Forget the Cold
folder
Fullmetal Alchemist › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
830
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Fullmetal Alchemist › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
830
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Find
Chapter Two-- The Find
-------------------
Reveiws-----
Mustang~
Yes, Tringham-cesssst. <3 It's based off, actually, a roleplay between me and one of my friends. But I, already, changed it too much as it is. Hehe.
By the way, too all readers, beware [[ or admire? ]] soon-to-come angst. >3 I'm an angstwhore.
SAMMY~
Glad you like. =D Yes, there will be more, I promise. It may even get quite long, depending on how things go.
-------------------
Author Note----
A'ight. For those of you who don't read reveiw comments, beware angst. It'll be starting in this chapter, increasing in the next, the next, so on, so forth. I've never been fond of happy endings because it just isn't realistic, most of the time. :3 And angst is always fun when pretty boys are in on it. Gotta love wiping their tears, no?
Aside from that. Yes, I put it as NC-17, and all of you should know, as the legal citizens you are [[ or aren't, if I know the internet as well as I do. ]], that means smut. And you're probably all looking at the story, "WHERE?!" ...Well, no smut till chapter four, kiddies. Sorry~ ...But I'm sure you can deal. ^.~
And seeing as this is unbeta-ed, if you nail me about typos or some crap like that, I honestly don't care. =D
-------------------
Disclaimer----
Not mine. K? K.
Happy reading. =D
-------
In every way, he was guilty of murder.
In every way, walking down that train isle was like walking down the hallway of some kind of filthy prison. He could hear the voices, the whispers, of other imprisoned dogs leering at him as he passed, calling to him, saying sweet words that he knew were not sweet.
The reflections on the shuttered windows were glowing eyes of hungry demons snapping at his ankles as he walked. The seats were the only separation he had from grabbing hands of rabid prisoners who too wanted their release to come quickly, like his had. His had only taken a month, after all.
A month without warning.
And then there was the doors, at the end of his doom march, and every nerve in his body was tingling, every caution sign in his mind burning, every vibe he had in his inner being telling him to not get off that train, to just keep riding it until he went back to where he had gone, but he knew that wouldn't happen.
He was Russell Tringham. He was smart with logics, with cunning, with alchemy. He wasn't intelligent with instincts.
And this was an instinctual thing.
If only he had obeyed.
The doors hissed. It was those demons again, closer now; his ankles were likely a bloody mess, causing quite surprise when he didn't collapse from taking a single step from the large vehicle, a firm foot being placed upon a single metal step downward. The other slowly followed, but the man was still on the train, suitcase in hand.
He didn't see anyone outside waiting for him as he had expected.
Maybe the letter had never arrived.
Maybe his horrors were true.
Or maybe Fletcher didn't believe him when he had said he was to come on this day, at this hour, at this very minute.
It didn't take long before Russell realized how cold it truly was, a seemingly gentle and playful breeze running narrow fingers through his unkempt hair, prodding and poking at his normal white, button-up shirt, gnawing cruelly at his bare hands, one of which gripping the suitcase tight enough to strangle any unwary man.
There was no one there. No one that he could see.
And it was so very cold...
Finally, sky blues dropped downward and the step was taken off the train. Soon after, he heard the shrill shriek of the train's whistle resounding through the air that was far too still for his tastes, then the slow, steady grinding of metal wheels upon metal tracks, the creaking of mockingly unused parts snapping into action, the huffing of the train beginning its slow advance into a whole new world.
The train was such a foul thing. It either brought people together or tore them apart. If a train could tell stories, it'd have so much to say, and Russell knew the truth was cold as the metal the thing was made of; most of these stories wouldn't be happy.
Idly, he wondered if that damned Elric had ridden this same train. It was what had torn him away from his town, too, hadn't it? And maybe, once upon a time, his brother... A... al... Alphonse, was it? Alphonse.
Fletcher used to talk about him often.
He hoped that nothing had...
Snapping back to the present, visage setting into a firm look, he finally advanced upon a frozen over world, scanning the grounds and seeing no signs of life. It was still quiet, now that the train was away from hearing range, and it was uncomfortable. He felt unwelcome and unwanted, shunned from the society he had grown in. And he disliked this feel.
It made his innards feel like they were bleeding.
"Fle...tch...er?"
The wind must have knocked any of the conviction or power he had hoped to put in his voice away, because it came out as a dry, raspy crack, sounding more tenor than the man would have appreciated.
Trying once again with more conviction, he repeated that single word that seemed to occupy his mind.
"Fletcher?"
It sounded more convincing now, louder, standing out amongst the stillness.
Almost as if it were chastising, the wind blew a sudden, stronger gust at an unprepared Russell, who shivered in response and drew his idle arm around himself in a vain attempt to heat.
It wasn't working very well.
"N-...Nii-ss...."
It was a voice. A small, weak voice, but it was a voice and it was familiar, and at that sound Russell felt his heart spring and thud against the walls of his chest, his mind and body suddenly ache and this strange sense of longing forming in his chest, and he wanted to run toward it like a mad dog would towards something it thought offensive, he wanted to seek out the source of that strange, off-note and discover it, recover it, love it.
It was his brother. His brother was somewhere.
And he was thinking of his brother like this.
...What was he, this Russell Tringham?
Shaking his head, he said louder,
"Fletcher!"
Silence, once again. Another stronger gust of wind, and how Russell was growing to hate this wind, this wind that was trying to thwart his attempts to find his brother.
Did Fletcher know how to cook? Had he eaten? Did he try to eat? Did he think about Russell? Did he get enough sleep? Did he sleep well, if he did? Did he dream about Russell? Did he make any friends? Play with them, maybe? Did he wish he were playing with his brother instead of them?
"Nii...! N-Nii-saaa~"
The voice was louder, stronger, and finally the man complied with his mind's chants of the word MOVE. His feet were dragging him across the barren train stop towards where he thought that tenor was coming from, that sweet voice, and unbeknownst to himself, he was beginning to move a little faster.
"Fletcher, is that you?"
He didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t like it at all.
It was a crumpled heap of bright green and white, once sparkling blonde now a dirty mess, a shivering boy curled all around himself. He was thinner than normal, lacking the pudge that children had, eyes were dull and almost lifeless; had he eaten? Or even slept? At -all-?
What... had... Russell... done?
Quickly, he advanced upon the boy, dropping the case with a metallic click against the pavement, pulling him up to his chest, tight in his arms, holding him close and making sure Fletcher knew he was there, -knew- he was -there-, wanting him to know he wouldn't leave, ever again, ever like that again, because he knew it hurt. Hell, it had hurt him. And he knew the little boy who had barely known how to take care of himself at the time likely had been hurting more. Russell shouldn't be thinking of himself at all, right now, right here; in his mind, Fletcher would and always be more important. It was just the way things were. Neither had parents, after all, and being Fletcher's only known relative, what choice did Russell have?
The boy would die.
And he had gone for a month...
Like that. Why the hell had he gone like that?
Without even a decent goodbye...
"Fletcher, I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry..."
The virtually unmoving boy seemed untouched by his show of compassion, limp in arms that cradled him, appearing to be asleep, small breaths being taken in at even, yet somewhat shaky, intervals. He was still shivering, but that seemed to be the slightest of Fletcher's problems; he was so very tired. And so hungry.
Russell knew he wanted to go home and make him the biggest and best dinner he could with what he had. He wanted to make sure the boy would eat tonight a dinner for kings, sleep in a live of luxury, wake and have a day just for him and Russell, the older of the two brothers doing anything and everything he wanted.
Russell promised this to himself, to any gods willing to listen, to the very ground in which he stood and tot he home he would soon return to.
"Fletcher..."
A soft murmur, a gentle smile upon suddenly friendly lips as he stood with the boy in his arms, kneeling slightly to retrieve the case with one hand once more, tugging it to an upright position.
"Let's go home."
He walked slowly and as gracefully as he possibly could, so as to not wake the boy who needed sleep more than Russell had needed his own life at the moment.
"I'm sure you'll like it there."
-------------------
Reveiws-----
Mustang~
Yes, Tringham-cesssst. <3 It's based off, actually, a roleplay between me and one of my friends. But I, already, changed it too much as it is. Hehe.
By the way, too all readers, beware [[ or admire? ]] soon-to-come angst. >3 I'm an angstwhore.
SAMMY~
Glad you like. =D Yes, there will be more, I promise. It may even get quite long, depending on how things go.
-------------------
Author Note----
A'ight. For those of you who don't read reveiw comments, beware angst. It'll be starting in this chapter, increasing in the next, the next, so on, so forth. I've never been fond of happy endings because it just isn't realistic, most of the time. :3 And angst is always fun when pretty boys are in on it. Gotta love wiping their tears, no?
Aside from that. Yes, I put it as NC-17, and all of you should know, as the legal citizens you are [[ or aren't, if I know the internet as well as I do. ]], that means smut. And you're probably all looking at the story, "WHERE?!" ...Well, no smut till chapter four, kiddies. Sorry~ ...But I'm sure you can deal. ^.~
And seeing as this is unbeta-ed, if you nail me about typos or some crap like that, I honestly don't care. =D
-------------------
Disclaimer----
Not mine. K? K.
Happy reading. =D
-------
In every way, he was guilty of murder.
In every way, walking down that train isle was like walking down the hallway of some kind of filthy prison. He could hear the voices, the whispers, of other imprisoned dogs leering at him as he passed, calling to him, saying sweet words that he knew were not sweet.
The reflections on the shuttered windows were glowing eyes of hungry demons snapping at his ankles as he walked. The seats were the only separation he had from grabbing hands of rabid prisoners who too wanted their release to come quickly, like his had. His had only taken a month, after all.
A month without warning.
And then there was the doors, at the end of his doom march, and every nerve in his body was tingling, every caution sign in his mind burning, every vibe he had in his inner being telling him to not get off that train, to just keep riding it until he went back to where he had gone, but he knew that wouldn't happen.
He was Russell Tringham. He was smart with logics, with cunning, with alchemy. He wasn't intelligent with instincts.
And this was an instinctual thing.
If only he had obeyed.
The doors hissed. It was those demons again, closer now; his ankles were likely a bloody mess, causing quite surprise when he didn't collapse from taking a single step from the large vehicle, a firm foot being placed upon a single metal step downward. The other slowly followed, but the man was still on the train, suitcase in hand.
He didn't see anyone outside waiting for him as he had expected.
Maybe the letter had never arrived.
Maybe his horrors were true.
Or maybe Fletcher didn't believe him when he had said he was to come on this day, at this hour, at this very minute.
It didn't take long before Russell realized how cold it truly was, a seemingly gentle and playful breeze running narrow fingers through his unkempt hair, prodding and poking at his normal white, button-up shirt, gnawing cruelly at his bare hands, one of which gripping the suitcase tight enough to strangle any unwary man.
There was no one there. No one that he could see.
And it was so very cold...
Finally, sky blues dropped downward and the step was taken off the train. Soon after, he heard the shrill shriek of the train's whistle resounding through the air that was far too still for his tastes, then the slow, steady grinding of metal wheels upon metal tracks, the creaking of mockingly unused parts snapping into action, the huffing of the train beginning its slow advance into a whole new world.
The train was such a foul thing. It either brought people together or tore them apart. If a train could tell stories, it'd have so much to say, and Russell knew the truth was cold as the metal the thing was made of; most of these stories wouldn't be happy.
Idly, he wondered if that damned Elric had ridden this same train. It was what had torn him away from his town, too, hadn't it? And maybe, once upon a time, his brother... A... al... Alphonse, was it? Alphonse.
Fletcher used to talk about him often.
He hoped that nothing had...
Snapping back to the present, visage setting into a firm look, he finally advanced upon a frozen over world, scanning the grounds and seeing no signs of life. It was still quiet, now that the train was away from hearing range, and it was uncomfortable. He felt unwelcome and unwanted, shunned from the society he had grown in. And he disliked this feel.
It made his innards feel like they were bleeding.
"Fle...tch...er?"
The wind must have knocked any of the conviction or power he had hoped to put in his voice away, because it came out as a dry, raspy crack, sounding more tenor than the man would have appreciated.
Trying once again with more conviction, he repeated that single word that seemed to occupy his mind.
"Fletcher?"
It sounded more convincing now, louder, standing out amongst the stillness.
Almost as if it were chastising, the wind blew a sudden, stronger gust at an unprepared Russell, who shivered in response and drew his idle arm around himself in a vain attempt to heat.
It wasn't working very well.
"N-...Nii-ss...."
It was a voice. A small, weak voice, but it was a voice and it was familiar, and at that sound Russell felt his heart spring and thud against the walls of his chest, his mind and body suddenly ache and this strange sense of longing forming in his chest, and he wanted to run toward it like a mad dog would towards something it thought offensive, he wanted to seek out the source of that strange, off-note and discover it, recover it, love it.
It was his brother. His brother was somewhere.
And he was thinking of his brother like this.
...What was he, this Russell Tringham?
Shaking his head, he said louder,
"Fletcher!"
Silence, once again. Another stronger gust of wind, and how Russell was growing to hate this wind, this wind that was trying to thwart his attempts to find his brother.
Did Fletcher know how to cook? Had he eaten? Did he try to eat? Did he think about Russell? Did he get enough sleep? Did he sleep well, if he did? Did he dream about Russell? Did he make any friends? Play with them, maybe? Did he wish he were playing with his brother instead of them?
"Nii...! N-Nii-saaa~"
The voice was louder, stronger, and finally the man complied with his mind's chants of the word MOVE. His feet were dragging him across the barren train stop towards where he thought that tenor was coming from, that sweet voice, and unbeknownst to himself, he was beginning to move a little faster.
"Fletcher, is that you?"
He didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t like it at all.
It was a crumpled heap of bright green and white, once sparkling blonde now a dirty mess, a shivering boy curled all around himself. He was thinner than normal, lacking the pudge that children had, eyes were dull and almost lifeless; had he eaten? Or even slept? At -all-?
What... had... Russell... done?
Quickly, he advanced upon the boy, dropping the case with a metallic click against the pavement, pulling him up to his chest, tight in his arms, holding him close and making sure Fletcher knew he was there, -knew- he was -there-, wanting him to know he wouldn't leave, ever again, ever like that again, because he knew it hurt. Hell, it had hurt him. And he knew the little boy who had barely known how to take care of himself at the time likely had been hurting more. Russell shouldn't be thinking of himself at all, right now, right here; in his mind, Fletcher would and always be more important. It was just the way things were. Neither had parents, after all, and being Fletcher's only known relative, what choice did Russell have?
The boy would die.
And he had gone for a month...
Like that. Why the hell had he gone like that?
Without even a decent goodbye...
"Fletcher, I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry..."
The virtually unmoving boy seemed untouched by his show of compassion, limp in arms that cradled him, appearing to be asleep, small breaths being taken in at even, yet somewhat shaky, intervals. He was still shivering, but that seemed to be the slightest of Fletcher's problems; he was so very tired. And so hungry.
Russell knew he wanted to go home and make him the biggest and best dinner he could with what he had. He wanted to make sure the boy would eat tonight a dinner for kings, sleep in a live of luxury, wake and have a day just for him and Russell, the older of the two brothers doing anything and everything he wanted.
Russell promised this to himself, to any gods willing to listen, to the very ground in which he stood and tot he home he would soon return to.
"Fletcher..."
A soft murmur, a gentle smile upon suddenly friendly lips as he stood with the boy in his arms, kneeling slightly to retrieve the case with one hand once more, tugging it to an upright position.
"Let's go home."
He walked slowly and as gracefully as he possibly could, so as to not wake the boy who needed sleep more than Russell had needed his own life at the moment.
"I'm sure you'll like it there."