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FMA fic
Written entirely while I was on Nyquil, yet somehow it remains decent. Angst with a resolution pie. XD
Title: It Goes Like This
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Post-Ishbal Roy. Because![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pinstripesuit asked.
Summary: Roy figures out equivalent trade.
Roy nearly overdosed on sleep aids. He slept just fine, for hours upon hours, blissful black death of his mind. It wasn’t enough. They would wear off, and he would wake in a cold sweat and take more without counting the pills or even wondering if he should at all. There were never screams in his dreams; just the cheerful crackle of a bonfire with the faint scent of pork.
He wondered if Kimbley had dreams like this, then wondered why he was thinking about that man, then wondered why he was still awake. There were dreams at night, yes, but they were nothing compared to his waking mind. He hid all the knives from himself in a fit of sanity, then pulled them all out nine hours later and arranged them by sharpness on the bathroom floor. He never turned the lights on; the cool blackness reminded him of the never-ending sun and burning heat. The rain dripped sludge down his window in little finger-trails of wet grime. He looked around in the dim glow from streetlamps and saw books and papers, knowledge waiting to slide eel-like into his mind and jolt realizations into his head; this is how it goes, this is how it ends, but never this is how it begins. He couldn’t finalize a design. Too many elements flung together, too many variables to turn into tidy sums. Water, thirty five liters. Carbon, twenty kilos. Ammonia, four liters. Lime, one and a half kilos. He doubled the numbers, tripled them, gave them exponential value. He tried not to listen to the nagging voices that whispered about equivalent trade. What made him think he could compare himself to anything? He had to offer more. Something of value. He had to give up everything - not just his life, not just his body and mind and knowledge and possessions.
The knock behind him was startling. He had forgotten he was leaning against the door. He stared at the wall for a moment, seeing out of the corners of his eyes the scattered papers with sketched designs and rambling notes, the pig blood he had bought when he’d read too much and thought to make a contract with the devil. He got it home and realized he couldn’t make a contract with himself.
It was too easy to open the door, to look at Hughes and wonder why he looked so started. It was easy to wonder, Would this be trade enough?
He was a little surprised to realize that was a trade he wouldn’t make. And so in a breath he gave it all up, because unless he could trade everything, it wouldn’t be enough. He would just have to take everything instead.
Title: It Goes Like This
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Post-Ishbal Roy. Because
pinstripesuit asked.Summary: Roy figures out equivalent trade.
Roy nearly overdosed on sleep aids. He slept just fine, for hours upon hours, blissful black death of his mind. It wasn’t enough. They would wear off, and he would wake in a cold sweat and take more without counting the pills or even wondering if he should at all. There were never screams in his dreams; just the cheerful crackle of a bonfire with the faint scent of pork.
He wondered if Kimbley had dreams like this, then wondered why he was thinking about that man, then wondered why he was still awake. There were dreams at night, yes, but they were nothing compared to his waking mind. He hid all the knives from himself in a fit of sanity, then pulled them all out nine hours later and arranged them by sharpness on the bathroom floor. He never turned the lights on; the cool blackness reminded him of the never-ending sun and burning heat. The rain dripped sludge down his window in little finger-trails of wet grime. He looked around in the dim glow from streetlamps and saw books and papers, knowledge waiting to slide eel-like into his mind and jolt realizations into his head; this is how it goes, this is how it ends, but never this is how it begins. He couldn’t finalize a design. Too many elements flung together, too many variables to turn into tidy sums. Water, thirty five liters. Carbon, twenty kilos. Ammonia, four liters. Lime, one and a half kilos. He doubled the numbers, tripled them, gave them exponential value. He tried not to listen to the nagging voices that whispered about equivalent trade. What made him think he could compare himself to anything? He had to offer more. Something of value. He had to give up everything - not just his life, not just his body and mind and knowledge and possessions.
The knock behind him was startling. He had forgotten he was leaning against the door. He stared at the wall for a moment, seeing out of the corners of his eyes the scattered papers with sketched designs and rambling notes, the pig blood he had bought when he’d read too much and thought to make a contract with the devil. He got it home and realized he couldn’t make a contract with himself.
It was too easy to open the door, to look at Hughes and wonder why he looked so started. It was easy to wonder, Would this be trade enough?
He was a little surprised to realize that was a trade he wouldn’t make. And so in a breath he gave it all up, because unless he could trade everything, it wouldn’t be enough. He would just have to take everything instead.
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This was wibbly all the way through, and then it got to that last line, and -- just yay. There's something wonderful about the point at which despair breaks.
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A deal with the devil... I love you so much right now.
The Nyquil seems to help make things more... interesting. Certainly, when one is sick, all kinds of intriguing things slip out.
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I love the image of Roy trying to make a contract with the devil, realizing he can't, and then using the blood to write with when he runs out of ink. I like a lot of the bits of this, actually.
The ficlet I'm writing that's Ishbal to this one's post-Ishbal was delayed by me falling asleep for several hours. ^^; I'll get it done soon... I shall taunt you with a randomly-chosen line: The implications were staggering; he was to travel light, and if they had to send his belongings home without him the postage would be minimal.
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using the blood to write with when he runs out of ink.
*thinks of the movie Quills*
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I do like that particular image, though. I like imagining him leaving them there and every time he goes to use the bathroom he has to remember they're there and step around them because the lights are off so he can't see them. Oooh, creepy.