InsaneJournal

FMA fic, Swing
Title: Swing
Author: annabeth_fics, Lily
Pairing: Elricest
Genre: angst, fluff, shonen-ai
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, angst, incest
word count: 1313
Summary: “Why won’t you let me help you!”
Notes: Something that came to me while driving home. Also, holy wow, I didn’t write anything even remotely like porn. Plus, the ending is so saccharine, it’ll probably rot your teeth right out of your mouth. XD!


Swing

“Why won’t you let me help you!” Alphonse Elric threw down the pot holder he was holding, watched it skitter across the kitchen table.

“We are not discussing this again,” Edward Elric, his brother, informed him tightly.

“You can’t make the reality go away just because you believe you deserve this, like some kind of self-righteous suffering. We made a vow, brother.”

“No, Al, I swore I’d get your body back. There was never any question about the rest of it.” Edward grabbed the pot holder and wrung it around and around in his hands. Behind them, the chicken they’d cooked was cooling on the stove, forgotten. The sun glimmered on the windowsill, casting its last bright rays before evening crowded it out of the sky. Al watched his brother’s hands, focused on the white gloves, imagining he could see the automail fingers through the cloth.

“You never once believed in me,” Al said, and his own voice sounded strained to his ears. “I told you once, I told you a hundred times, that I wouldn’t rest until we were both whole.” Outside the window, Al could see a single butterfly as it ambled past the glass. In the distance, he could just make out the outline of Winry’s house, with the lights in the living room lit. Edward tossed the pot holder aside and grit his teeth visibly.

“I said,” but he never got to finish.

“Oh, hell, no. Don’t you dare take that tone of voice with me. I’m not twelve anymore, brother, you can’t just run roughshod over me.” Al sucked on his lower lip, feeling it swell in his mouth, waiting with his nerves jangling for what Edward would say next. His brother was not one to give up an argument easily; this was an argument they had at least once a week. But Al was determined to win -- to wear his brother down until Edward agreed to look for what he deemed was impossible.

“Tell me something, Alphonse. Do you remember the Gate? Do you have any idea what it felt like to watch my only family left disappearing in front of my eyes for a stupid, fucked-up concept like equivalent exchange -- one that doesn’t even exist?” Edward screwed up his eyes in a fierce glare, working to intimidate Al. The only problem was, the only person not affected in that manner by Edward was his brother. Al ran a finger back and forth across the table, listening the faint squeak his flesh made against the polished wood. He knew where this was going; the same place it always went. The sun made a final flare that slid across the table toward him and then sank out of sight. The window was backlit by the final sprawl of the setting sun.

“All right, brother,” Al said. He rubbed his forehead; why could he not get through to Edward? Why did Ed think it was all right to live the rest of his life half-metal? “I felt the same way you did about Mom. We made the same error. It wasn’t up to you, and only you, to correct it. It was partially my responsibility also.”

“Al,” Edward said, and slammed his hands down on the table. The silverware clattered, the salt shaker shook, and the wood screamed at the abuse of five automail fingers gouging deeply into it. Al sighed; another table ruined, just like others from arguments just like this one.

“Do you think I like seeing you this way?” Al reached out to cover Edward’s hands with his own, but at the last moment his brother jerked away.

“I am not having this argument with you,” Edward stressed, and turned his back on Al. “I am not fucking going through that again. Al, I would sooner die than watch you ripped apart the way I was. There is nothing, fucking nothing, you could give in exchange for my arm and my leg.”

Al stared at his brother’s rigid back for a few moments. He was sick of being treated like he was an imbecile; like he didn’t know the cost, the possible risks. But he knew there had to be a way to fix his brother, and Edward didn’t even want to entertain the idea. He looked at that broad back, so beloved and so solid, and wanted to weep. He couldn’t help it that looking at those metal limbs filled him with revulsion -- the memory, the constant reminder of how badly they’d fucked up, the constant reminder that Edward had fulfilled his end of the bargain but Al had not.

“I hate that automail,” Al cried. “I would rather be blind than look at it anymore. Please, brother, just let me. . .” But Edward, if possible, stiffened even more. Al sighed, then turned and left the kitchen. He slammed out the back door into the cool spring evening, with the scent of lilacs in the air and dampness against his cheek.

--

Edward found him sitting on the swing under the tree in the backyard, its white clapboard silhouette comforting and familiar. The sun was making its final descent into the earth, and shone brightly in his eyes, making it hard for him to see the brilliant colours stretched across the sky. The swing swung a little when Edward sat down, burdened by two and one of them half-metal. Al kept his eyes on the sunset; he didn’t want to see Edward, or continue the argument, or try once more to convince his brother that he was eighteen and didn’t need protecting the way Edward was always hell-bent on doing.

The grass under his bare feet was plush and wet, and he could see, if he squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, the ocean of little purple flowers that spread through their yard as far as the eye could see. He was just getting into really ignoring Edward, when his brother pressed a cold glass into his hand. Al dropped the hand shading his eyes and glanced down, surprised to find that Edward had brought him lemonade. He looked up, and his eyes fell on the twin glass in Edward’s left hand. Ed was looking at him with a softness in his cat’s-eyes, and there was even more softness to his cheeks and lips.

“I’m sorry, Al,” he said, and Al took a sip of the slightly bitter liquid. “I’m just terrified of losing you again.”

“I know,” Al replied, and gazed back out into the setting sun. He tipped his glass back and drained it, savouring the sweetly bitter taste, which was underlaid by the sweetness of knowing Edward had brought it out to him. Ed settled his own glass by his foot, and then slipped his hand into Al’s.

“I love you,” he said quietly. Al clung to the glass like it was his lifeline, then relaxed his hand. Edward wasn’t asking for anything; he wasn’t commanding and he wasn’t fighting. He was just sitting there, holding his hand, as the swing swung gently back and forth because Al couldn’t help pumping his legs a little, watching the evening breeze ruffle the trees and the little flowers at his feet.

They stayed that way, holding hands, silent, until the sun finally went down and darkness dropped around them. It was very quiet for a few moments, then the first crickets chirped, and Edward tightened his fingers around Al’s. At that precise second, Al didn’t even mind that the fingers beneath the glove were cold steel.

“Come on, Al, let’s go inside and go to bed. You brush your teeth -- I already did mine -- and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Al nodded, but he didn’t move for long moments. In the hush of nightfall, with only the crickets to serenade them, everything seemed so perfect he couldn’t breathe.

end.