What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.
William Shakespeare, "The Winter's Tale", Act 3 scene 2
***
He enters her room when it is already dark. She is always in bed by the time he comes, she does not want to wait for him. Then, it would not be so painful if he does not come, - or so she tells herself. He puts his watch on her work bench, always careful not to bump it against the metal junk that clutters it. She waits, silently, as he moves around, unaffected by the lack of light. She never asks him, why he would not just snap his fingers to let the flame chase away the shadows. She knows it anyway - there can never be light between them. There is no fire left in him and she will not be free from shadows even on a bright sunny day. His clothes whisper down, onto a bare wooden floor of her small room, one piece after another. He cares little for the expensive fabric being stained by an accidental drop of oil that dirties her floor so very often. He cares little for anything anyway.
When he slips under the sheets, warm and oh so welcome, she clings to his body and there is nothing sexual in her embrace. He is her lifeline; as long as he comes every night she can continue living her days - just one at a time. They lie for a while, not speaking, not moving, just holding each other. He breathes deeply, inhaling the familiar smell of metal work, smoke and oil mixed with a flowery scent of her soap on her skin.
"How was your day?" she whispers finally. I missed you...
"Boring as usual..." I missed you too. "Yours?"
"Empty." Any news?
He sighs and draws a long breath, burrowing his nose in her hair. No, no news.
"Will you come to the ceremony?" Please, I need you there!
"How would you explain me there?" I can't, no, it is too early...
He chuckles; sorrowful, forced sound.
"You know, it has been quite some time since I had to explain anything to anyone." I'll just order everyone to shut up.
She reaches for his cheek, and he nuzzles into her comforting touch. Her small hands are not very womanly, not as soft as lady's hands should be.
But these are the most important hands in his life. They gave him forgiveness and hope, when he though he would never deserve them; they held him together when his life fell apart, they protected his sanity - and they still do.
He turns his head and kisses her palm, feeling new scratches and blisters on it.
"Maybe we should wait a bit more..." She whispers, eyes brimming with tears. It feels like giving up.
"It would not change what we are..." We are not betraying him. He left. He's gone and we are ...
He wipes her tears with his lips.
You are right. It does feel like giving up.
"Maybe next time," he murmurs into her ear and she feels better, like he promised her something.
His lips travel down her cheek, her neck, gently sweeping kisses on her shoulders, her forearms. His hands wrap tighter around her, possessive and protective. And suddenly she is hot and needy and craving. And kisses and touches and half-whispered - half-moaned tender words make her feel normal and whole for a while.
They are just lovers now and they do not have to think of desperation that brought them together. They are just two souls, not two sets of broken pieces.
And the darkness retreats for one moment as their passion reaches its shining peak. They are alive, they just are.
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Disclaimer: Characters of 'Fullmetal Alchemist' belong to H. Arakawa.
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