That said, I have gifts for you: a little fanart and *gasp* some fiction, too! (Those who wish to run in terror are now free to do so.)
That's right, chibi Scar. I guess he's about Ed's age in this . . . when he actually had a name, though I don't know what it would be. Anyway, I doodled him before my finals yesterday, and I thought he was cute. Hastily (and somewhat haphazardly) colored at about 1 AM with Photoshop 7. I don't really know what I want to do with him at this point, so right now he just kind of sits there and is.
And now, the fiction! (My first of the FMA sort)
Title: "Moments Like This"
Word Count: 815
Rating: PG, I suppose.
Notes/Warnings: Fluffy, Al-centric. Set post series, when Al is about 20 and has a shiny new body. Also be warned that it was written at about 1 AM (I seem to get a lot of work done around then.)
It was moments like this that Alphonse had missed the most.
Being a suit of armor, he had been aware of sights, and of sounds, and he could sort of feel things in terms of vibrations, but that had been the limit of his senses. No sense of smell. No sense of touch to speak of. No taste.
It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his mind completely, he thought, cut off from all that.
Now here he was, twenty years old with a body to match, and making up for lost time. Not with sex, necessarily – at least, not right then – but in ways that were softer and more subtle, and in their own way, just as satisfying.
The human body has 19,000 sensory cells per square inch of skin. Since his body had been restored, it had been Alphonse’s goal to acquaint himself with every. Last. One.
The young man sat up in the sea of blankets that served as his bed, soft sheets wrapped around his bare legs, leaning backward with a pillow supporting him, feeling the its soft pressure against his lower back, delighting in it.
The air was warm and heavy and laden with incense, spicy Ishbalite incense that made Al feverish with indecision, for he did not want to waste it, yet the smell was so delicious he could not burn it fast enough.
A book – not of alchemy, not now, now that there was no need, he was taking a well-deserved break – lay open in his lap. As he read the carefully printed words, his fingers – fingers, real flesh, blood and bone fingers – felt around for the bowl he knew was there.
The bowl was ceramic, painted in elaborate blue and white patters, smooth and cool to the touch, and full of soft, red-purple plums. One of the village children had brought them for Alphonse, in exchange for Alphonse taking him and his sister on a voyage into town. Al had been all too happy to do it, was delighted to play with them and protect them, knowing they trusted him and that he did not frighten them, as his metal body so often had. They were good kids, too; so young, and already they understood equivalent trade.
And what a wonderful trade it was, too! Alphonse thought, as he bit into the plum and tasted the juices that flowed over his tongue – tongue! Such a simple word, and yet it signified so much, and none of it could really be explained to someone who did not possess one. The texture of the fruit, the way the flesh was so sweet and soft, the skin so tart and sour, the way it filled his mouth and the sweet sweet smell of it filled his nose . . . he closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh of gratitude: grateful for plums and for all such fruit; grateful to the child who had picked them, grateful for such a wonderful world, and to the God who had created it, and him.
And grateful for Brother.
Always, always, grateful for Brother.
And grateful for something else, too . . .
Al heard his lover returning, but did not open his eyes: heard the rustle of the tent-flap opening and falling closed again; heavy footsteps on the ground; a deep throated sigh as Scar inhaled the aroma of the incense Alphonse had learned struck such a chord with him, the smell of his childhood; Alphonse heard soft whispering sounds as excess clothes were discarded, felt the blankets shift around him as another body slid in beside him. He felt the warmth of Scar’s body, so close by, and smelled the scent that was so distinctly Scar; it didn’t smell like anything else. There was a change in the darkness behind his eyelids that told him the candle had been blown out, and still Alphonse’s eyes remained closed. Only when arms – arms, warm and present and protective – encircled him did he open his eyes, and smile, and say, “Hi.”
Scar’s response, like so much of what he did, was more animal than human. Alphonse felt a deep rumbling – almost a purr – come from the other man; felt a kiss on the top of his head. A current of warmth flowed through him at the touch, at the tickling as his hair was pressed flat to his scalp, and he looked up. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but he didn’t need to; who needed sight, after all, when one had four other perfectly good, perfectly wonderful senses at one’s disposal? In the dark, he found Scar’s lips and pressed them to his own, tasting their warmth and affection on his tongue and in his mind, feeling Scar’s arms tighten around him and their bodies press together.
And he reflected that it was moments like this that bodies were really made for.
Incidentally, ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something? The day I wrote this, I learned not once, but twice that the human body has over 19,000 sensory cells per square inch of skin. I guess sticking that random fact in here was kind of inevitable.
Anyway, please take a look and tell me what you think! See you all when I get back!