InsaneJournal

FMA fic, Worlds Apart, Elricest
Title: Worlds Apart
Author: annabeth_fics
Pairing: Elricest
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language, angst, yaoi, lime/lemon, character death, armour!sex, incest
Notes: very slight spoilers for the second half of the series. Written for Team Angst in the Angst versus Fluff contest.
2487 words
theme: voices carry


Worlds Apart

“Are you all right, Brother?” Alphonse asked, carefully spreading the mayonnaise over the bread. It was difficult, with his too-large gauntlets, but he managed. Edward was sprawled on the couch, his automail leg balanced on the floor, his left hand resting across his forehead, his eyes closed. Alphonse knew his brother better than anyone, and the fact that Edward was quiet and resigned in the middle of the day -- and when lunch was being made! -- implied something was bothering him.

“Make sure you don’t put any pickles on it,” Edward said, and if Al could have, he would have smiled. Edward was too predictable.

“I won’t,” he promised, and began laying out the meat on the two slices of bread. It wasn’t that Ed couldn’t make his own sandwich; no, it was because Edward knew that Al would insist. Alphonse hummed to himself, ignoring the otherworldly echo it produced. As soon as he finished making Ed’s sandwich, he was going to make Edward tell him what was the matter -- forcibly if necessary. Al didn’t like violence, but he wasn’t above coercion, especially when it came to his brother’s best interests. Slapping a piece of cheese on it, he put the two halves together and carried it over to the little table by the couch. Setting it down, he touched Ed’s shoulder as gently as he could.

“Lunch is ready, Brother,” he said. “Now. What’s wrong?”

--

“You ought to know,” Edward said. He opened his eyes and sat up, throwing his other leg over the side of the couch onto the floor, and stared morosely at the plate in front of him. It was his favourite, but he wasn’t really hungry, despite the fact that he should be ravenous. He hadn’t eaten in hours. He looked up under his eyelashes at his brother, who was sitting quietly and still on the floor by the table. Edward knew that Al was waiting for him to say something else, or take a bite of the sandwich he had prepared so carefully, but Ed was depressed.

“Brother,” Al said, and the warning was evident in his voice. “Either you tell me what’s bothering you or I am going to pour you a glass of milk.”

Edward couldn’t work up the energy to get a really good rant going, but he could flash his brother a scathing look -- which he did. But he obediently put the sandwich in his mouth and took a bite.

“Al,” he said around a mouthful of turkey and cheese, “I just can’t stop thinking about the Philosopher’s Stone. There has to be another way. I have to get your body back.” The sandwich hit the plate with a thump. Edward brushed his tangled bangs out of his eyes and looked at Al. His brother was looking back at him, gauntlets in his lap.

“I don’t expect you to make it that way,” he said, and turned his head away. There was a long moment of silence, each brother swallowed by his own thoughts, and then Edward was leaning over the table, sandwich forgotten, to place a hand on Al’s arm. He knew Al couldn’t feel it, which made it an utterly pointless movement, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Al,” he whispered, and his little brother met his eyes again. “God, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so damn arrogant--”

“You didn’t know what would happen,” Alphonse said softly. He covered Ed’s hand with his own. “And I could have said something. I didn’t. It’s a mistake we both made.”

“No, Al. I was the older brother, I was responsible for you. Mom expected me to take care of you -- look how I repaid her.”

“Brother,” Al said, and tipped Edward’s head up with a fingertip. “I don’t blame you.”

Edward wasn’t sure, later, what made him lean up and press his lips to that cold steel helmet. Maybe it was because his little brother was so accepting, so reasonable. Maybe it was because he didn’t think there was anything he could do that would cause Al to cringe away in disgust. But the next thing he knew he had crawled into that lap, and Al was everything he could taste and smell. Metallic flavoured, metallic scented, it didn’t matter, because it was Al, Alphonse, his beloved baby brother.

“Al,” he murmured, and heard the creak of his brother moving. “Touch me.”

--

Al looked down at his hands, and his brother, splayed out in his lap. He wasn’t sure what Edward meant -- they touched each other all the time, didn’t they? But he pushed a wisp of hair out of Ed’s eyes, and wrapped one heavy arm around his brother.

“No, Al.” Edward whispered. “I want to feel you. I don’t want to hide from this anymore.”

Hide from what? Al wanted to ask, but he was afraid. So he continued stroking his gauntlet through Edward’s unruly bangs, wondering if he was causing the hair to pull uncomfortably -- but his brother didn’t complain.

“I don’t understand,” he said carefully. He wanted to smooth away that stubborn crease in Edward’s forehead. Edward raised his head, his automail arm heavy in his lap, his other hand on Al’s thigh, next to the cloth he wore.

“I did this to you, Al,” he said. “I want to know what I’ve done.” Then, before Al could comprehend what was happening, Edward was wriggling out of his black tank top, tossing it away, and pressing his naked chest hard against Al’s body. If it was cold, or uncomfortable, Al couldn’t tell, because Ed just stayed that way, positioned awkwardly, his braid drifting down his back. After a moment, Edward let go, and yanked the tie from his braid.

“Run your hands through my hair,” he said fiercely, and Al complied slowly. What was Edward driving towards? The long golden mess of hair tumbled down his back, snarled and curling, and Al felt the fragile strands catching on his leather fingers as he pulled them through. Edward shuddered a little, a tiny sound catching on his lips. Was it painful? Was that what Edward wanted -- to feel pain?

Al tore his hands away from his brother’s hair. “I won’t do this, Brother,” he said, and pushed Edward out of his lap. “I won’t be party to your guilt.”

Edward gave him the most wounded look he could imagine. “For me, Al,” he said. “Do this for me. Because I l-love you.”

His sunshine-coloured eyes were darker than usual, filled with something Alphonse didn’t want to identify. But he didn’t push Edward away, when he climbed into his lap again. He wondered, idly, if his brother would’ve felt heavy in his lap, had he been human. And he wished that he could feel the warmth of his brother’s breath on his skin. Wished, for just a moment, that Edward hadn’t been so convincing when they were children. He immediately regretted the thought.

In his lap, Edward had squirmed out of his tight leather pants, and lay naked and panting across one knee and over the other leg. Al gazed at him, confused. What could Edward gain by stripping naked and lying down on cold, unforgiving metal? Then Edward shifted, and Al realised that his hand was covering himself, just barely.

“Touch me, Alphonse,” Edward said, and moved his hand. “I want to see my cock in your fist.”

Al recoiled inside. How could he touch his brother like this? What could make Edward want such a thing? And what if -- what if he hurt him? As if reading his mind, Ed smiled bitterly.

“I don’t care if it hurts,” he said. “I just want to feel something. I want to see what I’ve done.”

And that was how Al found himself fisting his brother’s erection, wishing he could feel the pulse of blood and softness of his skin, and at the same time feeling repulsed that he was touching his brother this way. Edward gasped, a lonely little forlorn noise, and bucked his hips into Al’s grip.

Al knew it had to hurt, at least a little, because he had no way to gauge how tightly he was gripping his brother. But Edward didn’t cry out in pain, he just bit his lip and closed his eyes, and the lids were dark like bruises in his starkly pale face. His hair was a tangled mess over his shoulders, his white skin was imprinted here and there with marks from Al’s armour, but still he tugged that erection between his fingers, still he watched Edward as he shivered in his lap.

He yanked his gauntlet back and forth, watching the skin wrinkle up, turn bloody red, and then relax when he moved his hand back downward. Through it all Edward was unearthly silent, his lips white with the pressure of holding back -- was it a cry of pain? Pleasure? Both? Al didn’t know. His brother thrust into his gauntlet, his naked flanks bright in the sunshine of the room. And still Al jerked his brother off. Edward was tense, his muscles locked, his fingers gripping Al’s metal thigh.

There was a sudden moment of unease, and then Edward was coming, spilling over Al’s hand and leg and the floor, and he relaxed, falling against his brother’s armoured body with an exhalation of his withheld breath.

Al brushed some of that hair out of his brother’s face, and was about to speak when he caught sight of the tears clinging to Edward’s lashes in the corners of his eyes, which were still tightly closed.

“Oh, brother,” he said, and gathered up that naked, fragile figure into his too-big, too-cold, too-wrong arms. “What have we done?”

“Nothing,” Edward said, and his voice was muffled and choked. “I did this, Al. You are not responsible.”

“That’s drivel,” Alphonse said, and wished he could kiss away those tears. “I wish I could feel you in my arms.”

“And you would have been able to, if not for me!” Edward struggled, and Al let him go. His brother scrambled onto the floor, naked and trembling, and glared at Al.
“This is all my fucking fault!” he said, remembering almost too late to keep his voice down. “I can’t do anything right,” he said, and his voice broke on the words.

“Brother,” Al said, and reached out to touch his shoulder, but aborted the movement when Edward shied away from his hand. “You drew the array that keeps me here. I’d be lost inside the Gate if not for you.”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, if I can’t get your body back.”

***

It wasn’t long after that that Al began to feel funny. Strange, like his senses were fading. Edward would say something, and he’d have to ask him to repeat it. Or he’d turn his head to look at something, and he wouldn’t be able to see it. He thought about telling his brother, but after some reflection decided not to. Edward, too, had changed since that day. He was quieter. He didn’t often really look at Al anymore. There had been no more midnight conversations, and Edward wouldn’t let Al cook for him anymore. He continued trying to do it for himself, despite the fact that the results were often less than perfect.

He was a little surprised, though, when Edward rolled over in his bed one night and focused on Al in the dark.

“Al?”

“Yes, Brother?”

“I’m really sorry,” he said, and there was a sound suspiciously like wiping his pillow over his eyes. “I really should have known better.”

“Sorry for what?” Al said, even though sounds were fading in and out. He wished that whatever it was would just stop.

“For--” he paused. “Fuck. Never mind.”

There was a loaded silence. Al waited, and then Edward was climbing onto the bed with him, a fact that he knew only because of the sudden way his armour shifted. He hadn’t even heard his brother move -- and he should have, because of the automail. Edward threw an arm across Al’s chestplate, and Al wanted to shake his head. His vision was blurry -- he couldn’t quite see Edward anymore.

“Please,” Edward whispered. “Tell me you’re not angry with me. I don’t care if the whole world thinks I’m a selfish prick, as long as you don’t.”

Al still wasn’t sure what his brother was driving at. And still, the darkness in the room seemed to be bleeding into his vision.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Al said cautiously.

“The--the other afternoon. When I--” he stopped. Al wanted to reassure him, like he always would have in the past, but his voice was a low murmur overlaid by a strange buzzing. He could no longer see much of anything, and of course he couldn’t feel Edward against his side. Perhaps that was why he said what he did. Or maybe it was that he was just a little bit angry at Edward for playing the ‘don’t you love me?’ card.

“Edward,” he said, and his voice was lost to him. “I told you I didn’t want to be a part of that.”

There was an indrawn breath, and the strange choked sound like the beginning of a sob cut off abruptly. “Fuck,” his brother said, and Al tried so hard to hear what he was saying, but the words were so distant. “You’re angry with me, Al. Please don’t--”

But Al couldn’t hear anything more. He felt, suddenly, like he was floating, and for a moment he could see his armour on the bed, the legs hanging off, his beautiful wounded brother with his head buried against Al’s side.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

--

“Al?” Edward twisted, bringing his face up to Al’s faceplate. “Al--” He tried to meet his brother’s eyes, but there was no light there anymore, to indicate that Al was looking back at him. He ripped the helmet off the suit of armour that no longer moved, or felt like it encased the soul of his brother. He stared for long, tense, breathless moments at the blood seal -- or rather, the lack thereof. There was a little bit of chipped, dried blood, but nothing else.

He’d fucked it up. He hadn’t even done that right.

“Al!” he screamed, and pounded his fists against the bed. “I told you I’m a screw-up, I told you, and I--” he couldn’t finish. “I didn’t even bind you to the armour properly. Come back,” he whispered, and then the tears were falling soundlessly, unnoticed onto the bed.

--

It was infinitely dark, inside the Gate. Dark, and lonely. And the last thing he’d said to his brother was something cruel -- he put his head in his hands. Body and soul, reunited.

“Brother,” he murmured. “I can hear you. But I can’t come back. I’m sorry.”

end.