Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Resonance ❯ Chapter 1

a/n: This has some roy+hughs, ed+al, roy+riza- oh, just a lot of pairing-ing… Stated in advance, just in case heterosexuality offends you XD

 

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I feel as if there's paint thinner under my skin.

 

“Be careful. Sir.”

 

I salute Hawkeye. My god, she's a glorious woman. She is a sure shot, clean cut with a buzz most men are afraid of. Somehow I makes her look like a pixie. A pixie, fully loaded with big brown eyes and a wiggle that says hello, even when her eyes narrow like she's sizing me up, behind a barrel.

 

“Hey, beautiful.”

 

She turns away and shoves me contrary-wise. The hall is there to catch me. And I'm laughing when it does. Hawkeye knows I don't mean a damn thing when I hit on her. She's beautiful, though.

 

I always liked beautiful things.

 

“You're drunk, again.”

 

“Astute.” I salute. “Does that mean I am of ill repute?” I laugh. Again.

 

“Sir-“

 

“Oh, shoot…”

 

“If you pinch my ass one more time…”

 

She's right, and wrong- in so many different ways- I shall enumerate! The way her uniform blouse clings in all the wrong places. The way her hips have that twitch when she walks. The way she positively bounces when she swings that big gun up into my face and- oh shit.

 

“I told you- “

 

“Riza..” I put my hands up. I surrender. I always surrender when it comes to a dangerous lady with a great… big… gun…

 

There's something wrong. Her attention's drawn away. I can read it in the air. The hallway stretches and we are suspended in midair- watching a scene from another play. Another emotion. Another set of lives. I drop my hands, even though she keeps her gun up, and we are staring at the two shadows at the other end of the dormitory hallway.

 

Just my fucking luck.

 

“Be quiet.” She is the one giving orders. And I obey.

 

“When we find it, I'll restore your body.”

 

It's a small voice, echoing like it's from inside of a well. A voice from another place, not of this earth. A voice with no body.

 

“Shhh…”

 

I nod.

 

“You don't have to worry about that, Al.” The second voice is more familiar. More human. A voice whose pain I understand. And reject.

 

I hang my head. I have to.

 

“Sir?” She looks at me now. She's confused, like she doesn't know where to aim that thing.

 

“Shhh…” I am surprised that she needs her own directive. Scotch has low tolotance for that sort of irony.

 

“Anyway,” I can hear that human resonance, again. The Alchemist: Fullmetal. My prodigy. I wink when I realize it's him. Riza rolls her eyes and locks her safety back on, before she re-engages the holster. Like sex. I can smell it, everywhere. I lick my lips and she shakes her head.

 

Not tonight.

 

It's like every night.

 

Not tonight. It's never tonight. I rake y hand through my hair and listen to young angst troupe into its dormitory. “Satisfied?” I ask her.

 

“Not your concern.” She looks away.

 

I smile. “I'm not.”

 

“Go to hell,Mustang.”

 

“I own it.” I sway with Scotch confidence and a lonely notion. “Care to see it?”

 

She rolls her eyes, again, and walks away. She knows how to make me…

 

“Let's go to bed, then, Ed.”

 

Bed. I lick my lower lip and wish for it. Still…

 

“Do you want to- again?”

 

Want to what? I chuckle. I don't really need to ask that question. What else are boys- and men- interested in? I can remember plenty of times when Hughes and I, back in Istbul…

 

Fuck. Why did I have to remember Hughes? The reason for this Scotch-insanity. The one who gave me this bottle: when his daughter was born, no less. My friend. My best friend. My-

 

There's a place men will not acknowledge. Even to each other. Even in the heat of the moment. In the center of that place. They can not look each other in the eye- but they can touch each other's deepest core, know the secrets of the other's heart, with no words.

 

Hughes.

 

I drank that entire bottle remembering those nights in Istbul.

 

Why did you have to die?

 

Why?

 

I ask myself this question as Hawkeye leaves me and I stumble toward that dormitory door. Iwant to ask those two the same question: Why? It is a question I don't understand. Women. They are the source. They are my lust. But, this? Why do they fail us? Why do we turn to each other when we want so much of the source? Men die, and die, a thousand times in a lifetime. And women?

 

Oh.

 

Your mother died, too.

 

I meet your door. I realize you are full of a mystery I cannot comprehend with war and death. You are full of a horror I cannot fill and burn away. You are… untouchable.

 

And yet I can turn the knob. I can open the door.

 

I can hear you.

 

Like I always heard you.

 

Did you know?

 

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