Written for 24hour-themes community on livejournal, and with the assumption of post-Movie events. Ownership of Fullmetal Alchemist does not belong to me. Inspired by the song Existentialism on Prom Night © Straylight Run.

Existentialism beneath the Blankets
By Halys

He wakes up in a tangle of limbs, sprawled beneath the blankets. Sunlight streams through a window, and he realizes that it must be sometime past midday, not three hours after noon. It doesn't matter. He is comfortable in this dreamlike state with his brother wrapped around him.

He is at a peace that he knows only settles at moments like this. When the world is nothing more than Al's beautiful form next to his. There is no crackle of power, no spark of chaos, no screaming, no pain, and no tears. There is only the beating of their hearts. They have nothing to save except their breaths. Truth is only the words whispered in dead of night, gasped and moaned.

He runs his hand—the one of flesh—along his brother's soft skin. Fingers brush Al's smooth palm, and the younger shivers, but does not stir. He places a kiss on the hands that could destroy the world (Al never would, but he might), and when he looks up, he meets those amber eyes.

Al does not move, but allows him to explore his body with chapped lips. He does not know why he becomes like this; he wonders. He was never so soft, so gentle. He is brash, arrogant, holding power in his hands. And he knows. He knows that without him, he is nothing. He knows that he would kill to keep his brother in his arms. He knows that the only separation between him and madness is the boy beneath him.

A whimpered gasp escapes Al, as he presses a kiss to sensitive skin. And presses more. He won't stop pressing until they are closer than should be allowed.

The world blurs a little, and shifts. He once believed in equivalent exchange, and then disbelieved it. He's not so sure now, but it doesn't matter. He has found what he wanted, he is finished with what was lost, and his life now is lying beneath him, in this tangle of sheets.

And, he decides, as he pushes until he can no more, he would kill to keep this. Just a little bit.

Feed the writer?