Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist > .Drabble Dump
Shame (Armstrong/Kimblee)
0 reviewsMy many drabbles, all stuck in one place. I promise I will have more soon.
1Original
For some reason it always happened. No matter how many whispered "never again"s, no matter how few words, it happened, and Alex hated it.
During the day, hating him was so easy, when the dying screamed, and the children were running away, trying to escape a golden-eyed death... yes, during the day, it was easy.
But at night, it became harder. At night, he was soft and beautiful and pale... At night, his gold mixed with the moon's silver, and he was a silent, fallen god. And it was then that the moon claimed him, that Alex claimed him too.
Alex wasn't gay, of course. Love of women was had been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations, and he was no different. But so had a love of beauty, and yes, he was beautiful at night. When the sun set to sleep, and the moon poured down on him, he was perfect. As he undressed, his back was a slope of cold marble, accented, no marred by long scars and tense, jutting ribs and spine. From behind, a tapered waist, and long, loose hair gave him a soft, tender shape.
And when they were alone, it was impossible to hate the poured wax face that hissed and writhed and cursed, even as hips so narrow Alex's fingers touched, began to rise and fall.
Alex gave it his best effort, knocking his fist across the wax, griping the marble until it threatened to shatter, but somehow the cries, muffled in a sweat soaked shoulder, and the threats of detonation that were traced with tears from silver and gold eyes just made it so much better.
So Alex hated him by day, and coveted him by night, taking chances on crowded battlefields to whisper into his ear, watching the palms glow and shine. It was a fitting compromise.
And, as the war ended, Alex wondered what made some alchemists criminals, some insane, and some heroes. He wondered at the trial, where he was so achingly thin, his hands nearly broken by heavy wooden stocks, and his hair uncombed and wild on his shoulders. He wondered when his father praised his medals, and he polished them each week with utter, crippling shame.
He comforted himself after the execution with the promise he never had to detest perfect gold eyes and beautiful marble hands again.
He never knew he was lying.
During the day, hating him was so easy, when the dying screamed, and the children were running away, trying to escape a golden-eyed death... yes, during the day, it was easy.
But at night, it became harder. At night, he was soft and beautiful and pale... At night, his gold mixed with the moon's silver, and he was a silent, fallen god. And it was then that the moon claimed him, that Alex claimed him too.
Alex wasn't gay, of course. Love of women was had been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations, and he was no different. But so had a love of beauty, and yes, he was beautiful at night. When the sun set to sleep, and the moon poured down on him, he was perfect. As he undressed, his back was a slope of cold marble, accented, no marred by long scars and tense, jutting ribs and spine. From behind, a tapered waist, and long, loose hair gave him a soft, tender shape.
And when they were alone, it was impossible to hate the poured wax face that hissed and writhed and cursed, even as hips so narrow Alex's fingers touched, began to rise and fall.
Alex gave it his best effort, knocking his fist across the wax, griping the marble until it threatened to shatter, but somehow the cries, muffled in a sweat soaked shoulder, and the threats of detonation that were traced with tears from silver and gold eyes just made it so much better.
So Alex hated him by day, and coveted him by night, taking chances on crowded battlefields to whisper into his ear, watching the palms glow and shine. It was a fitting compromise.
And, as the war ended, Alex wondered what made some alchemists criminals, some insane, and some heroes. He wondered at the trial, where he was so achingly thin, his hands nearly broken by heavy wooden stocks, and his hair uncombed and wild on his shoulders. He wondered when his father praised his medals, and he polished them each week with utter, crippling shame.
He comforted himself after the execution with the promise he never had to detest perfect gold eyes and beautiful marble hands again.
He never knew he was lying.
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