I used to think that your eyes were poetry: calm, deep blue, like a gentle summer sky. you made me believe I was special to you. you held my hand, and comforted me when I cried, and for the first time in my life I felt like I was(more) safe - that I could tell you anything, bare my soul and my darkest dreams and the fears that kept me up at night.
and then you cut me away, an act as gruesome as rendering an appendage, but done with the merciless cruelty of one who cannot feel pain themselves.
your eyes are beautiful, but they are empty, terrible and tumultuous like a deep rolling sea. (less)
on this side of the mirror there are things that dearly remind me of you. the stars in the heavens, the scent of forest and cedar woodchips, the rumble of passing trains, the German flag; even in my dreams, where I once imagined I could forget you, you linger(more) in the background and in shadowed spaces like a ghost--watching, judging, silent, and I am the grave, a space to fill with dead memories.
gravity--the pull of knowledge, the capacity for increasing personal abilities. Edward was once drawn to the dark fog, the shadows on the cave wall, determined to discover all the secrets of the universe because he could; gravity violently tore his wings from his shoulders and cast him back t(more)o the motherless void.
gravity--love. it stabilizes, debilitates. it keeps the heart together, and potentially crushes it. one cannot choose whom one loves. one cannot sink through the center of the earth and come back on the other side. if these things were simple, he would have decided, long ago, for example, to forget the pulse of Alfons in his head.
gravity: the force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass. Alfons was a pale blue planet in deep black ocean, and Edward revolved around him, dependent and obedient and merely reflecting his too-bright light. gravity was not enough to keep him on the path.
gravity: the thud of a body hitting the ground that no one hears. the sound of bitter last words. the taste of blood in the mouth.
he smelled like October the third.
rain dipping down green hills on a cold autumn night, mud and grit squelching beneath his boots. the smell of ozone and dirt, overflowing river and of damp cornstalks, of sun-warmed pavement cooled by night and dark and wet.
he smelled like electricity. t(more)he scorching burnt tang of alchemy, rich with oxygen, with metal, with sparks. he smelled like blood, rich dark and flowing blood, painting a concrete floor, sweet salted youth with flesh torn asunder. he smelled like death, and innocence, and that twisted his gut like the violent wringing of rags.
he smelled like fallen leaves. spice. his hair, warm, faintly exuded the scent of crushed cinnamon, of honey, sweet and light and homey; he smelled like clean cotton, and beneath it all, the subtle notes of oil.
Edward smelled like the October third that was a distant catastrophe, a fever dream, yesterday's perfume. and Roy would not change that. (less)
A written letter was all that Alfons felt Edward deserved, in the aftermath. It was curt, cold, absent of the warmth Alfons seemed to exude. Bitter, like salty ocean air; angry, like the twist of a maelstrom.
"I was not a troubled person before I met you." "I a(more)m exhausted of your tears." "I am through with you. Whatever friendship we had, you can consider it ended." Edward had stood in the emptiness of the road and felt as if the very fabric of his heart had been skewered. Tears became sobs became an empty, itchy panic inside of his skull, ringing in his ears. He struggled to make sense of how these words could have come from the pen from the hand of Alfons Heiderich, whom he loved. Whose words would be forever branded into his memory, a source of scorching heat in lonely isolation.
"Please talk to me," Edward begged at a closed door, tears dripping down his too-pale skin; but Alfons was punishing him with his silence. Months ago, the German boy with the light blond hair and the cold blue eyes took his key, then locked the front door without an(more) explanation.
Letters went unanswered. Phone calls (expensive and terrifying, because what if he did pick up--?) were left to ring. Edward tried to drown the sorrows of abandonment in drink and in work, but old companions no longer made eye contact.
He sunk against a stone wall, fingers in his dirty hair. Insanity was a shriek in his head, a freight train rumbling in Munich streets. He was no stranger to this pain. But what was his sin?
Was it his stories of the Other World? He would stop telling them. Was it his friendship with Noah? He would send her away. Was it that he liked men? He would become celibate. Was it the automail? He would take better care to cover it up, he would no longer shed tears if it pained him in the night, he would sleep on the floor and not disturb Alfons with his lack of body heat.
He trembled hard. "Please say something," he whispered to damp and cool air. His German was patchy and the accent weak but that didn't bother him anymore. "Please tell me what I did wrong..."
There was little time to linger. Fear tore up and down his spine when, in the fog, a constable began to approach the house. Edward looked up; there in a halo of moonlight and dampened by rain was Alfons, staring down at him, empty eyes, pulling back a curtain at the window.
"Herr Elric," the contable said, "you are under arrest for trespassing."