Snap.
He didn't realise it had became a habit until Alphonse had mentioned it one day on the train. Brother, he had said, your snapping your fingers. The older brother had glanced down at his hands to see that he had been, for the past few minutes. Snap. Snap. Snap.
It became a habit. It became an obsession. He never did it when he was at HQ, when he was holed away in the Colonel's office with warm hands and a warm mouth, sad smiles and blistered fingers. Comfort, was all it was. But soon that became an obsession too.
Snap.
He half expected flames to burst from his fingertips when he did it. He never did it when he was at HQ. It was comfort away from comfort. It was warmth away from warmth. It was fire and heat and sting when all there was of him was absence.
His fingers scrunch up against the scratchy gravel-texture of the wall. It's slippery with fluid that he can't bear to look at. Its red and bright and shiny and it hurts his heart to see.
She used to call him little-older brother. Her hair spun like chestnut ropes when the three of them played together.
But now all remained of her was a disfigured splatter against an alleyway wall.
Snap.
He never did it when he was at HQ. There was always that one smirk, that one dark gaze that would silently remind him he didn't need to. Comfort was there, heat was there, warmth and sting and bite. He didn't need to do it at HQ.
Snap.
You can't play god, the Colonel says, hands clenched and tight around his arms. You can't save everyone; it's not your right to do so. But they both wish it were, how they wish it were.
Snap.
Alphonse, but not quite Alphonse, looks at him in a cart as they trundle their way to a fair. Beautiful women are cramped around him singing and laughing and teasing but he only has eyes for the mossy grass that crawled past them as they moved.
Fondly he thinks he can see a trench coat–clad silhouette far ahead. Like it was on fire, it filled up his eyes with fire and sting and fluid. Not her type of fluid, red and warm. But his type of fluid, clear and soft and loving and yes I miss you too.
He looks down at his hand, and the not quite Alphonse follows his gaze. Its not as warm, not as stinging, not as comforting. But its home away from home, and that's good enough till he returns to a warm mouth and calloused fingers.
…
Snap.
