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The Flesh Epitaph	By : Chikara Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2190 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
- 1-The Flesh Epitaph
- 1
DISCLIAMER: Fullmetal Alchemist copyrighted to it's respective owners.

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Edward hated him. He hated him with as much passion as a mother hates a man who has raped and murdered their daughter. He hated him so badly that at some times he would simply sit and squeeze his eyes closed, pretending his arm and leg were still on his body, safe and whole, and not in that horrible monster's arms.

He hated him the same way a child hates the old memory of class bully, hates the way he walks and talks, the way he laughs with his friends, the way the look in his eyes is so unhuman and sadistic, but at the same time, so innocent and chidlish and even lovable, because, bully or not, he's still a child.

But Wrath was different, because with Wrath, he, in some twisted way, deserved this pain. Sloth wasn't his mother, and it was his fault - his damn fault for getting attached to her the way a son would. He wouldn't have screamed so if Envy or Dante had been killed, but now, in this position, with Sloth's body seemingly floating all around them, dead, evaporated alcohol and the smell of freashy plowed soil from Reisgnpool...

Wrath began to cry.

At first Ed thought it was more of a scream than a sob; a true sound of pure agony, the sound his mind had made when he first saw that dying heap of skinless, broken arms and legs on their basement floor that was ment to resemble Trisha Elric. It was the sound he made when he saw Al being dragged down down down into the

( Kami ? God )

Truth. It was the sound that seemed to stretch on and on inside of his head whenever he'd be targeted, whenever death flashed before his eyes, whenever guilt hit him square in the solar plexis, making him double over and writh and swallow his tears so that Al wouldn't have so see, so he wouldn't think that maybe, maybe there was someone right in front of him who could easily take all the blame. It was a scream, first. Then it was a cry. Then it was a sob of anger, of vamire-like teeth and mismatched skin and wild hair, an unloved child in the wrong position, a thing that was ment to be dead.

"You killed her!" Wrath sobbed helplessly. "And she was your mother, too!"

And there was no other way to describe it than sobbed, because it was a sob, and even in spite of those sharp teeth and those narrowed violet eyes - so much like Envy's, and in that moment's horror, even like his own - he was just a small boy who had lost his mother. And a part of Ed screamed that that wasn't so - she wasn't his damn mother, and all the while those hands pinned him down the to hard cement floor, wet with sweat and an evaporated, unspeakable something; a something that had once been alive.

One hand clamped unto his chest, almost lovingly for a moment, fondling, relishing the feel of skin against skin and oh god he was going to hurt him, he was going to kill him, he was going to die here on the floor at the hands of a child, a little child, guilty and unresolved and ready to burn in the hell that God was so determined to cast him in from the moment he looked over his father's shoulder at a simple alchemical array and wondered what it was.

The other hand flew to his throat, and Ed's mind fell into a compelete and total blank.

If there were words to describe purgatory, Ed thought, it would be something like this. This look of darkness and blankness and fire deep down in his chest as his breath was robbed from him, one strong, tanned hand - his own he realized, his own hand on his throat, pinning him down and killing him slowly, slowly, because he was a

( MURDERER )

and he deserved to die for it. And Wrath was screaming and sobbing and hating him so badly that he could almost fell the emotion dripping off him like the aftermath of a tsunami, deadly and cold and so damn awful, and he was going to die, finally, really die, never see Al again, die, die, die

( back into the world where i first saw GOD )

And somewhere in that moment, he closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, he was in -

- a castle, a room, a dark, empty hallway full of ghosts and monsters and god-knows-what-else, and maybe this was hell, because that's where you went when you did bad things, according to that strange old lady who would preach on the streets in Resignpool. And there were hands all over him - demons? devils? - holding him down and touching him and loving him and hating him all at once, but he could sense that one of them was his own and he knew that Wrath was there, was somewhere there, and that had to mean one of two things: either Wrath had somehow followed him into hell, or he was still alive.

Still Alive.

Those two words shook him like a thousand earthquakes and he felt weightless, waiting for the bomb to drop and shake him back to earth, unfeeling as those hands roamed all over his body, squeezing his throat, pinning his arms, holding his back in what seemed like an embrace, but it couldn't be, because the only person that would embrace him at this point was Al, and Al no longer had the warmth to bring him close.

Twin pairs of violet eyes - little mishapen devils, so strange and little and unhuman, stood above him, watching, one grinning like a hungry vulture, the other still crying helplessly; a of twisted, evil child, and he could have sworn they had hundreds of thousands of hands, because all those fingers roaming over him were too cold and too thin and lively to be connected to just two bodies; one which was Wrath, and the other which was -

"Enviiiiii..." he slurred painstakingly.

There was a little laugh, a childish taunt, something he couldn't quite make out, but he knew it was from Envy all the same. He saw a flash of Wrath's mismatched face looming above him, grinning in a manner that he was sure had been adopted from Envy, but even in with that parasitic gleam in his eye, he could still make out translucent teardrops dripping down his cheekbones and plopping softly off his chin and unto Ed's cold body like drying ocean spray, hot and thin. Between the monster's teeth was a glit of steel, a knife, and Ed's eyes locked on it like a manacle, mind whirling over the possibilites, wondering if Wrath would kill him and wondering if he was already dead.

And then a pale, patchwork hand weaved up, snakelike, and took the hilt of the knife lovingly between slender fingers, pulling it teasingly out of his mouth without the slighest wound or cut in the process, little pink tounge licking the edge like it a child's taffy, no blood being shed in the process, eyes locked dutifully on him, determined and loathing and eager all at once. That little silver knife snaked downward and touched his skin just enough for a bead of blood to well up under the tip, dark and shiny and mingling with the tears that seemed to flow, neverending, from his face. And slowly, it sunk deeper, deeper, deeper, until Ed was sure that soon the hilt would be sticking out of him, an alien intruder, masked by blood and severed arteries. But it had only sunk in about half and inch or so, and even though Wrath was grinning like he had been penetrated at least two feet by the blade, the blood seemed clotted and held back, like he had been drugged.

And Wrath began to carve.

It was slow and disgusting and it hurt - it hurt! - it hurt like hell froze over and had taken him down with it, but what Edward had been expecting was so much more dramatic. It was over very soon, swiftly, almost like a dream, and soon the knife was being pulled back, now stained with blood and dripping, leaving back open spiderwebs in his skin that glared up at him like little monsters, seeds of Envy and his hateful companion.

R I P

And Wrath leaned down, tounge pressed against the shell of his ear, warm and hot and as coarse as any dog, whispering; "You murdered your our mother."

Breathless, he whispered back, voice muffled and robbed by the pain of the fleash epitaph; "She wasn't my mother, and she wasn't your's either..."

But Wrath didn't argue, he just laughed and laughed and laughed, mocking him, discarding his self-convincing words. Ed would have rather he screamed and fought back, shrieking that she was, she was, he made her and she was their mother, she was the

( HOLY MOTHER )
for that matter, and he killed her, finally killed her, God, he would rot in hell for it, but instead, Wrath just giggled like a imitation child, because no child had such an empty and emotionless laugh. He was looking down at him like a monster, ready to decapitate it's pray and lick the blood off it's fingers afterward, a full buffet for a greedy boy.

There was a little glitter of steel - heaven, he thought, hell, a flash of death, SOMETHING, but it was nothing and everything all at once, it was that little bloodied knife again, but this time, it was pressed against his vulnerable throat, and Wrath's breath was behind it, so hot and eager and ready, ready to take action, to do something a thousand times more horrible than the farewell message carved into his very skin.

And Envy whispered; "Spread your legs."

It was confusion, it was darkness, it was total and utter stunned silence, and he was too frozen in the moment to understand. He whispered; "Why?" and then sat back, thinking deeply, ignoring the searing pain of abused fleash that flew throughout his body into the very tips of his fingers and deep into his heart until he was shaking, his mind begging him for something, whispering the answers, he wants to take you, and Ed threw back his own thoughts, furious and driven; NO.

But Envy pressed him on, eager and willing, breath coming in short, hot pants, and it took him a moment to realize the full position he was in; open, bleeding, a knife to his throat...painfully cliched, it seemed, the perfect crime. But Wrath was cradling his head in his one free arm, pulling his chin back until all he could see was the stonewash roof and Wrath's leering eyes.

Envy's gloved hands clapped unto his thighs and shoved them apart forefully, and Ed could feel his muscles pressing, trying his best to keep him vulnerable, but no, goddammit, he wouldn't give in without a fight.

Ed screamed. He kicked. He threw a wild punch that only resulted in Wrath catching his fist and twisting it behind his back, tugging his arm further and further north until he was sure his wrist was going to break, to snap in two; something for police to investigate later in his autopsy; seemed to struggled at an estimated half-an-hour before death, signs of torture and scars from presumed knifeplay. It was perfect; the perfect setup, the perfect crime; the perfect Sins to put him in this position. Wouldn't Dante be proud...

Envy settled between his legs, one hand still clasped roughly on his knee, keeping him still. He felt a grin appear on his face - actually felt it, as if their bodies were connected in such a way that every twitch or blink of an eye would alert him to what was happening. It was the blood, the tingling feeling in his stomach, the way his nerves seemed to have sharpened, awaiting the first little prick of the knife against his throat, so sure that death was nearby, so close, so close that he could reach out and touch her.

Wrath's manacle grip on his jaw loosened, and another thought flashed through his head, pale and elusive as ice. Because he had killed her, regardless of her realtion to him or Wrath. He had killed her; a real living, breathing creature, and he deserved this. It was called by a different name, created by something other than God, but it breathed, and it thought, and it felt. So killing it had to be murder. It had to be.

Some men got the death penelty for taking lives. Some got life in jail. And some ended up here. It was a punishment, something set up by God long before the world had even started; Touka Koukan, what a beautiful thing. And Wrath and Envy must have done something fantastic to be rewarded with him, to be free to do whatever they wanted, regardless of his thrashing and pointless protesting. And the worst of it was that he could never forget, the gravestone was carved into him, just below his heart, the rest in peace message for Trisha Elric.
Or for the thing that was ment to be her.

You made her and you killed her. Wrath hissed breathlessly into his ear.

It it was oh-so-painfully obvious that the had played the part of God, and now these things, these creatures that had been falsely created, were getting their revenge. And when he thought he deserved it, he was right, because he had sinned too, he had tried to bring Mama back, and what he brought back instead was a woman to be called Sloth, a woman he had just killed; a woman who's grave rested on his body and who's body was the only dead smell of decaying starlings and posion oak.

He felt something hot and hard being pressed against his lips and quickly squeezed his eyes closed, dreading what would come next. There was a little laugh from below him - Envy's, he thought - and another whisper followed that; "Come on, shorty, take it like a man.

There was a little negative sound issued from the back of his throat, and Ed hadn't even realized it was his until he heard those laughs again, little ringing bells of mock love and burning desire to hate him, to really really hurt him until all he could do was wait to lay back and die by their hands. And Envy pressed onward, whispering loathing words of encouragement, "Take it, you little runt. Take it."

Ed hesitantly opened his mouth, deciding for once that a bit of obedience would spare him more hurt.

A little whisper floated up from above his head, curious and hesitant, and then another giggle, like a five year old child just learning how to do something right, and Wrath drove it, whatever the hell it was, though the back of his mind knew all too well, down the back of his throat until he was gagging and trying his best to pull away, to force it out, to make those cold fingers in his hair leave. And the demon child whispered slowly, hatefully to him, snickering different methods of murderer, whispered different ways to torture him all the while. And Envy held him steady and let those spider-like hands crawl up his abdoman, voice like venom silk; Good Boy, Goooooood Boy...

Wrath's little fingers wrapped under his chin, shoving Edward's head forward against his shaft, and he gagged and struggled but for the life of him he wouldn't beg, he'd die before he stooped that low.

Then Envy was guiding him, telling him what to do, thick, husky voice whispering to stay still, for God's sake, that it was only two fingers, it wouldn't hurt, and if it did, that was no big deal, because if he was lucky the wound on his chest would distract him. Soon he felt the slender digits brush against his entrace sickeningly, shaking with eagerness, and he wanted so badly to hate him, to scream at him, even to abase himself and beg him not to do that to him, please, for the love of God, don't - it would almost be worth the humiliation. Rough little fingernails pulled him apart, slowly, sinking their length inside him, and a little stab of pain shot through his body, something almost like...pleasure.

No.

NO.

"What's wrong?" Wrath whispered, and his voice was the dry, slickened tone of a criminal just free from prison, ready to commit the crimes he had been sentenced for once more. The sound of his fingers scraping against blood-drained skin was like drying leaves in autumn; dry and breathless. The boy was breaking under him like a china plate in a todler's hands

"I think he likes it." Envy whispered silkily, driving another finger into him for emphesis. Edward screamed obediently, thrashing about and doing his best to raise his one free arm up to the hands Wrath had buried in his hair, wretching them out with practiced strength of an alchemist. Wrath took his wrist in a frightening grip that seemed to belong to a rather well-built adult, and Ed had to wonder to himself, in spite of his horrified position, if the boy had somehow transmuted his body with something - anything - to make it stronger. No child, regardless of their orgin, should have that sort of strength. It was unbelievable, simply foolish. And yet, here he was; snake face and spider fingers, holding his arm in a death-grip that he was sure would snap the bone at any second.

And suddenly Envy's fingers left him, a disgusting, slickening feel of rough sandpaper and water, and his hard arousal pressed against the arching area between his legs, waiting teasingly for Wrath get back in control. The air smelled like dying plants, the sticky feel of tree sap, coarse fingernails driving into his skin and living shiny creascent moons there, imprints that would later wear off if he survived long enough for enough time to pass. Another trickle of blood down his side, dripping from the letters carved in his chest; R. I. P., and he imagined, for just a moment, if he was found, mauled and violated and no longer breathing, it would be easy for any detective to jump to the conclusion that those three letters were a sick, mocking gesture to his death, rather than to Sloth's. And if he lived...that was such a strange thought.
If he lived, he would never be able to take off his shirt freely in summer heat, or to allow the fabric of his jacket to tear during battle without humiliation diving into him like venmon. He imagined the possibilites, and the moment seemed to freeze in time, horrible but almost blissfully calm, the two men positioned above him, and he thought; it's not hard to keep a secret, right?, before the smell of freash blood filled the air and a grunt of animalistic satisfaction broke through his thoughts.

Envy clapped his hands on his hips, breathless, and shoved his entire erection into the blonde's small frame without the slighest hesitation, grinning sadistically at the scream that tore from his mouth, in spite of it's current uncomfortable position against Wrath. It was a sound of animal instinct, and he squirmed, trying to break free, to get away from that horrible sensation of breaking glass and sharp nails tearing through silk. It was a deep penetration, and, with a bitter cry of surprise, he felt another torrent of blood trickle down his thighs, warm and thick and disgusting against his skin. It was a sensation of tearing fleash and opening wounds, almost as if Envy had buried a knife inside him, pulling him apart and breaking him, but that couldn't be, because Edward Elric couldn't be broken. He had been beaten, abused, belittled, even handicapped, for that matter. He had gone through automail surgery, death threats, kidnapping and torture; situations not even grown men could handle. He had not broken yet. And now, with physical contact alone, he was shattering. Breaking.

And Envy was liking it.

Envy had hurt him before, had beat him or kicked him, had ordered him around with a sadistic smile on his face at the thought that Ed had no other choice upon threat of his beloved brother, but this sort of pleasure was an unspeakable combination of control and heat, of passion and hate, a rush of satisfaction that sank into his bones like sugar. He only spent a moment buried within his body, relishing the heat and slick feel of drawn blood, before he pinned Edward's hips down the gravel and began to set a steady pace, driving in and out of him, his mouth stretched in a silent cry of bliss.

Wrath shrieked above him, and instantly he felt something warm and bitter flood his mouth. He gagged, pulling away from the boy's arousal, spitting out a mouthful of whatever the hell had been poured down his throat

( won't say it i won't say it )

wondering if it was possible to scream in his mind so loudly that he could block out what was going on around him, regardless of how good or bad, and then he wondered if anyone had ever tried. Because people had lived through this before, right?

Right?
- 1
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The Flesh Epitaph