted it was still night. His brother was still fast asleep.

Throwing his arms up, he stretched his torso and back, allowing a silent yawn. Patting around, his fingers grasped the box of matches set to the side of the desk. Pulling one out he carefully struck it against the box, flame crackling to life in a manner that inspired a certain longing in his stomach, and he lit the tip of the candle. Blowing the match out, Ed glanced at his desk.

Then he stared. Then he glared.

What a sick joke his mind was playing on him.

The paper in front of him, although the top portion was covered in dry ink and the side had a rather noticeable cheek print, was scribbled entirely with nonsensical words and sentences, half scratched out, and the other half undistinguishable, in a shaky and drunken handwriting.

'Tell me everything, from that faraway land. I want to hear it all.'

-x-x-x-

To continue or not? Meh… I've been dying to write EdxRoy twisted demented shit for ages. Although I prefer the manga and the brotherhood anime series to the original anime series, by far, the original series plus CoS is just perfect for angst.

The idea for this story was heavily influenced by Rin Seina's many a glorious doujinshi. Please check them out!

This may just be a one shot, but I may continue? I don't want to make promises. I'm a college student with little life, see.

Also, forgive me if the name is too cliché. I didn't just pick a random German word, promise. Look it up :D

Please leave constructive criticism, or thoughts, but don't tell me I need a beta, because I know I do. Unless of course you wanna be my beta for random installments of this story?

Cookies if you get the references.