Pairing: The Elric Parentals
Author's Notes: Look! Look! There is het, and fluffy het at that! I know; I'm as shocked as you are. This is inspired by the looping track of "Satellite" by Dave Matthews Band, and by lykomancer's Hoho drabbles.
The defination of the tarot card, Six of Cups, is found here.
Six of Cups
She had been young when he first saw her, impossibly young and the smooth lines of her face were of a sand that never knew footprints. She had smiled, the tickle of blood in her cheeks as she caught his eyes, his almost fumbling gaze, before turning away and ducking into the market for some fruit for her parents. The street was so empty without her visage, so cold, and ever the sufferer of the need, he disappeared after her.
When she turned around in the aisle, he was there, there so close that his long strands of golden hair tickled one of her bare arms. The flush fled, and had anyone been staring at them as they lingered over oranges, she couldn't have said, wouldn't have minded.
"May I help you?" she asked with an anticipatory waver.
"I...I was looking for..." There was a moment of flustered, hurried glancing. "I was looking for bread."
She giggled, and in it there was a kindness as vast as the world that they spun on. "You might have better luck in a bakery rather than a fruit market." And his smile was only a another star added in her galaxy, in her universe of light.
Wasn't young love grand, perfect as crystal, flawless as the summer overtures? Wasn't it honey and bliss, tangled in memories of shy kisses and idea breaths, of fingers entangled while venturing down streets and over hills, along riverbeds?
Wasn't it all new, for old souls and young?
Wasn't it a curse, a blessing, a twisted thread to bind the masses?
When they made love for the first time, months and breathless years later, her body was smooth and flawless, the skin stretched perfectly over muscles and curves, and a fantasy compared to the nightmare he had known of himself. He kissed her clavicle, dipped in her navel, loved her thighs and drew circles over her knees. He spent hours playing along her back, tracing designs and symbols and words in the dips of her spine.
"Edward," she whispered. "I'd like Edward."
"You're one for the traditional names." And wasn't it marvelous on how her skin glowed, illuminated, vibrated with his touch and the caress of the moon overhead? Wasn't it just breathtaking how her long brown strands of hair tangled up the stalk of the closed daylily, shut out from the cool of the night? "It means 'Blessed Guardian', you know."
The lazy smile crawled over her lips as she leaned forward, the kiss of her lips lap of an ocean wave over his nerves, over his mind. "And that's what he will be," came the soft words, the quiet rush of her breathy voice when his hand dipped down the swell of a hip, down to the warmth that was nestled between her legs. "To his little brother or sister."
He stopped, motions stilled, before rubbing his nose into the brown strands, taking her scent to the grave with him, holding it close and special for all of time. "Always thinking ahead."
She smiled, won, and moved into the touch that ignited all fires, that blessed her body in lustful flush and delicate poses. "Or at least, rationally, Mister Bread."
And when she cried out to the moon and the owls, to the fireflies that were falling stars, she knew, knew Edward was a proper, lovely name.
crossposted to fm_alchemist and fma_fiction.