The Knife

Summary-- Angst. There it was, the knife. And it was laughing at him. It wouldn't leave him alone. It was the knife, and it was his savior. AlphonsexFletcher, Hinted RussellxEdward Angst, drama, m/m OneShot AU
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AN-- Request from a friend. They said they wanted fluff, I asked if it could be fluff-angst, and she said yes. I think I got fluff in there... somewhere. Lol.

And this pairing is amusing, by the way.

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Warning-- Two children doing each other, deathfic. Deal.

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Disclaimers-- Not mine.

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-The Knife-










There it was; the knife.

Light flickering through the shuttered windows of a ramshackle building that the forgotten citizen called a home was a flickering laughter. It was a taunting torment that would never leave, and yet this boy seemed to love it. It was some kind of sadistic pleasure the knife had in causing all this pain just by being present, just by being visible, but it was that time again when he found himself staring. And he could not look away. He had never been allowed such a privelage as looking away, and now would be no different than the other hundred times.

He was more determined this time. He was going to do that knife a favour; going to give it what it so happily asked for. He wanted to be nice, after all, that was all he had ever wanted. To give and make people happy, even if his only payment was their smiles.

He liked it when other people were happy.

Maybe -he- would be happy if the boy did this. Maybe -he- would finally get what he wanted. The boy wouldn't know. He wouldn't be there to know. But somewhere, in his mind, he knew -he- had left for a reason, and that reason was probably him.

-He- had been complaining for a while now.

It was cold in the room.

Barely taking his gaze away from that friend of his, his desperate lover, that beautiful knife of glistening silver with a black leather hilt engraved with things he didn't understand-- they seemed to be unfamiliar alchemic diagrams --with the intricate handguard studded with jewels of all sorts. It was a beautiful antique.

But the only thing that mattered was that the knife was sharp. That was all that ever mattered.

Gripping it in his hands, he lifted it slowly, and once again, there was that fascinating dance of lights that captivated him so, and he caught himself staring.

Was this the end of Fletcher Tringham?

A boy of fourteen.

But that year of difference between a thirteen year old child and a fourteen year old -man- was all the evidence needed.

Why were his hands shaking, he wondered, why was his heart racing, why was he scared?

Slowly, so slowly, he lifted the knifes blade a little higher, level with his eyes, studying the complex details with an artistic eye, wondering for no particular reason how long this hand-carven thing must have taken, wonder how much effort was put into it. The knife should be happy since it took so long to make, it should be able to do its purpose, it should...

And Fletcher always wanted people to be happy. Even this wasn't quite a 'people', it didn't matter.

More slowly movements, and then there was the press of cold, laughing steel to his neck. It was a familiar feeling. He had felt it every day of his life for a year, so now was no different. Hands had stopped shaking by now, and the boy allowed himself to calm.

His grip around the metal was strong; during the past year, Fletcher had grown stronger. He was beginning to develop, most of the childish pudge gone. He was lean and long, his eyes were dark and murky like swampwater, often distant and brooding. He no longer had the earflap headband; he had tossed that long ago, but had hair that fell into his eyes seemingly brushed into his eyes; not yet perfect, but almost there. The shirt he wore was just a tad too big, the overalls just a little too long, the pants slightly dragging at the floor. The shirt was white, button up; overall straps a darkish shade of brown; pants an olive green. He made sure his classy shoes, another dark brown colour, were shiny. His brother had always done that.

He felt the knife press harder against that throbbing vein in his neck. He wanted this, he knew, but his body was saying NO! This is wrong! but he didn't care. His mind wanted this; his body was only crying because it hurt.

Fletcher Tringham wanted to die.

He almost knew when the thing broke the skin, the sudden numbness in that spot. It was numb for no more than a second, the knife's cold mercy to a desperate boy, but then came the pain and it hurt. Tears were welling up in his eyes but he continued to press harder, knowing that very soon, he'd cut that vital part and then he'd be happy again, so very happy, because it would be no more than thirty seconds before he'd finally..

He had researched this. He -knew-.

But then there was a knock at the door.

In surprise, he had the knife pulled away from his sensitive flesh and into the drawer and locked, such an instinctive action that he barely had memory of doing thus until it had already been done.

Fletcher let out the breathe he had been holding, closing his eyes against the hateful burn of tears. Tears didn't make people happy, and his only remaining goal was to make people happy.

The person at the door would wait, Fletcher knew, because the person knew what was likely going on in here. That was the only person who ever came here, that beautiful boy just like him. And he'd wait for hours if he had do, just sitting there on the front porch. Maybe Fletcher would get to hear him hum that soft song again if he listened closely, for he loved to hear the beautiful one sing.

Because his voice was just as beautiful.

Once again slowly, he sought out a lengthly bandage and began binding his neck, feeling the warm press of familiar liquid there. He shivered without knowing why; perhaps because he had finally almost done it but was interrupted by this almost business-like meeting that would happen almost every few days?

But he knew it was because they understood each other. They always did.

Securing the proffessional tie with a safety pin, he walked over to the door, leaning against it.

He could hear the boy humming. It was just as beautiful.

And how he longed to listen to it longer, but he felt a different kind of steel pressed against his palms and his fingers were entwining their way around it, wrist giving a gentle turn.

There the boy was, in all his beautiful glory. He had bangs brushed into his metallic cat-eyes that seemed so blind and unfocused, but his hair wasn't yet long enough to tie into a braid, so it was made into a meager ponytail at the back. That little flaw didn't deny the beauty. Just as Fletcher was, the boy wore clothing that was just a -little- too big. He wore that fine black material that was slightly baggy at the arms of the shirt, had he taken off the bright red jacket he was wearing to make it visible. His boots were likely a size too big and the pants were also baggy, at the knees and feet, but this was a familiar sight.

He noticed Alphonse Elric's wrists were bound just as his neck was. How peciliar.

"Any signs?"

A familiar conversation. Always the small talk before what their true purpose here was. But it made things better that way, it made it seem more intentional and needed. It made them seem more genuine about what was to happen, and it was always better to live a realistic fantasy than one comprised of only dreams.

Fading dreams.

That voice that had been singing just a second before murmured a dark response. "Not yet. I'm still trying though. I hear whispers."

Fletcher gave a short nod; he too heard this whispers.

Then the question was turned on him.

"Any signs?" Al met his gaze, such a hollow gaze.

The two boys looked exactly the same.

"No... Nii-san hasn't written or called yet. I'm worried."

The same answer. He had practiced it every time Al came.

"May I come in?"

"Yes."

Fake smiles flashed from boy to boy, proffessional ones that only -seemed- to illuminate their alike faces as Fletcher stepped out of the way to allow the slightly taller boy to pass, closing the door and pressing against it to make sure it was shut. He just stayed there, against the door, eyes downcast and smile fading just as quickly as it had come.

He felt and hear Al reside next to him, the light brush of baggy coat to baggy white shirt announcing the movement. Fletcher didn't move away. Because this would happen either way. Whether neither of them wanted it or not. Even if he didn't want it, it would happen, and he was here to make people happy so he could refuse nothing the older boy was to do to him.

But he knew it wouldn't be long before he would be begging and grovelling at Al.

Perhaps this Elic was a prodigy at -one- thing his brother likely wasn't.

"Fletch."

Sometimes, Fletcher hated it when Al called him by that 'pet-name', the name his brother used to call him whenever no one was around. Despite the fact he was garbed in the memories that he so wanted to destroy, he just hated any other reminder, but in some sick way, he loved to hate it.

Just as the knife was sadistic, so was he.

"I have hope for you." But he knew what Al was saying.

Tonight would be the night. He knew that it would end tonight.

And this would be the last time that they would -belong-. This would be the final night for them to forget everything except each other, final night to give and take happiness as it was so free for grabs during this, the night when both of them would find their way.

They could be happy. They truly could.

Alphonse Elric. Fletcher Tringham. Twin boys with like pasts could be happy.

"Oka---" He was cut off by a mouth over his and once again, he felt that twisted need to pull away, but he was against the door. He was trapped by a hand that recently hit the door just next to his head and a body that was pressing against him. And he craved it yet hated it, sweet, allurring posion that he wanted so badly to taste yet knew it could so much as kill him.

But that was what he wanted.

He fell victim to that kiss, jaw going slack towards Al's heedy demands, the door pressing hard into his now defined shoulder blades yet it was a familiar feel, and he knew Al liked it this way. Quick, passionate, and then be gone; it was how it always was, always would b-- wait, it wouldn't be, anymore.

This was the last time.

And dammit he loved Al. Too bad he couldn't say it, not anymore.

Nor could he prove it, not anymore.

He felt the other thrusting in his mouth with those quick, explorative sweeps and Fletcher himself was making this sweet purrs that he knew Al loved to hear in response, his mind dulling yet body awakening to a sharp alert. He loved being like this, because only then, it seemed, was he aware of everything around himself. The way dust seemed to hover in the air like tiny pixies dancing in what little light was in the room. The smell of aged wood and again this ever persent dust was just as strong, and if one focused on it too long their stomach would complain in a reeling whirl. So he focused on the other scent allowed him, and that was the scent of musky heat, that stale, yet clean, darkness that always accompanied Al. It was the smell of blood and sweat, and he let himself lurk in it, a pixie-faerie particle of dust.

His mind was dissipating more quickly by the second, but he offered no complaint.

But then Al was pulling away, and with words that were not words, he was complaining, a panting voice and those soft, wanton, lust-driven whimpers that showed his need.

But the one who sparked these emotions was slowly removing that coat in front of Fletcher, sliding out of it with that cat-like flexibility, and the younger could only watch with greedy eyes as he so neatly hung the coat on the coathanger next to the door. Fletcher was envious of that hanger... because Al was -touching- it and wasn't touching him, and greedy as that may be he didn't care.

He wanted to make Al happy and he couldn't do it by just standing there.

So he moved, he moved quickly to Al's side again, brushing against him, wanting to just press him against the wall as he had the door and -grind- against him or something of the sort, yet Fletcher had never been a bold soul. Not now, not anymore, because tonight was the night.

Al seemed to understand him, looking at him with that sad smile that somehow made Fletcher edgy and think he was doing wrong, but then there were arms around him and the younger felt at complete peace, wrapped in this surreal warmth in the arms of one who had allowed him to forget when nothing else would give him such a peace, and he loved it here. So he returned the embrace to show his love and strong admiration, returned it to show that he understand what Al was feeling and thinking, returned it to help them both.

And they both just stood there, forgetting. Because ignorance was truly bliss and if one could ignore their surroundings, one could live happily.

And this was a way of acheiving this happiness.

And happy was a good thing, Fletcher knew. Nii-san had taught him that.

And anything Nii-san taught him was worth remembering.

They shared that thought, the two boys ailed by the past year of trying to forget in vain.

If only it was all that easy...

But Fletcher had snapped from his thoughts when he felt hands that were roaming, setting his flesh ablaze in such a lovely fire, sliding against the soft cloth upon him and becoming so envious of it, because -he- wanted to be touched; he could care less about the shirt.

So his hands, too, began to roam, and in such a way that couldn't be taken as innocent, fingertips glancing over those formed thighs, but he found he couldn't move any more inward to what truly wanted to be touched, so he froze, and in his mind he was begging, pleading Al to understand, and he knew Al would.

Al had always had that understanding for people, and as of right now, he was proving it.

The larger set of nimble fingertips sliding over the straps of overalls and pulling them down, same digits following their lead in their downward fall and prying at the shirt with almost teasing tugs, before finally loosing a small section of the shirt from being tucked into suddenly rather tight trousers and sliding beneith it.

And it was heaven again; Fletcher could forget.

And he announced this with more small cries as he let himself be explored with that single hand, barely realizing when the other was tugging at buttons and prying them free, letting the cool air slide in and touch his magma body, giving a sharp cry and setting his weight against Al.

Alphonse was used to it, grabbing with willing arms before finally loosing the shirt enough to remove it, ignoring it was it fell to the dust-covered floor. And he was pushing the other boy backward, slowly walking him across the tarnished floor until he hit a table, but even then kept urging the other backwards until he hit the wall...

And Fletcher looked so pretty, all sitting on the table and pressed against the wall, flushed and panting, and looking so desperate for what Al was going to do to him.

Secretly, he loved Fletcher when he was at his most vulnerable.

Secretly, he loved Fletcher.

And when Al went down on his lover's chest, more of those delicious noises were made to the air, breaking the silence with heated sighs and breathless pants, arching to the trail of wet and warm that he now so craved, the realm within his pants growing unbearble, yet he knew he had to endure it because for some reason, he felt he couldn't move. Fingertips clutched the edge of the small table tightly, holding on for dear life as that explorative tongue was trailing in his naval, dipping in a mock imitation of what it had previously done within Fletcher's mouth.

That beautiful, sensual dance...

And then things were moving quicker; the snap of his pants undone and then they and his undergarments were pulled down to his knees and he knew what Alphonse was going to do and, god have mercy, he wanted it so badly despite how wrong this was and despite everything that had happened, he was a writhing ball of want and--

Alphoooonse~

He wasn't sure if he thought it or said it but that mouth was around him and doing the most unbeleivable things and right now, that was all that mattered. No longer was he aware of that smell of dust or the pixies or the darkness of the house but he knew Al was there, and that's all that was there in the world, that boy just idling there with Fletcher in his mouth, kneeling between those parted legs and...

And it felt good. And it hurt so bad.

At the same time.

Because Al wouldn't -move-.

Finally driven to action by incredible need and burn, Fletcher made a small cry and gave a miniature thrust of his hips, a small flicker of apology crossing his gaze despite himself, but he couldn't form the words correctly in his voice, in his mind, it was so hard, everything was so complex and difficult at the same time and--

Al-Alphunnnn~~

He was moving. He was moving slowly and caressing Fletcher from beneith and it wa such sweet heaven and in his stomach, it was so tight and he wanted to just let himself go, and he knew that Al knew this because Al was like a god; he knew everything, but for this second he wished Al didn't know because then Al would, he would--

His fingers gripped tighter as that mouth moved away, making the smaller of the two give a few more vain thrusts, feeling incomplete again-- maybe he'd remember again if Al didn't start that...? --and then Al was stripping those pants off Fletcher, letting them fall to the floor and backing away.

When the smaller blonde moved as if to follow, he merely shook his head and slowly, dance-like, began the removing of his own clothing.

Fletcher was startled. He hadn't done that before, it had always been like what he was just doing, only sometimes Fletcher did that too, but ...

He thought he knew, and his mind told him he wanted it, he wanted it bad, because he couldn't stop staring as each little peice of that body was making itself shown to him, then he would neatly fold the article of clothing and set it aside, and Fletcher writhed in the spot, wanting to lunge like a hungry mountaincat having finally found his prey, wanting to do things he would have never thought of, he wanted to just make this strange hurt end but it wouldn't..

But for a second, that was okay, because Al was done removing his clothing and all was good in the world.

Except he was walking farther away.

Fletcher made a small whimper and Al turned towards him and encouraged him with smile, and soft words, "Wait there."

Wait there, he said, wait there and then he was gone; where was he going to? Fletcher was just left here starving, lusting after the only one that had made him feel so good, and then, and then...

There was the knife.

Because the knife had also made him feel good but in such a completely different way, and here he was, lust driven and alone with it, and he was so mindless that he felt he could do it, but what would Al think, would he feel guilty for leaving the boy here, would he be sad that it happened far too early, it was supposed to be tonight, beneith the pitiful rays of the moon?

So he waited, and he waited, and he never knew he'd live to see forever, but he felt as if he wanted long enough for three forevers and it was just painful, because the burn wouldn't go away, and he longed to just ... do the most desperate of things and take care of it himself, but no, he couldn't do that, not where Al would see it, because he loved it more when Al did it for him...

Because then it was much more intimate, a whole lot more sensual, and that was what he wanted right then.

Why was the knife laughing at him at a time like this? Couldn't it just silence itself, hold itself quiet for just a second; why must it keep whispering to him through the drawer of the desk he currently sat upon, why couldn't it just let him forget about it just this moment until things were done?

But it wouldn't, he knew that, and he would give it reason to silence tonight.

Tonight... He couldn't wait...

But moreso, he couldn't wait for Al to return, so when he heard footsteps his gaze flashed their direction, that hungry, sky blue gaze that latched to Al who was holding a bottle of some sort, but he didn't care about the bottle but it hurt and he didn't want it to hurt...

And he barely realized when he had wrapped a hand around himself if only at the sight of Al and began pumping, slowly, watching the older one freeze in the spot, transfixed in what the little boy was doing to himself, and Fletcher saw the effect he was having, and he liked it, so he didn't stop but he needed to stop because if he didn't...

With a sudden shout, he finished but he hadn't meant to, and he didn't mean to be a dissappointment but he couldn't apologize because he could no longer think...

And that was what he loved about -this-.

But Al was there and he was diving again, cleaning him like he always did, and for some reason it still felt good and Fletcher still liked it, he didn't try to push Alphonse away as he was slowly cleaning him in the way a cat might, even strokes with tongue in all the soiled spots before just resting his head there on a soft thigh, whispering two words, "You okay...?"

Once again, Fletcher knew what he meant, it was some kind of bond and he loved it.

In between pants, he murmured, "Go.. ahead..."

Because he knew what to expect. He was going to allow it. He knew what that bottle was for and what Al had planned to do and he was okay with this, becuase this was going to be the last, and last times are always the most daring, always. Because it didn't matter what happened anymore.

Nothing mattered, yet here they were anyway, forgetting for the last time.

Al's hand was doing what Fletcher's just was, gripping the little boy snuggly and moving to some unknown beat and once again, that burn was returning but it was welcome. It was more than welcome; Al deserved this and that was all that mattered. And if his purpose was to make Al forget, then he'd do anything to acheive such a goal. This was the way things were and would always be. This was the way of Fletcher; make and keep others happy and one lives a successful life.

He'd make Al happy.

Then he heard the snap of a lid and there was cold upon his rear, a numb cold that made a shiver run up his spine, both from the cold and the anticipation for what was about to happen. And then there was a probing finger, also cold with the substance from the bottle, and then it was inside.

His muscles tightened without his true knowledge why, and it burned, just a little, but he ignored it. This was for Al; anything for Al.

And then there was another finger, but it was still okay, and after a few seconds it felt okay and he pushed against them, not truly knowing why but he felt it was needed.

And then there was a third, and Fletcher made a small complaint but turned his head to the side, holding perfectly still now because it hurt and he didn't want to move anymore. He could feel Al watching him and could feel the concern present, and that was slight releif for what he was feeling, but even then, it felt strange...

Then there was a hand around him again, moving slowly, and the fingers too were moving, he was stretching and he realized what this was for and it was all okay then, because he knew it would feel better, and just Al's presence was encouraging him.

He was hard again in Al's hand.

And then the fingers were gone and there was another noise made, a soft one, of question, but he didn't know why he did that, he knew what was going to happen.

He was going to forg--

And then Al was stroking him harder and Fletcher made a louder noise, thrusting up into the hand that pleasured him, adoring it for all the evil it was. And it felt so good that he barely realized when something had pushed into his entrance, but then he felt it and how strange it felt, so snuggly implanted within himself.

Fletcher froze for a second, unsure nervous passing over him.

Remain calm, said his mind, remain calm...

Al was holding still too, for the little boy's sake, but then he was moving in again, deeper.

It hurt. Fletcher felt the burn behind his eyes, and he remained rigid and still, once again no longer facing the other boy. He waited what felt like a long time, but Al wasn't moving. And once again, those words.

"You... okay...?"

He sounded breathless, and only the did Fletcher realize Al was panting, softly, his face flushed and looking as if he was holding back. And then he realized the reason Al wasn't moving was because he could no long move deeper. And it didn't hurt anymore; apparently his body had grown used to it.

Then his body reminded him of what he wanted with a sharp feeling forming in his groin, and he wanted to obey it. Badly.

So he shifted slightly, just slightly...

Al met his movement with a hollow upward thrust into him. Fletcher saw stars and made a squeak as something within him was touched, tossing whatever sanity he had to the dust, and he longed for it again so he shifted, Al moved, and there it was. Again.

It didn't hurt, it felt good, -DAMN- good, and nothing could or would feel better then this...

And they moved at that awkward pattern for a short while, Fletcher pushing downward and Al moving up to meet him, before Al suddenly quickened the pace, making this soft, delighted noises that made the Tringham brother excited and kind of proud of himself for allowing the other to make such noises, and...

And it didn't last long.

Young ages made them quick to complete, Fletcher first and going slack upon that table, Alphonse just a thrust or two later and with a hoarse shout, collapsing on the boy.

The knife was laughing again, with that shine.

But Fletcher ignored it, because he was comfortable here, and he was tired, so very tired, panting softly and breathless, holding onto Al with a grip around his chest as if to never let go.

Al was the first to move, slowly retreiving his still need clothes and pulling them on, though sloppily, not seeming to care about his presentation. Fletcher watched as he walked over to the coat rack, grabbing his coat and then walking to the door. There he paused, resting his head against it as Fletch had earlier, eyes closed.

He looked... so tired. It wasn't the sated tired, but that whole new tired.

Fletcher remembered.

"I'll be home in about thirty minutes."

Fletcher knew.

"You be ready then, okay?"

Fletcher remembered.

"Hey, Fletcher?"

Fletcher watched.

"See you soon."

Fletcher would.

The boy only then slid from the table, crumpled in a heap at the foot of it, grabbing at his pants and pulling only them on without truly caring about them, just as Alphonse had. His gaze was dark and misty, his bones were made of a sloppily made gellatin, his hair disshevled and his chest stained with the proof of their efforts.

And there was the knife, snickering sadistically, from the drawer.

It was in his mind, talking to him, and he was now holding it without knowing when it had been retreived. With one hand he was undoing the bandages, touching the neat cut that hadn't yet healed but had been forgotten for a short time, but it had only been five minutes; not yet.

In twenty minutes, he could, because he had promised, promised without speaking. They would meet each other at the ashen gates of whichever world they went to, they could be spirits together and stick together then, because only then, they wouldn't be alone. Sure, the idea wasn't very possible but in a child's eyes, Fletcher beleived it. He was old enough in the head to be a man, but young enough in the body to be a child, and if he so wanted to...

The minutes were going by so slowly. Fletcher didn't pull his gaze from the old clock on the wall.

Ten minutes. Just ten minutes until...

With hands that didn't shake, he pulled the knife to his throat.

Eight minutes.

"Alphonse, I love you."

Seven minutes.

"Alphonse, I'll meet you soon, I promise, I won't loose you."

Six minutes.

"Russell, why the hell did you go look after -him-?"

Five minutes.

"I hate you."

Four minutes.

"He treated me better than you ever did."

Two minutes.

"I'm sorry, so sorry..."

One minute.

"I'm sor--"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alphonse had learned long ago that the red water touching only skin could kill if one waited long enough.

Alphonse knew it would kill better if injected directly into the bloodstream.

He knew it wouldn't hurt as much.

"See you soon, Fletcher."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Footsteps in front of the door of a forgotten house. It was quiet, Russell Tringham knew. It was so very quiet here and lifeless. All the plants within that his brother always took so well care of were dead. And there was a note, a note with an address so hastily written. The paper was old and stained, but of course, it had been a year.

Had Fletcher moved on? Because this wasn't an address he recognized.

Shrugging it off, he stepped outside. "I think he went to stay at a different house."

Edward Elric nodded.

And hand-in-hand, the two began the walk. It was a peaceful walk. The day was bright, the clouds were just in the right spot to provide appropriate amounts of shade. There was a soft breeze stirring the warm air and it felt good through one's hair.

And he was with Ed.

What could be worse?

The house was closer than he had thought, and just the look of it made Russell think of a haunt. He felt Ed tense up next to him and with silent words, reassured the smaller man.

Slowly, they both walked up to the house, for some reason walking slower. There was a strange scent in the area that made them want to move away, but they didn't.

There was something here.

Something important.

Russell felt shaky when he gripped the doorknob and finally gave it a slow turn, shot a quick glance around the room...

And collapsed on the spot.






*Owari~