The emptiness stretches out for miles, eons, frequencies, without a molecule of color except for the dulled golden of Alphonse's locks.
Voices wail from The Gate.
Jet-black, ethereal hands poke between the crack of the doors.
"I'm taking you home, Al," Edward whispers, grasping those bony, brittle wrists, rubbing his thumbs over Alphonse's papery skin. "For good…"
FMA isn't mine. EXTREMELY SHORT BUT I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT THEM. Thanks for reading and any comments/thoughts appreciated