second coming: nc-17, short

“The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!” — Hamlet, I.v.188-189

“Après moi le deluge” — Louis XV 

They call him the Flame Alchemist because he consumes fire. He can put his finger to a burning wick and absorb the dancing flame so that it dies down to a spark, down to the faint scent of wax which he consumes, also. He doesn’t feel the heat, or the pain. The candle is very much whole, and it is only evening.

untitled: r, wip (1/?)

Chapter 1 (draft text)

Roy Mustang had messy black hair that contrasted shockingly with his pale skin. He had a vaguely quiet, academic air about him, but his hands bore calluses that scholars weren’t used to having. His white shirt was neatly pressed and ironed, but his tan duster was rumpled and carelessly thrown over the back of the couch. The ancient fan overhead managed to whip up the papers at his desk, but failed to do anything about the sweltering heat.

five parts of eternity

i.
it’s a perfect panorama of earth and sky, almost, with nothing in between but silence and the rushing wind. it’s glorious glorious and golden; the feel of the ground beneath and the breath of the morning, it promises something more than yesterday and less than tomorrow – this is howto die – with the imprint of gold and glory on your eyelids.

fma christmas: pg-13, short

This was the ‘famous Armstrong family Christmas carolling and dinner party, passed down through generations’. Or at least, that was what Major Armstrong would tell you at the door to his palatial family home. And in addition, pump your hand vigorously until it lost all feeling. 

What a load of rot, thought Roy moodily, picking at his turkey, which the menu claimed to having been marinated in ‘special Armstrong family sauce’, and wincing at the incredibly off-key (probably traditionally so) rendition of ‘Silent Night’. A particularly high pitched warble saw him dropping his fork and cringing when it met the ground with a loud chime of protest. Bending down to pick it up gave him a good view up Hawkeye’s skirt, but the treat was prematurely cut short by her aiming a kick at his nose. It connected (painfully) and he ducked out in a hurry, bumping his head on the table and earning an annoyed snort from Fullmetal, who was seated on his right. Roy had never felt so embarrassed in his life.

untitled: pg, gen

Harry’s alone in the office, save for a cold cup of coffee that attempts to turn the same shade of drab grey as its surroundings. It doesn’t succeed – it hasn’t yet quite acquired the limp defeat of the rest of the objects in the room. The desk (once Sirius’) has begun to sag under the weight of countless papers and the endless stream of Aurors who beg to sit on it, rub it a little, for a touch of Harry’s luck. It never works, he wants to tell them, he can list the number of people who have touched it and gone to their deaths; there are more than he can count on his fingers, his toes even. But they never listen anyway, and he takes comfort that at least he sends them to their death with the joy of touching a piece of Saint Potter. 

reverie: pg, drabble

You know just what to say. Kill me like you did the first time–come on now. 

Harry knows what lies in wait behind the door, and he grips his wand just a little more tightly. His nails dig into the flesh of his palm, leaving faint half-moons that hurt just enough to remind him what he’s here for. The pain at least, is a constant in this strangely shifting emptiness. The silence whispers to him, promises him finality, and he’s almost tempted to turn around, walk away from the Manor, from this familiar door that mocks him with memories of sticky sheets and sweat-slick bodies. 

He is so caught up in reverie that he never notices someone sneak up from behind until he hears the sound of gravel hitting the step. Harry whirls around, his wand out and ready, but it is only Malfoy, pretending his still owns the place, his long hair tickling his neck and his back proud and erect. Malfoy has never been beautiful, his features too sharp and his lips too thin, but Harry’s heart has started pounding an unsteady tattoo against his ribcage and his mouth suddenly feels dry. He curses himself, but the low mutter fails to escape Malfoy’s sharp ears.

sticky note: pg-13, wip (1/?)

Colonel Roy Mustang vehemently denied it, but it was common knowledge that he was by far the largest user of sticky notes in the office. It wasn’t surprising then, that he was now standing rather sheepishly in front of Hawkeye’s desk, wanting to borrow another pad.

“You know how everybody takes things from my desk…” he trailed off lamely. There was a snort from Havoc, who soon found himself at the receiving end of Mustang’s fierce glare.

“Ahh, just some cigarette smoke up my nose.”

Hawkeye hid a smile as she pulled out a new pad from her drawer. It paid to have a stash of them hidden somewhere.

“Don’t bother returning it.” 

Mustang nodded, a curt assent, before retreating to his desk.

Hawkeye returned to reading reports and ignoring Havoc while he had eyes at her from his corner of the room. She didn’t even look up when Edward Elric arrived, panting, and demanded to see the Colonel.

“Lieutenant!” White gloved hands blotted out the next line. “I must speak to the Colonel! It’s about –”

Hawkeye narrowed her eyes and him and shushed him furiously. Puzzled, Ed turned to Havoc, who grinned and mimicked holding a phone, all the while making wet kissing noises into the ‘receiver’. Ed’s expression darkened.

“So he thinks I’m smaller than a miniscule atom and so he can ignore me, right!?”

Hawkeye sighed. She hoped the Colonel’s telephone call wasn’t interrupted by that outburst. Trust Ed-kun to think everything was about his height.

Thankfully, the office door swung open and spared the office from any major alchemical tantrums. Hawkeye started from her seat but Roy just waved at her to remain at her desk. He snapped his fingers at Havoc, who was trying to put out a small fire he had started while dozing on his desk.

“Havoc, I’ll need the car!”

“Yessir!”

Roy Mustang was already half out of the door when he finally noticed Edward Elric. He paused in mid-stride.

“If it’s the report, you can always give it to me tomorrow, Full Metal. I’m busy now.”

Roy took his coat down from where it usually hung on the stand and shrugged it on before opening the door and letting in a blast of chilly winter air. Some papers flew down to the ground and Ed automatically stooped to pick them up.

Hawkeye left her desk and watched from a window as her superior got into the car and sped off, before entering the inner office and peeling off the note from the telephone. Ed put down the papers and followed her in. He read silently from behind her shoulder as she carefully copied down the name, address and phone number from the note, before sticking it back and returning to her desk. 

“Where was the Colonel going that was so important I could wait until tomorrow?” Ed-kun was leaning against the doorframe, a thoughtful look on his face. Hawkeye didn’t like that look – it meant that he was planning something.

The scritchscratch of her pen paused before continuing on as before. Silence was the best defence, she thought. Now where was she before Ed-kun had interrupted her thoughts? Ah yes, the report on the Mechanical Alchemist…

“So, where is he going?”

Pen met table. Not without a loud bang, either. Ed obviously wasn’t going to give up until he got an answer.

“He’s going on a DATE, Ed-kun. He goes on one every Friday.”

“And the sticky note?”

“He leaves me her details in case – in case anything goes wrong.”

The second part of the sentence was murmured, but Ed was too preoccupied to notice a difference in tone. 

He had gone back into the Colonel’s office and now returned with the offending note stuck to the tips of his fingers. He grinned evilly. 

“In the case, I think I’ll drop in and pay them a surprise visit.” His smile faltered slightly at Hawkeye’s pointed gaze.

“Er, I’ll just drop off my report…”

Hawkeye gave up all semblance of patience and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Ed-kun, have you any idea what people do on dates?”

“Have dinner and watch a movie?”

“Possibly. And after?” Hawkeye needled him gently.

Ed-kun was quick, she’d give him that. As soon as she saw the burning blush spread across his face, she leaned back, satisfied that she’d gotten the point across. Her conscience pricked her, but it wasn’t a lie anyway; a half-truth perhaps, but not a lie. There were some things that the Colonel had expressly told her to keep secret and she wasn’t about to betray his trust in her. 

“Oh.”

Hawkeye patted the drooping figure comfortingly on the back. “Now don’t you agree with me that we should give them a bit of privacy?”

only the dead: pg, short

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
–Plato

They told him death would come in a blaze of colour. They beguiled him with tales of curses and weeping women and resting places under the willow tree. 

They didn’t tell him that death could lurk in skilled fingers, in kiss-swollen lips, or in dark corners away from prying eyes. Nobody dandled him on their knee once upon a timeand warned him that death came with beauty and a final flash of green. But nobody had to die – only the fools who believed in the lies. 

And in the end, it is Neville who saves the world; good, old, dutiful Neville, who bravely bears the prophecy on rounded shoulders and exits the world in the stolen blaze of glory. Fickle history doesn’t remember how many times Neville blew up his cauldron or got himself sent to the Hospital Wing; it forgets grubby hands and a nervous stutter. His portraits hang from distinguished establishments, all wrongfully steely eyes and white hands, and nobody notices his bitter smile. 

As consolation to the almost-hero, they dash off a condensed eulogy (he survived a curse by Voldemort in his youth…) and make him into yet another forgettable Chocolate Frog card. After all, he’s just an embarrassment, better to be overlooked and hidden away in cheap, dark packets, instead of marbled memorials that take up space and have to be paid for. 

He blinks now, bleary-eyed, as sunlight strikes his eyes (it’s been a long time) and the blurred image in front of him sharpens, focuses, so that he can just make out puzzled brown eyes. He smiles and waves, of course, to be polite, like he was taught so long ago.

Smiling brings out your eyes, boy.

“Who’s Harry Potter?” Brown-eyes turns to ask his companion.

A glimpse of a generously freckled nose and flaming red hair is a painful reminder and he shrinks into the frame, remembering disapproval and overdue regret. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Harry Potter! He’s the boy everybody thought was prophesied to save us from Voldemort, but it turned out to be Neville Longbottom instead.” 

The voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper.

“…he was a traitor, y’know, sleeping with the enemy and all that – but there wasn’t any proof after the war and they decided to close an eye. You can keep him though; what I want is the Longbottom one but I’ve never been able to find any.”

He mercifully lets himself sink back into the flimsy cardboard, ignoring surprised gasps at his disappearance well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day, and finds cold comfort instead, in dreams of power, glory and oblivion.

boys like to play: r, short

The canteen was so crowded for once that Ed had to actually try and elbow his way in. 

“Niisan, you know, it might be easier if you just asked them to move…” Al commented as Ed once again nearly missed being hit by somebody’s waving arms.

“Who are you calling smaller than a miniscule speck on your eye!!!!”

mea culpa (a tragedy in five parts): r, short

I.

There is a church outside the apartment. It would be wrong to describe this stone artifice as modest and quaint – on the contrary, it appears that its architect had had a grand design of building a miniature Notre Dame, then halfway through settled for St Peter’s Cathedral instead. The weight of its illustrious forebears sits heavily on its squat frame, its twisted body blending in with the gnarled trees surrounding it.