FMA fic

Feb. 5th, 2005 02:27 pm
swordage: Envy from Fullmetal Alchemist (x envy)
[personal profile] swordage
I finally wrote Envy fic! This pleases me, as it's hard to find much of anything to write about Envy.

Title: Renaissance Man
Series: FMA
Rating: PG
Ramifications: Ep. 51 spoilers, blah blah, not historically accurate. Human!Envy ahoy! I am told this is remarkably AU. Ehe.
Summary: Um... who needs summaries when you have naked Envy?! *tosses confetti*


It started as slumming. He would go down and talk with the painters, exulting in the thrill of something so indecent, mentally laughing in his mother’s face. The painters were sweet and talked fast, and somehow he found himself in women’s clothing and an itchy wig, standing as still as humanly possible in a cramped and dingy flat. It was not what he expected. It was hard to breathe in the corset, and he could hear the painter mumbling something about slender shoulders, and he scowled hard at the wall. He could make whatever faces he liked, because the man had turned his head from side to side and then told him to stare at the opposite wall so that his nose wouldn’t show. Bastard. He had a fine Imperial nose, perfectly suited to his occupation.

He came back, though, the next month. The painter was desperate for a model, unable to pay for even the cheapest woman, and he didn’t mind posing for free. He tried not to look at the aborted sketches from the last session. They resembled nothing more than chicken-scratchings, or the pattern of mouse-feet in flour. He held still and didn’t complain when his foot fell asleep from the odd pose, weight entirely on one hip, and didn’t even scratch at the damn wig.

When he came back the next month, that painter was gone, and no one knew where. They’d heard about his free model, though, and so he found himself in another dank room. No wig for this one; he let his hair out of the neat gathering at the back of his neck and carefully combed it out to sleek smoothness. He was nothing more than shocked when the other man suggested he strip, but was slightly pacified by the assurance that the great painters of the day all painted nudes, and what was better than the human body after all? So he was looked up and down and sideways, and finally arranged artfully on cushions and draped with cloth. He had to be shaken awake when the sky drew too dark to see the canvas.

He came back to that painter the very next week. He heard snickers behind his back, but he didn’t care. Sitting on a stool, arms held awkwardly behind his back to pretend to take off a too-tight corset, he thought he might be happy like this. He shifted his legs a little, marveling at the feel of the petticoat against his thighs, and sighed when the painter told him to stop fidgeting.

His mother finally thought to ask where he had gone, and he told he’d been down to look at the paintings by the quay. Hadn’t that one famous man come from their little town, after all? It wouldn’t do to pass by on talent, and someone with a discerning eye would have to inspect the work personally, and he was bored anyhow. She frowned and respectfully requested that he take up something proper - perhaps a hunting expedition with his friends, wouldn’t that be nice?

By the third week, he still hadn’t learned the painter’s name, and he didn’t particularly care. He saw one of the pictures he had posed for, and there was a lovely slender woman there. Too thin, the painter said disparagingly, but he pointed out how one could see the strength lying under the skin. No, not in a woman, one could never paint such things and have it be a woman.

The fourth week, the painter’s hands were bold when posing him, and he beat the man with his fists. He nearly stormed out in the corset, and only at the door remembered to change into his own clothes. He forgot to tie back his hair entirely, and didn’t understand the scandalous looks when he returned home in a huff with wild hair and bloodied knuckles.

It was hard to find a painter after that. He was finally left with a curious old man who brought him to a quiet stable and lay him down on the straw as if it were a bed of silk. Burlap was artfully arranged across his groin, and when the old man stood back to survey his work, he was told to turn his face towards the light, yes, like that, boy, don’t be shy.

The old man drew a sultry boudoir, a woman just waking, fine cloth barely protecting her modesty. She was shockingly thin, yet somehow enticingly lovely. They both stood and stared at the drawing for a long time before he clothed himself.

The next week the old man drew him as himself, and he compared his own form to that of the waking woman. His shoulders were too broad, his jaw too stout, and even his hands held a masculinity that he couldn’t quite find beautiful. He told the old man to burn the second drawing, and watched in sullen silence as his likeness curled and blackened. Of all the drawings after that, he always found that thin woman the most beautiful, put-upon and starved yet strong enough to face the dawning day.
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