Fun with drabbles!

[dearheart]

@ Puzzle - both my inner EdWin AND Elric bromance fangirls squeed in happiness at your beautiful drabble. I think it's awesome that it can be read both ways. I love fanfics like that. =D

Aw c'mon, you guys. These things are SUPPOSED to be rough; the whole idea of the exercise is to spit out whatever the music puts in your head, no matter how ridiculous it is. Also, you CAN edit your drabbles if you want to. I only strictly follow the rules when I feel like it. So if I can cheat, you guys should be able to, too. =P

I've had snatches of this conversation in my head for a while, but it wasn't until this song popped up on my playlist that I wrote it all down. Who's in the mood for some brotherly goodness? =D

"Shattered" - Trading Yesterday

"Brother?"

"Mm?"

Alphonse hesitated, empty gauntlets fidgeting with the long plume trailing from his helmet, and finally blurted out: "Am I still human?"

"Of course you are," said Edward firmly, keeping his hazel-gold eyes on Al's breastplate as he polished it spotless.

"How do you know?" Alphonse murmured, the plaintive question echoing within his metal shell. Ed paused his work for a moment and looked up at the hulking armored figure, concern in his gaze.

"What's eating you, Al?"

A note of desperation entered the younger brother's voice. "It's just...I feel like I'm a ghost. Like I'm just floating through the world, but never really being a part of it. I can't remember how water feels, or what pain is, or even what breathing feels like, and...I-I'm scared. How can you be so sure that I'm still me?"

Edward smiled. "Because you wouldn't have these doubts and questions if you weren't." He pursed his lips as he wiped the last stubborn smudge off the metal surface; and then tossed the rag onto a nearby table and exhaled, scooting to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor next to Alphonse.

"Your humanity isn't defined by what you're physically made of," he continued. "It doesn't matter whether your skin is flesh or steel. Cliche as it sounds, it's the inside that counts. It's...the hopes, and dreams, and fears, and failings, and all that horrible, beautiful...stuff, all rolled up together. That's what humanity is. And that's what you have."

Al thoughtfully rubbed his gloved fingers together, and his spirits lifted a little. "I guess you're right. I never really thought of it that way."

"I know that's easy for me to say," Edward added, running his hand through his long bangs. "I can't begin to imagine what you're going through. What I've...put you through." The 15-year-old swallowed and looked down to study the cracks in the floor, face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair. "But I promised I'd fix this, and I'm going to. No matter what it takes. I need you to believe in that, 'cause if you can't...I don't think I can."

"I do," said Al, quiet and reassuring. "I've never doubted it; not for one second. But Ed, there's something I need you to believe, too."

"And what's that?"

"There's nothing you could ever do that would make me love you less. Please, please believe that."

Edward fell silent for a minute. And then at last, he let out a long, shaky breath, and whispered:

"I'll try."

---

Pleeeeaaaaase, I don't want to be the ONLY person posting stuff!

[amythista]

A. ^^^^^^^ D'AWWWWWWWW. :'D

B. I will do this! It will suck because I haven't written FMA in forever, but I WILL DO IT.

[PuzzleChick]

@ Dearheart: OH GODS. MY HEART. *wibbles madly* I think the reason you're posting the most is clearly because you are the best at these...xD (Thank you for the compliment as well. <3)

I'll try to see if I can do a few more before Supercon, but honestly this next week is going to be so hectic. OTL

[taranova]

www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBszC40uvdQ
Soundgarden - Black Hole Sun
RoyEd, post anime one.

___________________________________


Seeing the world from just one eye opened them both. He was sitting there, staring at the damp circles on his gloves, red thread a reminder of the blood he'd resorted to. He had no regrets about killing a man. No regrets about losing his vision.

He did not even dream about Selim. Often.

The rain didn't feel cold. It was grimy and hot and the dim light of overcast skies just lent to the whole idea that he was suffocating under a blanket of wet ash. He had been mostly silent for three whole weeks, not asking questions, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming: "It should have been me."

His weakness was rain, moisture. It was an embarrassing thing, to lose control as soon as nature so easily changed its course. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to Ed from the beginning. He wasn't sunny, per se, but he was definitely--a fire, a breath of hot desert air, a juxtaposition of hot and cold steel.

Roy was reminded of him every time he stepped outside and found the sun jamming its fingers in his one remaining eye.

That was why he left. That was why he holed himself up in a shack when he could have been playing it cool in a plush manor in Central. That was why he buried his fists in the snow in the hopes that he could numb them, keep them from snapping, keep them from burning himself down.

If Ed was really and truly dead (rotting somewhere beneath the city like a common rat), then the fire was out, it was gone, and there was no point in relighting it. Roy didn't have a purpose now--the Fuhrer was dead, he was...incapacitated, and Amestris did not need another incompetent fool for a leader.

Didn't need another homunculus, another soulless, purposeless, vision-less, passionless caricature of the frozen abyss.

Roy sighed deeply, staring at the storm. Drew the blankets closer around his body. Longed for the scent of oil and smoke and heat. His hands tingled with phantom sensations. But unlike the calculated snap of death, this memory recalled one final touch.

One last, desperate touch that had hopefully conveyed every word he had ever kept to himself. Seeing the world with one eye had opened them both to what was once right in front of him, and now was gone, as ephemeral as the sweep of snow past the shack shutters.

[PuzzleChick]

^ *whistles* Holy crap. Okay, that makes two people who are awesome at this. xD I have to say, your fics always make me believe that RoyEd is completely possible, Tara.

[taranova]

Really? SWEET. That's the idea. ;D

SEE!? IT'S NOT ALL CRAZY FANGIRLS. The pairing has substance, damn it!

[bespecledcow]

Lovely stories everyone! Tara, much as I dislike RoyEd, that was wonderfully written. Especially like:

If Ed was really and truly dead (rotting somewhere beneath the city like a common rat), then the fire was out, it was gone, and there was no point in relighting it. Roy didn't have a purpose now--the Fuhrer was dead, he was...incapacitated, and Amestris did not need another incompetent fool for a leader.

Aaaaaanyway, here I am finally contributing!

Oddly enough, this song always makes me think of Hohenheim, but when I started writing it sorta changed. I also leave it ambiguous on purpose. Any guesses as to who its about?

Song: Talking Old Soldiers, Elton John

Oh, and linkage, because I stole some lines from the song and it might make it better to listen while you read.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=GE2MmwUbC_E

He sat at the farthest end of the bar, mostly in shadow. He’d been coming in most nights, for all the three years the bartender had been there. Sometimes the man would smile, and look around, but most of the time he did not smile. He paid for his drinks, and left quietly.

People whispered about him.

Been in the war, that one. Why, all the wars. No wonder then. No wonder he doesn’t talk, look at those scars… he lives alone.

He’s crazy. Talks about immortal monsters. Has fits and nightmares. Heard he attacked some people once.

Still, though. A shame.

Yeah, he was a soldier once. It’s a shame he’s so nuts now.

He wore a ring on his third finger. It was tiny, with no stone, and sometimes the man would twist it around his finger almost absently.

The bartender heard a lot of gossip in his time. The bar was popular, and people liked to talk, especially with some drinks down their gullet.

Sometimes, he wished they would shut up.

The bartender knew the man’s body language by now, and when he was getting ready to leave. The last drink would go slowly until only a few drops were left; those he would down instantly, and then he would pay and leave.

The man set down his glass, and began to stand.

The bartender didn’t know what made his mouth open. “Hey, can I get you another drink? On the house.”

The man simply looked at him for a moment, and then nodded, and sat down. “That’s kind of you,” he said, and his voice somehow wasn’t withered like the rest of him.

The bartender shrugged. “You served the country, it’s the least I can do.”

“Hn.” The man slid his glass along the bar. “I see. You want to talk to the crazy old soldier.”

The bartender nearly dropped the glass.

The man smiled, but there was no happiness in it. “I know what they say, son. Not quite deaf yet.”

“Or crazy.” Again, the words slipped out, and for a distraction the bartender slid the full glass back.

The man raised his eyebrows, and chuckled to himself. “That was fast. I may not be foaming at the mouth, but…” His fingers tightened on his glass, and the bartender saw a soldier’s strength in the wrinkled hands. The man relaxed, and shrugged. “I’ve seen enough. More than enough. I don’t know if I’m crazy. And if you don’t know if you’re sane…well, what does that make you?”

The bartender didn’t know what to say, but the man hadn’t seemed to need an answer, either.

People were staring, whispering, and trying to glance at them without really looking.

“People talking about something doesn’t make it true,” The bartender began, not quite sure what he was trying to say.

The man shrugged again, and then pointed to a corner of the bar, at the opposite end. “Over there. That’s where we used to sit every day. They don’t talk about that, don’t remember.” His ring glinted in the light, and he drew back his hand slowly. “I have my memories. We sat there, oh, years ago, and I’d drink three times the beer that I can drink today…” He smiled again, just a little, and for a moment it seemed true, but then it was lost in bitterness again. “They’ll keep talking.” He let out a deep breath. His arm was shaking, fingers tight around the glass again. “Talk about what they don’t understand. Crazy, nightmares, poor old soldier…” The words were almost indistinguishable.

The whispering seemed to swell, seemed to pulse with his shaking hands.

“Sir,” the bartender reached for the glass. “Sir-”

“They don’t know what its like to have a graveyard as a friend!” The man threw the glass; it hit the wall behind the bartender, shattering, pieces skittering across the floor.

The whispers quieted.

The man’s shoulders heaved, each breath heavy, tears in his eyes. “That’s where they are, boy. All of them.”

The tears leaked over, and he sank slowly back down into his seat, elbow bent on the bar, head resting in his shaking palm. “All of them…no more pictures or fights, no more drinking and laughing…she’s dead. They’re dead. Long dead.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t think I’ll ever…get friends like that again…”


The bartender wanted to ask about them, wanted to hear their names and stories, thought that perhaps that was what the man needed. Because to all the other people, his loved ones weren’t just dead; they were gone.

But before he could open his mouth, the man was standing again. “Sorry about the glass.” His eyes were still wet. “Thank you for the drink.” He laughed in his bittersweet way. The people were still watching him now, like they were waiting for water to break open a dam. “There I go, being the crazy old soldier again.” He slid his money on the counter. “Tomorrow when I come in, I’ll pay for the glass. Not tonight, I…”

“No,” The bartender’s lips barely moved, watching the old man. He was wrinkled and stooped, but there was a look about him, like that of a young man not only wounded, but crippled. All the power of his youth, and powerless to fix his injuries. “Don’t worry about it.”

The man nodded once. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned for the door. The people were still watching him, and he hoped that they, for just one second, could try to understand what he could barely grasp; glimpse and imagine for a moment the horror, the guilt, the loneliness…That they would be able to extend their hearts to him, try to smooth over the hurt, though it was sensitive to the touch.

Every night the man came in. No family. Retired. Old and weary. A man that liked to stare at empty corners and lights, filling them up with images of years past, of people long dead.

“Wait!” The bartender knew his words to be foolish, knew they would be no help, and yet…

The man stopped, and looked back. There were fresh, wet, lines on his cheeks.

“Ignore them,” The bartender said quietly. “You have your memories.”

For a moment, the man’s face crumpled, because that was all he actually had; memories of things he could never know again, memories that shone brighter than any sun, and killed him more surely than a knife in his heart. Memories that helped him smile, let him laugh and live. Memories that made him cry, and scream, and beg.

It was all that he had.

The man seemed to pull himself together, and nodded stiffly. Then he turned and opened the door, the bell chiming loudly in the sudden silence, like something had sucked all the sound from the room.

The door swung shut behind him.

[Artemis Day]

Wow, I actually managed to do one of these. XD I usually like quiet when I write.

This is for Ouran High School Host Club, by the way.

**
Dumb I Sound- Sufjan Stevens


There are times when he looks at her, over at her table where three or four fangirls fawn over her with starry, love struck eyes. She greets them with the same innocent and slightly bemused attitude that she does everything else in their world.

He ignores his own customers, even when they call out his name and Kaoru is pulling at his sleeve, telling him that there are people waiting for him in the real world. Now is not the time to fantasize about what can never be.

Haruhi is beautiful, she always has been. And it drives him crazy that she’s the most gorgeous to him when her face is tinged with that oh so slight red blush and her lips are just partially opened in confusion. He loves it and he hates it, because she will never look at him like that. That look is reserved solely for the idiot who took months to realize his own love for her was not what a father feels for a daughter, but what a man feels for the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

And he will. Hikaru knows in his heart of hearts that the King of the Host Club will have his Queen. It pains him and it makes him feel like the stupidest person alive for thinking he could prevent it.

Some things are meant to be. Hikaru and Haruhi are not.