グイネーダ (gwyneda) wrote in fm_alchemist,

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Err, Hi there. I'm Shobu, or, uum, Schy as the people of this Fandom have named me. I come bearing 4 small pieces of crappy fanfiction. Uum, I have no beta so please forgive the ..err, lameness? *laughs weakly*

Oh, and Please don't shoot me. *runs*

Author: sakurazuka_mori
Title: Shattered
Pairing: Scheiszka/Havoc
Genre: Deathfic/Oneshot(?)
Word Count: 1000
Comments: First time I post a fic [in this comm] and I have no official beta so...yeah. Proceed with caution?

It was cold outside, the wind howling as the autumn leaves ripped through the air with such violence as to leave one considering if Mother Nature was in a temper. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was a bright pale speck in the sky. The heat was minimal, but even with the wind pushing against his back, the spiky haired blonde man with blue eyes and a cigarette on his lips, could feel a fine trickle of sweat run down his spine. Why was he wearing so much damn clothes?

Laden with a coat and scarf, he slid his bare hands out of his pockets and felt the corner of his lips curl. She’d insisted he wear proper clothes if he was so hell bent on going out to get more of those cancer sticks. He chuckled and fingered the hunter green and black checkered scarf around his neck. She’d given it to him last week for his birthday. Right out of the blue. He smiled at the memory. She’d blushed and stammered, had looked up at him with those guileless green eyes, her face so much lovelier when not encumbered with those heavy glasses.

She smiled at him shyly, “I didn’t know what to get you, and I read somewhere in one of the files at the office that today was your birthday.” she began hesitantly. She was looking down at her shoes and shuffling her feet awkwardly; a faint blush made her cheeks glow and lent her a seldom seen endearing air. She was even wearing a skirt! It wasn’t mid-thigh as he’d fantasized, but it was something. It flowed from her hips in a dark sweep of rough cotton. Her shirt hugged her upper chest and gave him a clear outline of her figure. But as per usual, it covered most of her body. A body he’d begun to dream about in the wee hours of the night.

He smiled reassuringly and reached out to touch her face, “Did you get me something?” he asked teasingly and managed not to laugh when her color heightened and she ducked her head. How timid she was. She took a deep breath, seemed to brace herself and presented a small bundle. “Happy Birthday” she murmured and bit her lip.

Jean Havoc looked down at his Girlfriend in surprise, “You really did get me something” he managed and reached out to take the bundle in his hands carefully. He hadn’t gotten a gift in…a very long time. Unwrapping it with infinite care, he blinked down at the thing in bemusement. “A scarf?” he asked, puzzled. She smiled, one of those rare curling of her lips that lit her eyes up, “Yes, you never wear one, and winter‘s coming, I wouldn’t want you to get sick.” she said quietly and threaded her fingers together.

He looked down at her bent head, the light catching on her auburn hued hair. She was growing it out so it reached her shoulders now, swinging around her face when it was unbound and held in a tight bun when at the office, or when she was reading.

He understood her feelings, she was afraid for him. After seeing her mother suffer from her illness, she just didn’t want to go through that again. Holding the scarf in one hand, he let his other lift to her face when he cupped her cheek gently. His callused hands sliding over the smooth surface of her porcelain face. “Thank you” he said sincerely and brought his lips to her forehead.

Here eyes fluttered shut on a sigh, her slender arms sliding up around him with a faint tremor, “It might keep you safe, and maybe, you’ll think of me when you wear it. ” she whispered. Jean pressed his cheek against her hair and wrapped his arms around her, “How can I think of anyone else when I have you?” he teased. She smiled up at him, her joy at his words apparent, “so you like it?” she asked, so utterly trusting in her naïveté.

Slowly, gently, he lowered his head to brush her lips with his own, “Yes, I do. Now lets get going, we‘ll be late for dinner.” he ran his knuckles down her cheek, enjoying the feel, the knowledge that finally, finally, he’d found her. He’d found his salvation.

“I love you Scheiszka.”

A smile, a hug, a soft kiss. “I love you too, Jean.”

He whistled as he walked down the street, Life was good, the sun shone brightly and all was right with the world. He had his health, he had his job, he had his beloved.

Jean Havoc was a happy man.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

He stared blankly at the report First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye handed him. Female, age 23, Secretary of Intelligence, killed.

Hawkeye was saying something to him, her expression sympathetic. What was she saying? He turned his head to the side and blinked.

There she lay on the floor, her face buried under her blood splattered hair. His angel, his love, crumpled like a broken doll. Her glasses, broken and forgotten, rested upon the cold concrete floor. Distantly he realized it was raining. The rain spattering down upon her cooling blood, making crimson tainted rivulets of water flow aimlessly towards him. He watched numbly as her blood seemed to search for him, surround him.

His legs moved as if with a mind of their own and he found himself nearing her fallen figure, found himself kneeling down and turning her lifeless body. His hands shook as he traced the line of her cheek, as images of her smile flashed in his mind, smiles he’d never see again. He heard her laughter, soft and sweet flow in his head. He could still remember her warmth, her lips on his flesh, her heartbeat as it raced with his.

His eyes burned.
His throat ached.
His heart cried out in denial.

“You should’ve worn a scarf Scheiszka.”

Title: Tribute
Rating: PG, I guess >.>;
Genre: Winry/Havoc interaction.
Word Count: 915
Comment: Set After ‘Shattered’ Unbetaed! Maybe I should get one hmm? ^^;

She knew she‘d remember this funeral for as long as she lived.

White flowers had littered the small room. Lace and ruffles and lilies had been arranged carefully, lovingly all around. It didn’t seem like a funeral at all, more like a wedding. But this was no happy occasion, no one smiled or laughed, no one spoke at all. What little conversation there was remained hushed.

Schieszka had looked so pretty in that white gown, as if she’d been caught taking a nap right before the ceremony on her wedding day. Her hair had been combed and styled beautifully; flowers strewn into the short, thick tresses, pearls clasped at her ears. Her lips were tinged a soft pink, masking the pale blue of frozen blood.

Not many had attended the funeral. Only some scattered friends; Broche, Maria Ross, Hawkeye, Fury, Breda, Fallman, Armstrong, Gracia, Elysia. Mustang.

She walked up to Jean Havoc, reached out to touch his arm gently. She watched helplessly as his dead eyes gazed at everyone with a glassy expression. He bobbed his head once in a while, but she had the distinct impression that whatever his surroundings, he would now be lost in a realm of his own, a world of pain and grief.

That man Mustang walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Havoc only looked down at his superior officer, the cigarette for once, absent. Mustang was saying something, his expression stoic, the midnight blue eyes dead and flat. Havoc nodded once, then turned to look at the dark haired man, his expression twisting, pain flashing in those periwinkle eyes, and he turned away, hand obscuring his face. He excused himself, his composure gone.

But as he retreated, she caught a trace of sympathy from Mustang. His dark brows creased, and then smoothed out as if nothing was amiss. If she hadn’t seen it for herself she would have never thought that the man could care about anything, much less anyone other than himself.

Her thoughts strayed for a moment, began to strum with resentment towards the great Flame Alchemist. She hated him, hated him as she never thought she could hate. Hated him for taking her parents, for taking her brothers, for leading them down a path of loss and despair. It was his fault, His fault she’d never have a real family, his fault the only family she DID have was broken and tattered, struggling to reform.

He suddenly turned to look at her, those dark eyes flashing with something she couldn’t identify. He bowed and looked away, but she could tell by the way his shoulders tensed that her presence affected him. She took perverse satisfaction from that knowledge, let the bastard suffer, let him look upon her pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes and remember. Remember the lives he took under the orders of a psychopath.

Even as his back was turned, she continued to glare at his back. She could tell he felt her gaze. For his posture changed, tensed, twitched. If you paid close attention, you could see the faint rippling of muscle along his arm, could make out the rigid set of his shoulders.

She tore her eyes away from him, the tears prickling her eyes, not only for the loss of her best friend.

Blindly she began to pick her way through the crowd, desperate for an escape. She would never let HIM see her tears, let him witness her pain. She groped around helplessly, her hands clinging to the wall as she flung herself into the darkness. Into a blessed abyss where she could grieve and console herself in peace.

Stumbling through her tears, she tripped over her own feet. Unable to cut off the small sob caught in her throat, she felt her face meet soft fabric and the smell of smoke assaulted her senses.

She looked up, fully intending on beating a hasty retreat, but when she saw havoc’s dead gaze, something inside her seemed to crack, “I‘m so sorry” her voice was thick with tears, her cheeks stained with the evidence of her, their pain. He nodded stiffly, his jaw set in an unyielding line, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Going on instinct, she reached out to take him into her arms, “She loved you so much. She never stopped talking about how happy you made her.” She tried vainly to suppress the tears, but they spilled over despite her greatest efforts, “I‘m glad you made her happy while she… While she…” she couldn’t go on, the tears nearly choking her.

Pressing her face to his shoulder, she sobbed, the words tumbling from her lips, “You were the best thing to happen to her, I‘m so sorry, so very sorry, you don’t deserve this, no one does, it’s not fair. She was a wonderful person. Its not fair.” and finally, finally, she felt arms come around her, felt the press of a wet cheek to her own.

When his voice came, it was hoarse, as if talking hurt him, “I loved her so much. I never really loved anyone before. And when she told me, I…” his voice broke, his grip tightening slightly, “I miss her already. I don’t know how to… How…” his grief consumed him, made him bow his head and bury it in the crook of her neck.

They stood there, engulfed by darkness, overwhelmed by death, arms clinging, if only for a moment, to what little comfort they could find.

Title: Out of Reach
Pairing: Roy/Al
Rating: PG? *shrugs*
Word Count: 1100
Comments: Spoilers for Movie and end of Series? Again, unbetaed. Proceed with Caution. Written for Heid

The heat was sweltering. Summer had come full force not a week ago and already at noon, the sun could fry an egg. Good God, what had possessed Ed to wear those uncommonly tight lather pants? How could he stand it!? He tugged the collar of his coat and sighed.

It’d been so long since he’d been in a train.

Alphonse looked out of the train window on his seat and watched as the landscape gradually changed from country to city. Green pastures gave way to dirt roads, then to paved streets, then to well-structured buildings.

He was on his way back to central.

With a sigh, he pulled out a silver watch from his pocket and gazed down at it thoughtfully. It still gleamed and sparkled, as if they’d just presented it to him. He could remember the day Mr. Mustang had presented it to him.

It had been the first time he’d met the man. Even though he knew, intellectually that he’d known the man before; he had no memory of their acquaintance. That first day had been full of questions and nerves. What had he been like in the armor? What was his brother like? Had his brother still been hell bent on ignoring everyone and breaking all the rules?

Mr. Mustang had only gazed at him with a dark eye, the eye patch giving him a sterner disposition. “FullMetal was a wild card. But all he did, he did for you.” he’d said. Some sort of comprehension had flashed in those midnight depths, but it was quickly masked.

Alphonse shook his head and fingered the watch carefully. He knew its contents, but for the life of him, he could remember nothing. No pang of grief, no traces of melancholy memory.

Don’t forget Oct. 3

He felt guilt well up in his heart. “I‘m sorry Brother, I can’t remember.” and that lead to other thoughts. Lead him down a path he knew all too well; of dark nights crying himself to sleep, trying desperately to remember something, anything from that time. He tried to comfort himself with the memories he had; of his brother’s golden eyes as they’d gazed at him with laughter glinting in their depths. Memories of that reckless grin he‘d flash right before almost breaking his neck.

All he had now was a single picture. A picture he hated for its rarity and simplicity. There they stood; him glinting silver in the sun, his brother; mouth grim, eyes cold and hard.

He traced the picture his brother’s face gently, “I miss you brother.”

The train jolted him out of his thoughts and he scrambled to get out of the compartment. He had some more questions for Mr. Mustang.

He was shown into a small office where Mr. Mustang sat behind a desk.

He looked up with a bored expression, his one good eye taking in his garb and making his lips twitch, “It‘s been a long time Alphonse” he said quietly.

Alphonse stepped into the room and took a seat across the small and cluttered desk. “Good afternoon … Private Mustang” the title didn’t fit him. This man who had put his life, his career on the line to see this country at peace, had been reduced to nothing more that a mere private.

The injustice of it rankled Alphonse but he kept that to himself. He had more important things to deal with. Namely getting information from this once revered Colonel and State Alchemist.

That midnight black eye followed him as he walked over to a wall and leaned against it casually. “What can I do for you Alphonse?” asked the raven-haired private, his voice soft, kind. It felt wrong for some reason, and at the same time, so soothing. Al squared his shoulders, “I want you to tell me more about brother and what he was doing when he wanted to restore me.”

That dark gaze never faltered, the warmth fading to be replaced by a shuttered expression, “I‘ve already told you all I could.” he murmured and pushed his chair back to stand.

Why was he always so drawn to these boys? When it had been Edward, a ball of energy and determination, he’d been drawn to that power coiled tight inside that small body. Drawn to the talent, the intelligence behind those golden eyes.

Roy found himself looking down at wide gray eyes full of determination. When had he gotten this close? When had he wanted to get closer? When was it close enough?

He leaned forward to brace his arm on the wall behind the boy and bent his head low, noses almost touching. His voice was soft when he spoke, "...I won't allow you to make the same mistakes as your brother...." That dark gaze locked with his, held him there as securely as the arm did. Alphonse looked up at him earnestly, “I appreciate your concern, but I am not my brother,” he managed. He could smell the day’s sweat on him from this close, could catch the faint scent of aftershave.

Roy angled his body closer, needing a closer proximity, drawn to this boy like a moth to a flame. He understood now why FullMetal was so hell-bent on restoring the body of his brother, the body of this bright boy who shone just as brightly as Edward himself.

Edward had shone like the sun, bright and fiery and unforgiving. But this boy, this child he told himself, shone like the moon, soft and ethereal. But as the moon, whose light was only a reflection of the sun’s, Al’s light was only a reflection of the light that burned within Ed. A close imitation, but as close as the real thing as anything could get.

Those grey eyes gazed up at him, and changed, implored him, “Please, help me find my brother.” The voice, so innocent, so childlike, a total opposition to any tone Edward had ever used with him, undid him as nothing else could.

His lid lowered fractionally, and his face hovered over Al’s tentatively, “I would if I could” he said honestly. “I‘d do anything to return your brother” and he would.

Their lips were but a hairsbreadth apart, breath mingled, one smelling of coffee, the other of oranges. “…Mr. Mustang…”

There was silence for a moment, then a gasp, and finally, the sound of a small mewl.

The sun would burn you alive if you got too close, but the moon invites you to try and get closer, even though you know you’ll never reach it.

Title: Cherished
Paring: Riza/Al
Genre: Fluff?
Word Count: 400
Rating: G?
Notes: This is what I come up with when I have no one to supervise me. This also spawned some other stuff... For Aru-san

It was warm here in his arms; his young, strong arms that held her so tenderly, so lovingly. Arms that she knew had been paid with time, blood, tears and sweat. To think, she would never have known this sort of happiness. This love, this warmth, this sense of completion.

She still followed her colonel, would still serve him as long as she still breathed, would give him his coffee, keep him in line, smile and offer comfort. But he no longer held her heart in the palm of his hand. That honor had now been bestowed upon the gray-eyed youth lying before her.

His hair was a long and flowed like bronze silk over his tanned shoulders. She scraped the palm of her hand over the defined outline of his bicep, traced her finger into the rigid groove of his muscle, all the while smiling down at him, gazing lovingly at those honeyed lashes that fanned over his young cheeks. He still retained that hint of a curve to his face, his cheek soft and rounded, giving him that innocent air she found so endearing.

It was so easy to slide into affection with him. His whole being just demanded it. She could look at him for hours on end, just gaze upon his angelic countenance and feel so utterly content, so completely whole. No man had ever meant as much as him. No man ever would.

He was sweet, kind, patient, tolerant and most of all, he loved her. Sometimes she’d catch him looking at her as if she were a goddess, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dazzled, his arms reaching out to her tentatively, afraid she was only a figment of his imagination.

And when finally he held her in his arms, she heard the words, the fears buried deep inside, “I‘m afraid it‘s all a dream, I‘m afraid that one day I‘ll wake up and I‘ll be stuck back in that armor. Afraid I wont be able to feel your warmth, the texture of your skin, the smell of your hair…” a part of her heart always cracked when she heard these painful admissions, a part of her wanted to hold him in her arms, protect him against all his fears, but she knew that these inner demons could -WOULD- only be defeated with time.

They had all the time in the world after all.

And as I’m a comment whore, please comment and tell me how craptastic that was ._.;

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