![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small}
Ok, Bri has an LJ, but she never Uses it. HINTHINT. She's just fallen into the FMA fandom and dear god, AM I PROUD. She's writing and I adore her writing so I'm posting it here, because OMI says she wants to read bri's stuff--and I've been gushing like a mad fangirl. Anyhoos, she adores Ed. Loves Roy/Ed and ...has converted me to the pairing, Waves fist. Anyways. This is HER fic. Not mine. I proudly post it here because I'm the good twin and her pimp or something.
hurr.
..although, something tells me, She's gonna KILL me later or something. x3 hehe.
Title; Keep Me Level.
Fandom; Fullmetal Alchemist.
Explanation; I really couldn't put off writing FMA fanfic forever, no matter how much I wanted to. This one, as well as any others I might do, is Roy/Ed, for centrifugal, as per usual, and is in Ed's point of view. Sort of.
Notes; As far as age goes, Ed is around 17-18 or so in this one, so he's grown up a bit. That would put Roy at about... 31 or 32, but I don't really care so much. I'm also assuming that their relationship wouldn't really be hidden anymore, which explains Roy's blatant going to see Ed in the dorms. Whatev. Nothing really explicit in this one, but it's implied. I'm assuming anyone who has access to this is going to be capable of maturely handling it.
You punched him in the face today, but it didn’t really phase him. That bothers you. Of course, the fact that you’re lying in his bed, stomach down, as he sleeps with his cheek pressed to your shoulder blade, doesn’t justify your irritation with him. This picture of the two of you doesn’t quite capture your aggravation, the sheer urge you’d had at around four in the afternoon to rip his vocal chords out because he wouldn’t stop commenting on your height or your temper, nor could he justify his reason for saying that you were “feisty“ and he liked it.
That was when you punched him in the face (with your flesh fist, because you couldn‘t really bring yourself to using the metal one on someone as lowly as him), and, although initially stunned, he had laughed. You heard blood boil inside your eardrums and in that fleeting moment, you hated him. You like giving the impression that you always hate him, even if you don’t, but during that brief time, you did. Briefly, you considered transmuting the metal of your arm into its familiar blade and slitting his throat, but your self-control has gotten better as of late. You kicked him in the shins, then left the office, smirking in self-satisfaction at the pained groan that came from steel plates hitting fragile bone.
Score one, Ed. Score zero, Roy.
Dinner came and went and you retreated to your dorm for the day, knowing that Al was gone to visit Winry and wouldn’t be back until the weekend, at the earliest. You welcomed the quiet because you need this time to think, peeling off the jacket and black undershirt you wore as you did so. A flash of blonde hair in the mirror drew your attention as you began to think about recent events, the ponytail you now wore nearly completely down your back. You’ve gained about five inches or so since you first came here, clearing you out at 5’6, which isn’t nearly enough to suit your expectations for yourself but can, grudgingly, be satisfactory. Your shoulders had filled out in your time here; your hips were still narrow but elegantly so, and you didn’t really mind. Toned, cut well… you were everything that you had once pictured for yourself, minus about a foot in height, but with all the other fitting, you could do without. The only other thing really missing was an arm, and a leg. But you’d gotten so used to these metal attachments by now that they seemed to be almost a part of you, a real part, and not made of the artificial silvery steel they really were. You couldn’t feel touch on them, but you could move them and use them in every way you needed to. That was all that mattered. You looked at your upper half in the mirror, and for a small moment, you smiled. Flawed, imperfect… but good enough.
White gloves still covered your hands and so you briefly swept your hair up into a bun-like shape, wrapped around two of the fingers on your left hand, turning around to briefly look at it in the mirror over your shoulder. Admittedly, you were going to have to eventually cut your hair. It was getting far too long and far too difficult to manage, and the only reason you really kept it is because…
Well, because of the man whose reflection you’d just noticed in the doorway as you were looking over your shoulder at the makeshift bun. You dropped your hair, letting it fall back down to the lower curve of your spine, then shifted your eyes to the side as you turned around to look at him but not really look. The two of you are far past military formalities -- but then, you’d never really respected them in the first place.
“You rang?”
His lips curved into that odd grin of his, the one that lets you know he adores you for your defiance. It was an odd object of adoration, but then the shining metal of your right hand catches the corner of your eye. Your entirety is an odd object of adoration, but he doesn’t see it. Briefly, you feel guilt for punching him in the face earlier.
“I thought you might want some company.”
If, at the time, you had known ‘company’ implied going back to his own house away from the dorms, you might have said no. But there’s also the possibility that, even if you had known, you would have said yes anyway.
You found yourself in his shower about thirty minutes later, warmth sliding down the smooth planes of your stomach and back along with large, even warmer hands that occasionally found their way to your collarbone and now-down hair. His kisses are intoxicating, you’ve decided, for all the time that you’ve spent together and for the dozens of nights just like this one that you can remember. Your lips practically know the way straight to his by now, and they slide across easily. Between warm breaths, you can still feel cool tile against your back and his fingertips pressing into your hips, holding you still, keeping you there and you can hear him and his murmurs of your name. Even that, however, faded far too quickly because you’d lost yourself in it once again. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had fingerprints on his neck and shoulders come morning or if you had a largely-spaced grid on your back.
You don’t know how long he held you there after it was all over, kissing your neck, your cheeks, your lips, brushing them across your forehead and his hand gently threading through half-dry hair. You kept your head on his shoulder for a while, because of the closeness. You don’t dare say how much you need it, or how much you need him, and he assumed your tears were drops from the shower, naturally, as your arms tightened around his neck, your legs around his waist. A shaky sigh came from you then, and you kissed his collarbone. He held you closer and, silently, promised he wouldn’t leave you. You cried, because you won’t do it in front of Al anymore. It hurts him. But in that moment, Roy didn’t know it was happening. That was the only comfort you needed, aside from his arms around you, holding you the way he was.
He carried you to bed. You used to protest, but you didn’t mind so much tonight. Deep down, you know he’ll keep doing it, and the more he does it, the less you’ll care. You justify it by saying it’s less work for you, but you know better, and you think he does, too. You can tell in the way he lays you down on the bed and climbs on beside you, arms finding their way around your waist so he can hold you close.
“You don’t always have to be so strong.”
That’s the only way he let you know that he’d known you were crying in the shower. You felt tears stinging your eyes again, but you fought them back, and instead slid closer to him, one hand finding whichever of his you could and curling your fingers around his single index one. In turn, the rest of his hand wrapped around yours and held it tightly, but not hurting you. You could have accepted tighter, closer. But it was all right for then. He kissed the back of your neck and buried his nose somewhere in the mass of blonde hair, breathing lightly against your skin until he’d fallen asleep.
You only shifted enough to let your fingers lace with his, instead of the way you’d previously been holding on. An hour or so later, you’d turned onto your stomach, and he followed suit, his head coming to lay against one of the flatter areas of your back. Your eyes wandered back to metal fingertips, flexing your fingers open and shut as you looked at the plated palm. It all seemed so hard sometimes, so difficult; at times, even useless.
But you know that so long as you have him to hold on to, to force you to get your grip, that you’ll be okay. Because he is your motivation, your reason for continuing. Al has Winry, and spends less and less time with you now. He’s growing up, and you are too. You’re both maturing. If Al had left you behind when you were twelve years old, you would have been devastated. You’d have fallen, because at that point, you needed him and he needed you. It would have been harder. But he was there while you needed each other. And even though you still need each other, it isn’t nearly as much as the need you’d both had at younger ages. He needs someone else now.
And you need Roy.
You turn over onto your back, careful not to disturb him. He doesn’t seem to notice in that he simply takes your lead and lets his head lie against your stomach. Your flesh hand comes to his face, the same hand you’d used to punch him earlier, although this time, your knuckles brush the skin lightly. You notice a faint cut across his cheekbone and frown slightly, your thumb going to run over the soreness gently. You fully regret hitting him now, because you hadn’t meant it, no matter how much you wished death upon him during that time. Jet black hair smoothly slides through your fingers and you keep your hand there for a small while, fingernails gently running against his scalp, and while you aren’t quite sure, you think you hear him purr. That brings a small smile to your face. Your stomach flutters, which isn’t quite healthy, but at the moment, you don’t care.
Your fingers lazily draw patterns on his neck and shoulders even after you close your eyes. He’ll be in the same place come morning, because he doesn’t move much during the night. There’s an unexplainable rush of happiness at that simple thought, and you slide down in the bed just a little, so he’ll be closer.
“I’m sorry for punching you,” you murmur, curving your spine just a little so it will pop before you settle back down into the mattress. You know he didn’t mind anyway. Your hand finds his again, and you squeeze gently.
Just hold on.
So long as you both hold on, you’re going to be okay.
--BRI. GET ON LJ. >\
January 10 2005, 18:21:37 UTC 7 years ago
January 10 2005, 20:58:23 UTC 7 years ago
January 11 2005, 09:51:41 UTC 7 years ago
January 11 2005, 11:46:45 UTC 7 years ago
January 11 2005, 03:18:18 UTC 7 years ago
February 20 2005, 21:16:50 UTC 7 years ago