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paintmarker · 2 years ago

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Scissors , chapter 1/2

chapter 2 here!

companion story to Time Moves Slow

trigger warnings:, cannibalism, self-multilation, Roy Mustang,s general existence, sex, bugs, amd vomit.

Kimblee wakes up, eyes wide as he stares at the ceiling of his jail cell in a cold sweat, he feels cold, so cold. Oh god! Oh god, let me out, please! He wrings his own hands on the confinement they've been put into, writhing and twisting in his cot, stiff as ever.

Please! He screams, over and over again as he experiences this living nightmare, one he's lived before plenty of times, roaches and centipedes crawling up his legs, under his clothes, under his skin, never stopping once, not even to eat.

Kimblee feels nauseated, more than nauseated actually, he leans over his bed and vomits on the floor of his cell, wretching and gagging as he feels worms and maggots come up his throat.

He falls over onto the concrete

floor and lays in his own puke, though it only gets in his hair, and even then, thats pretty bad.

It's been a couple of days since he pulled that stupid stunt, killing his surperior officers from the war and catching himself in his own explosion, giving himself irreprable brain damage.

You know, before the explosion, he was always like this, in fact, that's why he did it in the first place. Cannibalistic bastard, he curses at himself silently as he lays there still, blaming himself for his stupidity, and now because of it, this side of him is hard to hide.

He wants to go back, back to the way things were before his idiotic stunt.

Kimblee lays there, no move to get up as he breathes in and out hoarsly, bile still stuck in his throat somewhat. He wants to go back to the way things were, he wants his old self, the one who knew how to hide and shy away from attention, never attracting any in the first place.

There is no old self to go back to, obviously.

Kimblee awakes sometime later to water being poured on him, he chokes for a moment as he sits up. A guard seemed to have thrown a bucket of cold water at him, he looks up at the guard, frustrated and angry, much more than words can describe, but no words come out.

Kimblee has no sense of time, it doesn't feel at all like he's spent years inside of this cold and damp concrete space, just hours.

Hours on end staring at the ceiling alone with his thoughts, looping constantly until he gets something to eat, but even then he thinks about the last few things he remembers from that fateful day.

The way he leans over this time, he sees his hair, unkempt and greasy draped over his face.

Gray streaks.

Gray streaks... He isn't even that old yet, he's what, twenty-seven? Last he remembers at least, that's how old he is, yes.

....Is he?

He'll find out later when he is released.... however much longer he's forced to stay in here, Kimblee doesn't know.

But Kimblee gets tired of waiting, screaming and crying out as the guards ignore him. He has too many questions, none that he thinks will be answered.

There's an explosion, no one really knows who caused it, but they have an idea of where it's coming from.

There's another explosion, closer this time, and you can hear the other prisoners screaming, maybe even their bones cracking and blood splatter on the walls as they are hit by debris and crushed by rubble.

There's a body hanging from the wall as he watches his destruction occur, nails scraping at the concrete as he can barely stay concious, and Kimblee laughs for the first time in a while at this sight.

"There is another," Another before him. "Look at yourself." Kimblee whispers to the dying man, wrapping his (now free) hands around the man's neck, squeezing tightly as the man cannot fight back. He rasps, silently begging for his life as Kimblee digs his nails in further, neck snapping with a violent motion.

Kimblee lets the body lay there, head laying to the side. "I can feel you," Solf rasps. "Around me..." He holds the body as if they were close in life, friends, family, lovers, whatever it would have been. "Inside me..." His voice progressively gets quieter as he caresses the corpse, whispering in the dead mans ear.

Solf sits here with the corpse for way too long, nearly falling asleep at some point but he leaves behind the body, feeling weirdly attached. He runs, far away, or as far as he can go before falling flat on the asphalt in a dingy alleyway. Filthy, he feels horribly filthy.

Abandoned but alone finally, Kimblee feels like he's home, even if this is not his house. The water is warm as it flows over his skin, he wishes it were cold, but can't get it to do so. Too hot somehow and it makes his skin itch, irritating the dry spots and he picks at them, irritating further. He curses at himself silently as he keeps picking and scratching.

I cannot wash away my sins, I will not be forgiven, I have accepted this

as the truth.

I don't deserve to be forgiven anyhow.

Whatever happened, it was all my own

fault.

What is it that I was fighting for in the first place.

...

How foolish I was...

Anyway, how has your day been? Kimblee lets out a deranged laugh as he pretends to be on a phonecall. He thinks about the dead man and all of his victims before him. Got a little hungry, yeah. Yeah, I chipped a tooth. It doesn't matter, I'll be leaving soon anyway, so I can't fix this. Kimblee laughs at himself once more, joking about lies that will never be received.

His expression drops very quickly though, continuing to drink his (honestly, dusty tasting) water. There's something so vile about what has gone down here, the spilling of innocent blood, but is this any different than what Kimblee has done before? Not one bit.

God, I feel like im lying to myself.

Haha, I don't even believe in God. Do you? I'm sure you do, but... not like this.

Kimblee decides he will take a shower in this newly-dead-mans house, washing the blood and debris from a few hours ago. He hopes nobody is looking for him, but he'll stay here until the phone rings or something similiar happens.

His fingertips burn under the water, a stinging feeling as he scrubs away dead skin. Solf decides he will ignore them for now in favor of an insatiable urge, one he hasn't been able to act on properly until now.

Though this is certainly an efficient way to pass the time, it's not his favorite even then. Even as he trembles slightly under his own actions. Even as he slowly begins to feel the result of (built-up for literal years) arousal spill over.

"Don't worry, I wasn't thinking about you." Solf says whilst glancing at the dead man from the bathroom. Kimblee brushes his graying hair with a certain kind of delicacy, feminine grace if you will.

There's a sudden sharp pain in his hands, joints and wrist alike which makes him drop the brush, as he goes to pick it back up, it happens again. He groans uncomfortably and waits for it to go away.

Not entirely new, but even then, has been unfortunate enough already. Dropping forks and other loud/fragile things had gotten him into some trouble.

Ow, ouch, stop that. Kimblee rests his hands on the bedsheet, preferring to sleep in a dead mans bed. It is quite cozy, the bed and bathroom being the only rooms in this house that are well kept, he wonders what the dead man was like in life. Oh well, he'll never know now.

Kimblee lays on the bed, though not without a little discomfort, but he feels as if he weighs nothing now, drifting into the deep inky blackness of his dreams.

His fingers squeeze around the pillow he holds, nails digging into where he would imagine someone's back to be. The dead mans pillow smells nice, his last thought before finally passing out.

Too many dead men.

Kimblee feels that urge again as soon as he wakes up. He groans, lifting himself up from the pillow to reposition it. Do I really have to spell out all of the dirty details? I just wanted some quick relief, which I did get, mind you, now shoo.

Solf gasps softly into the sheets as he humps the pillow, shuddering, why do I feel like this, why do I feel all of this... God help me--

This is low, even for him. Wet and sticky on the inside of his pants (which, yes, are the dead mans pants.) I feel filthy, Kimblee whispers to himself as he finally gets up and out of bed, mostly to clean himself. Maybe he'll eat, but he doesn't feel like it right now.

God, I almost want to do it again, what's wrong with me.

There's suddenly a small skittering sound, actually, a very loud skittering sound as if there is hundreds upon thousands of bugs around him. Uh oh, Solf gasps as he sees the centipedes crawling on his feet, his reflexes nearly make him blow up the tile, he knows this isn't real-- this isn't fucking real-- This isn't real--

Kimblee puts his hands together and directs the blast in front of him, mind clouded and vision fading as he destroys the tile of the dining room floor. Fuck, fuck. What did I do, oh God, the floor... Cracked and shattered, about almost all of it. He hyperventilates as he sees that the wretched insects have gone for now. Fuck, what the fuck, Solf pants quietly as he regains his bearings on reality.

He sits quietly on the couch, trying to calm himself down, but still feels and hears these incessent bugs all over him. Solf shudders as he feels one skitter across his spine, a strange feeling for sure. He scratches and picks at his irritated and dry skin, itching, itching itching itching itching it itches.

It bleeds. Ah, shit. Solf searches for bandages, any kind for his torn skin, he hisses through his teeth as he feels it sting and burn.

When he finally finds the first aid kit, it seems like it had been rummaged through already, a strange razor along with a pair of scissors was found inside. It confuses him a little but he doesn't have time for that, quickly sticking some pink bandaids on his arms and hands (why did the dead man pick out these specifically? Maybe Kimblee wouldn't have liked him in life... weirdo.)

Even then, Solf itches at his arm. It's bleeding again. Fuck. Anyway, he feels that urge to touch himself again, but pushes it from his mind. There's too many bugs here to do any of that stuff right now.

...The urge grows. Fine, I guess, I hate this body, I hate myself for succumbing so easily to this self-pleasure. Solf still hears the skittering, feels it in his skull as he fingers himself. Kimblee sees the dead man across the hallway, he stands where the bedroom door is. Well, his bedroom, but now it's Solf's.

He stares at Kimblee as he's nearly three knuckles deep in himself, he can't help but admire the illusion (hallucination?) of the dead man. Even if he's dead, he's pretty. He tenses, moving faster, and,

The dead man is gone.

Kimblee feels relief as he slumps back into the cushions, no longer being watched, able to finish. Even if the bugs are there still, crawling all over.

Though Kimblee screams for a moment as a spider crawls onto his leg, kicking and thrashing it until it falls off. Was that one real? It skitters toward him, and it feels much more real.

Kimblee stomps on it to see if it will actually die, and unfortunately for him, he wasn't wearing any socks or shoes, it splatters on the sole of his right foot and the dark wooden floor below. Kimblee can feel it curl up when he lifts his foot away. He feels nausous.

Suddenly he realizes, I haven't checked the year, or even seen a calender for that matter. Solf searches around the house, even as he hears the skittering continue but powers through it. He absentmindedly looks through to the window that leads to the backyard, he can almost smell the rancid stench. He'll have to bury the dead-man sooner than he thought.

Calender... calender... ah, the year is... Oh that can't be right, the year is 1914 on this thing. Maybe the dead-man is more unkempt than he originally thought...

Oh God, has it really been that long?

Oh God.

(It's been six years? Nearly seven, and not a fucking thing has changed. God, I'm gonna fucking vomit. I didn't even think it had been years, only felt like cold useless hours, a day or two, nothing more, nothing less.)

Whatever, it's time to bury the body for real this time. It's late enough as is, nobody from the neighboring houses would see, right? He finds a shovel and digs, digs and digs until it's a suitable 6ft (it's actually 5ft though) to bury the dead-man.

He dumps the body unceremoniously into the hole he dug, then buries it a lot faster than he originally dug it, hopefully no one saw, hopefully no one sees this, no one saw.

He searches through the dead-mans books, flipping through them at random to find any interesting passage. "Hell is a teenage girl," He whispers to himself, lost in thought.

"Every time people said I was pretty, I thought of everything ugly swarming beneath my clothes." How interesting, why did this man have any interest in these kinds of books?

Maybe he wasn't the one reading these.

Kimblee looks through this particular (yet short novel) throughout random times of the day, finding some quotes that hit awfully close to home that he wont repeat here in fear of getting caught in some sort of lie, one thats

written on official military documents.

There's a phrase he's twisted into the back of his mind, maybe he should stop fucking reading this and be more worried about the potential sirens blaring outside the door. You can never be as good as a dead person.

All of his victims, they are pure and untouched and have never touched either, only dying at the hands of a deranged possibly undiagnosed mad-man who uses alchemy to blow people up as if he were a living, walking, talking nuclear bomb.

For the first time in years, Solf J. Kimblee feels ashamed of himself.

It hurts to breathe now as he lays back into the pillows of the dead-mans bed, curling under the duvet as he feels the insects breathe in his chest.

Remember, Solf, what you sow is what you reap.

Kimblee picks at his wounds once more, reopening them. Ow, haha, ow. It almost feels good. Is that just how sick I've gotten? That even this kind of pain, not just the one I inflict on others, feels good? God, I'm gonna vomit, hahaha!

Kimblee keeps picking even at the behest of his own voice, stop it you idiot, picking and tearing at his hands and wrists until they are a stark red, bleeding. Just let it run, I don't feel a thing anyway-- ow-- Just a little.

Suddenly, Solf has the bright idea to find that medkit he used however long ago, finding the knife and scissors snatching them out of the small plastic container quickly. Now, somewhere between the sacred silence of the dead-mans house, specifically the bedroom, is slowly being inched away at with a precision blade that Kimblee presses hard into his skin.

He cuts away at his arm making it bleed further, which he should really stop, he feels quite faint. Thankfully , I do , patching myself up quickly with the leftover bandaids, though not before biting off a piece of skin and licking the blood that comes with it.

There is no space to cry here, just wipe the remaining blood on the sheets.

Kimblee goes out the next day, though with a disguise that makes him look more like a woman than anything. It almost feels like home in this old headscarf and even older dress.

He isn't particularly curvy, but the pleated nature of the dress and belt he stole from the dead-man makes up for that, giving him a nice figure.

Solf lets a strand or two stick out, from the gray parts of course... He buys just a few ingredients to make a proper breakfast. Inside the dead-mans house there were a lot of egg cartons, they were all empty and piled up in what he assumed was a young womans' room. Hey, that's where I got these clothes from...

There's a man, a bit shorter than Kimblee, though not by much, and he approaches with clear intent plastered on his face, a sly smirk along with matching sunglasses.

"What's a pretty thing like you doin' all by yourself?" Shopping clearly, but the man doesn't seem to care whether or not Kimblee would've been a kind of... housewife. He nearly gags at the thought.

"Running errands, haven't cooked in a while..." The voice that comes out of Kimblee doesn't shock the man, just assumes that this woman is a chainsmoker. No unfortunately, Kimblee's always sounded a bit raspier than everyone else even when he was very young.

His calm, sly demeanor returns. "Well if you wouldn't mind, I was hoping we'd uh, hah, you know..." Kimblee censored this part, the original phrasing being quite... crude, but he stays cool for the time being. "I'd love to, actually... Follow me home?" Not his house but you get the idea. The man nods, seemingly as desperate as Kimblee is, albeit in a slightly different way.

The man, he compliments Kimblee on his glasses which accentuate his amber eyes nicely.

See, I'm not like them, I can pretend with you, Solf thinks to himself as they arrive back at the dead-mans house. The sun is gone now as they grope each other endlessly in the kitchen and tearing the others' clothes off. Not literally thankfully, that dress seemed... old. Maybe even older than the both of them combined.

Fuck this, this is no time to even think about cooking a meal. Kimblee lays flat on his back on the mattress as the man he invited fingerfucks him, he curls his fingers inside, pressing and pushing at Solf's buttons that make him see stars, crying out in pleasure.

Fuck, Kimblee groans softly as the man enters him, feeling him throb inside. And when he moves, it's almost in tandem with the growing pain on the inside of Kimblee's skull, like fingers drenched into the recesses of his brainmatter. He doesn't have time to care about that, getting lost in the throbbing wet feeling between his legs where their bodies meet.

Solf's nails dig into the back of the man as he practically pounds Kimblee into the mattress. "Please--" Kimblee rasps, the man's hips stuttering for a moment as he tries to understand what Solf saying. "Touch me--" Solf gasps as the man places a hand between them and rubs at his clit, making Kimblee practically convulse as he comes, and the man finishes inside soon afterward.

They lay there in the mess of their bodies, hot and unfortunately sticky. Kimblee struggles uncomfortably to push the man off of him, too heavy. Or Kimblee is just too fragile. "Sorry," The man mumbles before pulling out, making Solf exhale through his nose.

Aftercare isn't either of these peoples' strongsuit obviously, but they try. "Why's the tile cracked?" Solf perks his head up at the man's inquiry, how the hell is he supposed to explain that? "An accident," The man chuckles softly, smiling. "Hell of an accident..."

I don't even know his name, and he sure doesn't know mine. Even after seeing the tattoos and questioning them for a moment, but Kimblee ignored those incessant inquiries in favor of more... pressing matters.

But the man questions him again, holding one of Kimblee's hands in his. "Hm... Never seen ones like these before... You an alchemist or somethin'?" Solf hums, nodding, not really caring if the man puts the pieces together sooner or later. "Was never all that good at it though." The man chuckles at the thought. "I'm sure a sweet lil thing like you could be a great alchemist, greatest of all time..."

He gets uncomfortably close to Kimblee, a hand drifting down his torso. "Maybe." Solf responds dryly, gripping the hair on the mans head, tight. "Only if you use your tongue." Like a command, maybe even a threat, it sounds threatening enough for the man it seems, a stable fear in his eyes as Kimblee grins with power.

The man shuffles down between Kimblee's legs, lifting his thighs with his rough hands. Solf's hand holds tightly on the man's hair, directing him every which way as if he were a puppet, a toy, to be used.

The mans' tongue writhes and flicks at him, making Solf squirm, especially when the feeling of skittering across his spine returns. Kimblee just closes his eyes, he doesn't have the space to complain about those fuckers for now as the mans tongue makes him feel so fucking good--

His hand tightens, definitely tearing some hair out from the man's head but he can't think at the moment. Of course I can't. My fucking back hurts. but Solf can't help the feeling coursing through him and letting out a shuddery moan as he comes.

Eventually, he lets go and frees the man from his clutching hand, relaxing into the sheets, panting softly. The man licks his lips, filthy, Kimblee thinks.

"How'd you get these?" Fresh cuts along Kimblee's right arm. "You ask too many questions," Solf rasps, hands clenching for a moment on the man's skin when they get close to each other again. "Just making sure you're alright..." Solf smirks for a moment. "How sweet." Almost too sweet, but he leaves that part out.

Whatever, this isn't the first time Kimblee has slept in his own mess.

In the morning, the man gets a little too close again, not that Solf really minds, but have some self-control for fuck sake. Kimblee will say this to himself as if he has any self-control either.

Thankfully, the man leaves soon, or at least, he would have been leaving.

"Where do you think you're going?" Not a question, a threat. The man chuckles, home, he says, Solf laughs for a moment before telling him to wait a moment. Kimblee leaves to the kitchen for a moment to grab a knife, hiding it behind his back then going back to the man for one last kiss before

stabbing the man in the back, he pushes Solf back, he stumbles, but does not fall. The man yells something but Kimblee isn't listening, putting his hands together and reaching out quickly for the mans' face.

His head is gone, haha, he goes limp, haha.

There is a splatter going upwards on the wall where his face would have been.

"You're too easy."

Kimblee plays with the dead body after letting it bleed, he'll clean up the blood later, maybe. He licks it off the wall, some of it at least, grabbing the dead-mans hands in his own and biting his fingers until they crunch and break off under the pressure of Kimblee's jaw. There is bugs inside of the dead-man, not exactly surprising to him.

"Do you see me now," Solf hums quietly to the dead-man. "I am the devil," Though he is much more akin to a fallen angel, in nature at least, not so much origin. "And I am here to do the devil's work." He chuckles almost gleefully, chewing on a finger he bit off earlier, but careful to not bite down on the bone he already severed.

Solf eats the skin and nail, muscle and fat of the dead-man, not caring whether or not he contracts some kind of disease from this. He got what he wanted, why can't I do the same? He chews on the dead-mans body for quite a long time, long enough that it makes him sick, the worms and centipedes writhe so badly in his stomach that he can't help but vomit.

This isn't worth it.

Solf takes a deep breath, then begins to clean himself for what feels like the last time, and he can't tell why. He takes a bath, the blood washing off and seeing in the shower tile a fascimile of a young girl, who he would've been had circumstances been a little different.

I've been running for a long time, it seems.

He should leave soon, go somewhere far, far away. Maybe Resembool, that'd be a nice place to reminisce on his childhood. Not that it was good or anything. Except for the fishing-with-grandpa part, he liked that.

Weeks pass, actually, Kimblee isn't sure how much time passes exactly, but it seems like weeks. Solf goes out again to buy essentials, maybe food, and hopefully not pick up another man. Whilst in the middle of picking out an apple, to look like an asshole of course, he is interrupted by a small child. "Ma'am do you know where the train station is?" The voice that comes out of this rather small boy almost startles Kimblee, reminding him vaguely of what he himself sounded like as a kid. "Uh, no, sorry kid..." Solf answers as soon as he snaps out of his memories.

The kid looks disappointed, making a sort of groan though it sounded more like a growl, brushing his hair for a moment with his fingers, nervously fidgeting. "Thanks anyway," he says before rushing off to wherever, Solf wouldn't know, he wasn't about to follow some kid.

Kimblee couldn't respond in time, whatever, it's not like he knew the runt personally, then goes about his day.

When he finally gets back to the dead-mans house, he cleans it up as best he can, burying the other dead-man though not in the same spot. He will be gone for a long time, he takes the keys anyway.

It's midnight, a Sunday when Kimblee finally leaves the dead-mans house and taking the dead-mans car to drive far, as far as he can go before running out of gas. I should not be allowed to drive.

This road feels like it goes on forever, the same streetlamp looping thousands of times over. Unfortunately I hear them again, the stupid fucking insects, they crawl under my gloves but I can't let go of the wheel. They bite and I feel it sting but I can't let go of the wheel no matter what. That horrible stupid joint pain I've experienced since I was twelve comes along with this, but I can't let go of the wheel.

I really shouldn't be allowed to drive.

It takes me hours before finally reaching Resembool. There's an abandoned house there, it's my grandfather's house.

You know, I don't remember a lot about him other than his jokes, which I didn't understand as a small child. I was mean and terribly loud to him, I don't regret what I did however since he was definitely mean, but the day he died? I don't cry, was never much of a crier, but I felt hollow that day. Like there was a hole in my chest that only he filled with fishing trips and teasing me about my glasses.

I don't think I've cried ever since, not like that at least.

There's something in the way of the door, heavy pressed against it. When Solf gets through eventually, pushing it with all his strength, which isn't much because I've been in prison for the past six years but I digress, Kimblee finds the thing pressed against the door was a box, a big one, but he'll come back to that later.

Solf is surprised by how strangely well-kept the old house is. It's dusty sure, but not as if the man who left behind this house was pronounced dead recently. Again, I don't keep track of time, but even I know that this is wrong, I was fourteen when he passed, how the hell is the house this clean?

If there is someone hiding in here, I'm sure I'll get them eventually. They'll get blown to bits, who cares anymore. I certainly don't, my old co-workers didn't either.

Kimblee walks to the kitchen with caution, turning the sink handle and the water works. The water shouldn't be working, but it is. He's definitely broken into this house, but is it not abandoned? This confuses him greatly but at least he can take a shower now. The tile is quite rusty but it'll do, Kimblee turns the handle and the water sprays like hell from the faucet, he quickly changes it to the shower head and it's just as bad but thankfully it soon adjusts.

There's that urge again, how unfortunate. Though I've waited enough haven't I? A hand slips between Solf's legs, he imagines it's someone elses as he touches himself, his heavy breathing blending in with the steam from the shower. Still not cold, not cold enough, not warm enough, he fidgets with the handle before just settling on the exact middle where it sits, then goes back to masturbating, as one does.

It almost becomes boring to masturbate for Kimblee, takes too much work, he says to himself. Foreplay is tedious but so is trying to orgasm, there is no winning here for him.

He stops, he cleans himself, maybe going back over a spot he thought he missed, touches himself, gets bored, this goes on for about an hour until he finally gets out.

Solf lays in the lonely yet quite comfortable bed, much more so than the dead-mans, he practically sinks into it, a shape where his body is, a shape where he belongs. Though noticably this isn't the same bed his grandfather had, the frame at least, this mattress is definitely his. It still smells like him, just a little bit.

In the morning Kimblee goes to unpack whatever he brought with him, along with moving the chest that seems so familiar into a better spot. It has no stickers, dusty, it has fingerprints on it, those aren't his, but are quickly overwritten.

As soon as Solf is done with his things, putting them in easy-to-remember places, which is out in the open except for the food that needs to be refrigerated.

How long was that drive even? It felt like hours, felt like I never stopped, but I'm sure I did... It's fine, this is normal.

Anyway, Solf goes to open the box where it sits in the living room, it's locked but there isn't anything a little alchemy can't fix, right? Though he does not use his typical alchemy as his explosive nature would find, well, natural, he draws a familiar transmutation circle on the box. Something he learned once a long time ago, something he'd obessively draw page after page but never use.

The locks dematerialize, turning into rusty metal lumps, a shell of its former self. Kimblee opens the box and finds photo albums, some having yellowed dingy colored covers and pages due to their age. There's even photos of him in here, photos of him with his grandpa at a bridge, a bridge he hasn't been to since the funeral.

Pictures upon pictures of them together, along with family gatherings, (Which I despised, mind you.) weddings, birthdays, everything. This chest kept everything. Even if there is some unsavory memories embedded forever into some of these photographs, it hurts much less than Solf would've expected, to look back.

Solf lives quietly, comfortably in this old battered house, sure the lights don't work as often he would like but... it was like his home, the one that cared, at least. Acting out was always my strongsuit though, wasn't it?

Weeks pass, he goes out grocery shopping again. He gets rudely interupted by a-- "Hello ma'am have you seen a car like this around these parts?" A military official, sleazy it seems, he holds the paper with the description of the car in one hand, lazily, and a cigarette still in his mouth as he speaks. He describes it as, blue, quite old, clearly a rare model but not a fancy one. How shit is this guy at his job? "No, sorry..." He takes it, shrugging, thanking Solf anyway.

...When the man leaves, or goes just far enough away, Solf immediately lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. That's his car, the dead-mans car, the car I fucking stole. How the hell did I not get pulled over on the way here to Resembool!? Assuming they've been looking for it for a while.

When Kimblee gets home, he's paranoid, almost to the point of insanity. He needs to hide the car, but there's nowhere to hide it, oh God.

There's a knock on the door the day after, Solf gets a feeling that he knows what this is about. He opens the door to see a man who, in Kimblee's eyes, is an embarassment to the study of flame alchemy itself. But he's not about to open old wounds now is he?

"Hello ma'am I was just--" He stutters for a moment, taking in the appearance of Kimblee. "Sorry you just look... really familiar." He goes on, "I had been notified recently that there was a stolen vehicle spotted around... here." He vaguely gestures behind himself. "Now I've noticed it's... in your driveway. Care to explain how it got there?" Solf sighs, the man he once considered an ally (though not to it's fullest extent) during the Ishval civil war, is as dense as ever.

"Is that really any of your business?" Kimblee pushes Roy, forcing him to stumble backwards onto the concrete. "It's my car. Plain and simple." Roy glances at the car for a moment. "Whether or not it's yours, the liscense plate matches that of vehicles from Central." Shit. Kimblee cringes for a moment. "Did you move here recently or something? I feel like I'm missing a lot of info here."

Solf pushes Roy again, further. "Is this even your house?" Roy taunts, and Kimblee nearly puts his palms together. "It is in fact my house, you see that?" Solf points at something which absolutely gives away his identity, a small sign which is... much older than him. "K-Kimblee... family? You're... You're related to the Crimson Alchemist, yes?" Solf has to hold back smiling. "In fact that is me, yes." The color drains from Roy's face, Solf revels in showing his tattooed palms to the insolent man. "You..." Roy growls, looking like he's ready to snap. Haha, get it? I'm in some serious shit right now I shouldn't joke about this.

"Don't take him away from me!" Now that's something Kimblee wasn't expecting at all. A violent reaction sure, but ... who the hell is he even talking about? Roy lunges toward Solf, punching with a fury he never thought was even possible from this man. There is a split second reaction of Kimblee putting his palms together, a gasp is heard just before the explosion, then ringing.

The house is fine, that's what he's most worried about, but he fears it won't be like this for long. He runs, runs until he falls and slips in the mud near a river. "Don't you dare!" There's a snap, he can't avoid what comes next, it's like hell is being rained upon him with the wrath of a thousand devils like himself.

But it stops soon after, the pain remains but Kimblee can run now, he...

Roy tackles him again, at this rate, Solf could actually die, but he's fought for too long to just be treated like an animal again. "Don't you ever come near him!" Roy yells almost as if in a jealous rage, which this is, and I recognize that, but I don't know why. I don't think I'll ever know.

His palms are his only defense now, wringing Roy's neck for a moment, he kicks, Solf escapes from under him.

This doesn't last long though, Roy stares down at Kimblee like a rabid animal, his gaze never breaking. Kimblee rasps as he puts his hands together for what feels like the last time. Roy deflects this attack and all of the debris with it, but some still slip past, unfortunately.

Roy stumbles backward, and he sees Solf come lunging toward him through the smoke, almost like a mirror image from the first time he met Scar. But that is neither here nor there as Kimblee grasps and nearly gropes Roy whilst trying to scratch and tear away at him, his nails do more damage to Roy's face rather than his futile attempts at alchemic explosions.

His eye, Kimblee laughs as Roy punches him then clutches his own face. His eye, hahahaha, Solf can't stop laughing at the sight and nearly falls over. I might faint. I might... uh...

Kimblee groans as he feels that horrid sharp pain in his hands again, he runs, far far away from Roy.

Roy can't chase him, he'd die if he did.

They both seem to retreat elsewhere.

When Kimblee is finally safe and alone again at the old house, he screams. He can't stop screaming. "Coward!" It is unclear, even to himself , who he is referring to. "Coward! You are a fucking coward!" Solf growls and tears at himself again, Roy's skin still under his own nails along with the shells of maggots.

Maggots. All of them. Filthy cunts made up from bugs and leather. I am not much better. I will never be better than them. None of us deserve to even be slightly better. The mirror is cracked, when did it crack? I see myself, myself and only myself. Only myself. Myself.

Kimblee always hated how so many things got stuck in his head, it's an eternity in there, you can never be as good as a dead person. I will never be as good as a dead person. Never.

This is fine, I'm... fine. I'll sleep it off, and hopefully Roy won't come back to finish me off. I got what I wanted. I hope they don't take the car, though. That would suck, haha. This gash isn't going away anytime soon, hopefully it'll look cool when it's healed. I'll live, I can live through this. If Roy takes this house from me then I have nothing left. I don't have time to think about this do I? I'll be fine... I'll be fine.

Kimblee rests his body on his grandfathers' bed for what feels like the last time.

Though when he finally wakes up, he feels a weight, an unfamiliar pressure next to him, as if there were another person in the bed with him. Well, to Kimblee, it feels more like the presence of a small animal, or a child, something small at least.

It's weight shifts, seemingly not caring whether or not it wakes up Solf.

When I open my eyes I see a kid. They look familiar enough, I don't ever forget a face but they are turned around... I can't see all of them. Solf chooses to not disturb the child, falling asleep once more and feeling the child twist and turn.

Kimblee next awakens to a poke, another, and another, he opens his eyes to see the kid. Oh, I was right, the kid who was asking about the train station however long ago. "Oh thank fuck you're alive..." The kid sighs, relieved. I mean, I would also be somewhat concerned if I was asleep next to a dead man. "What made you think I was dead?" The kid looks at me like I'm crazy. "Your face, it's..." The kid almost tries to reach out and touch my face as if it would heal me. "...Oh." Solf says reluctantly, looking away even though the kid never really made eye-contact in the first place.

Wasn't the mirror broken? Maybe that's why I couldn't feel this... Solf gets up quickly to see himself in the mirror, which is in fact not broken. "This... This is what a former ally does?" There's cuts, deep ones, clearly from debris and not from the fire. "If it makes you feel any better mister, the same thing happened to me once."

It makes Solf a little sick to think about, how old even is this kid, and he's seemingly also been betrayed? "You look... unscathed... How?" The kid shrugs. "Can't help it." Ominous, Solf thinks. He goes to grab the old medkit that has obviously never been replaced.

Two bandaids and hydrogen peroxide. Great, thanks grandpa. The kid leaves, like he knows I want to be alone, and I start this... extremely messy procedure, one I was taught by my grandpa, though never had any use for until now. I'm not going to describe all of that but you get the idea, the fucking thing burns, stings a bit too, the smell that the hydrogen peroxide gives off hurts my fucking nose.

I could look better. I could look a lot worse, too. No time for this, though. Solf goes down to the kitchen to cook, the kid is still there for some reason, he's chewing the inside of his mouth and looking absentmindedly out the window. I wonder how he got here, but I remember what it was like to be a kid, being prodded at with stupid questions.

Just one egg, Kimblee says to himself, just one, he burns half of it by accident but still eats it afterward. Then another egg, actually, two, the kid looks fucking ill, sickly pale and malnourished even, he'll need it.

He brings the plate to the kid, he hesitates to take it from Solf for some reason, and after a couple of hours pass and he sees the kid lurking in another room. And when Solf goes to the living room to look at more of the photo albums, the plate is sitting exactly where the kid was earlier, half-eaten.

Maybe the kid wasn't that hungry, maybe Kimblee should've asked, maybe they should talk more but everytime Solf tries to make eye-contact with the kid he feels very offput. Maybe they shouldn't talk more, but it's not a bad thing, it seems. They both want to be alone in their own spaces, but the kid hides a lot more than Solf does.

Kimblee wishes there wasn't just one bed here. Solf looks up from his stolen book to see the kid laying beside him. "We're you the one that used the chest to keep the door closed?" He nods after a moment of hesitation, curling up further into the blankets. "...You are very strong." Kimblee says reluctantly, almost intimidated by the kid. He could barely push it, how could a child half his size even do that? The kid also doesn't respond, and seems to be asleep now.

Now, it's in the morning when I find something very strange about this kid, a couple of very audible thuds (going downward) wake me, I go to check what made the noise and the kid is sitting there, on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs.

He looks up at me. "Hi." Now, imagine you're me, you only see the kid and no sort of heavy object near the stairs, so I assume he fell, right? But the kid looks entirely unscathed, no tears, no scrapes, nothing. "Are you alright...?" Kimblee asks after a moment of taking the sight in with all of it's absurdness. "Yeah." He gets up and dusts himself off. So he did fall, but...

I'll leave that thought for now, because it seems we're going to stick together for a long time.

#solf j. kimblee #what the hell #roy mustang #wrath curtis #title is a slipknot song #;ag #does this follow canon of either animes? not really.

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paintmarker · 2 years ago

Text

Time Moves Slow

I made a companion story to this. Here.

And so Kimblee does, looming over Frank as one of his tattooed hands traces over Frank's scars all over his left side, Kimblee's right, going lower and lower until

Knock, knock, knock

Then Frank snaps back to reality.

Frank feels dirty, filthy, with a hand down his uniform pants while sitting in his desk that he stills works at in Central-- Knock, knock, knock, He quickly pulls away, cleaning his fingers on some napkins he always has on his desk what a messy little--

The wetness between his legs feels painfully uncomfortable as he yells out "Come in," the walls too thick for a simple phrase. Roy Mustang. This can't be good. Why couldn't anything be simple?

Over the coming months, Frank had been reassigned to work with Roy's unit, he hates it there. Sure, Riza is pretty, Havoc has his moments, but Frank can't stand not having privacy anymore. It feels horribly cramped and he often rushes to the bathroom to get some Goddamn privacy for once.

He feels dirty, sick even. He isn't supposed to be here he thinks, who did this, is this a cruel joke? And if so, by whom? Knock, knock, Frank?

"Frank?" Knock, knock, "You okay in there?" It's Falman, knocking on the bathroom stall. "It's nearly lunch, you gotta come out." Frank reluctantly does so. His face looks a little red, but not out of embarassment (it's as if he were crying.) "You alright?" Frank shakes his head but leaves quickly.

"Frank?"

Roy calls out to him,

He doesn't respond.

He feels sick. Dirty. Dirty little girl-- DIRTY! HE'S A

Frank works alongside Roy's unit, he often glances at Riza, asking her odd questions, almost perversly so. "What's it like being a woman?" Riza is stunned by his question, but answers with the basics, it's uncomfortable, it's human, since after all, she is human. But it's the next question that bugs her. "Am I human?"

Frank looks serious about this and it feels as if time stops around them, still in the same room with Roy and Havoc and Fuery and Breda and-- "Am I?" Riza nods, and says yes.

No one quite understands what Frank means by this. Frank becomes a bit more unstable as the months go by. They all think it might be the lack of privacy or something else, but no one has ever reacted this way, in front of them at least. It's something more, he clearly isn't telling them something, and as his distress comes to--

"Frank?" Riza's voice is worried, she puts a hand on his shoulder, her hand is warm. "Yes ma'am?" His voice is soft, yet annunciated. "You're... bleeding."

He almost wants to ignore it, but he looks down and yeah, he's bleeding. It's only a little bit-- "Dude are you okay?" Havoc asks, but Frank just... shrugs it off. He walks out of the room without another word, to the bathroom, again.

Roy follows him though, taking initiative.

"What happened?" His voice is stern, he leans on the outside of the stall door where Frank cleans himself. "Nothing," He responds, voice eerily calm and collected as usual. "You're lying." You can hear Frank sigh. This day had to come eventually, didn't it?

"I'm not like you." Frank's answer comes hesitantly, strained. "What?" Roy sounds almost incredulous. "What does that mean?"

"I wasn't born a man." Then something clicks in Roy's brain, God, he can be really dense. "Oh, uh, I'm.. sorry." He speaks gently, not entirely knowing what to say. "Don't be."

Life goes on for Frank, albeit painfully. They know his secret now, he's dirty, a dirty little-- Frank chases away these thoughts, shaking his head sometimes. Riza asks him, often, if he is okay. He nods with a little smile, Yes, ma'am, I'm alright. Life goes on for Frank Archer, albeit painfully.

The words meld in his mind, the conversation he had with Roy in the mens room. "So you're..." He trailed off, not wanting to offend Archer in any way. "Yes,"

Frank responded.

"Will you be okay? You need me to get anything for you?" Frank says he'll be alright, I'll be fine, it's okay. Roy leaves back to their conjoined office. Frank feels dirty, sick,

This isn't right.

This is

This

This...

When Frank returns to the place he calls home he shuts the door, he stares at his kitchen for a moment. A moment becomes

hours.

He feels like he is slowly fading away into obscurity. His mind wanders elsewhere, pleasure and pain, sorrow and joy,

they become a host for what his body needs subconsciously.

"Who am I,"

"A parasite in human disguise?"

Frank wonders, and he still stands there

in the kitchen of his late parents' house.

He wishes

he could talk to them

one last time.

Frank contemplates suicide somewhere in the back of his mind, but doesn't act on it, not anywhere near it.

Frank shows up the next day to work, it's Tuesday, him and Breda are here much earlier than the rest somehow. He looks awfully disheveled. "Archer? Not to be mean or anything you look like *shit* dude." Frank chuckles softly at this, not taking his concern literally.

Breda catches on. "You should go to a doctor or something." Frank replies without missing a beat. "I don't like doctors." Breda looks almost shocked, but continues. "But what was that about though, yesterday, when you were uh... bleedin'..." Breda trails off, afraid to offend Frank, since it seems like nowadays he's a ticking time bomb. "I'm fine." Frank speaks with a stern tone, he wants Breda to leave it alone, this is private. No one needs to know.

No one else needs to know.

Frank Archer has maybe the worst period he's had in years. When he was thirteen, he was always in pain during these times, crying, doubling over in pain, and it seems that will be the case this time too.

Frank adjusts every which way he can, trying to disguise his pain as simple discomfort. This works until he is sweating and resting his head on the desk. Falman pats him on the back, hoping it'll soothe whatever he's going through at the moment, and rubbing circles into his back. Frank has never felt so comforted yet so-- so-- ill. He feels like he's about to vomit, but he holds it back as best he can.

Although soon enough, he is sent to the medical ward. Frank outright refuses to tell the doctors what's wrong, he squirms and kicks as he tries to get them away. "Don't touch me, don't touch me--" He fails anyway, they have to examine him, it's for his own good.

Whether or not they will discriminate him, he fears their touch even more than that.

Frank stays there for a lot longer than anticipated. He is tested, taken care of, and medicated properly, which is something that he's never had the pleasure of experiencing. Frank has a syndrome of some sort, but doesn't put much thought into what they say, he barely even listens to them, spacing out. But he takes his medication as prescribed.

Once a day, every time this occurs.

That isn't at all what they said, is it?

When he arrives back at the place he calls home, he feels gravely ill, he spends a lot more time in bed than he thought. He will eat, he will use the bathroom, but one thing he does not realize, it's been hours, not just hours, he hadn't slept since yesterday. He fails to realize this and sleeps at around one in the afternoon, missing work, missing any kind of phonecall he might've received.

(Even though he unplugged the phone last Thursday.)

Frank wakes up slowly, groaning, he shifts and turns, feeling himself gush blood somewhat. He feels disgusting, but he can't help but feel the remnant throb of his wet dream. It's so warm here, he doesn't want to leave his bed, ever. But he has to so he does.

"Frank?" Riza calls out to him, "Frank?"

He doesn't respond, he makes eye contact but doesn't say a thing. A kind smile. Work goes on, but she's still talking and he's already tuned out her voice.

"Frank, you're bleeding."

"What?" The realization dawns on him that he had only been working, not paying attention to his surroundings. Armstrong had visited earlier, but what did he say? Who else visited? What did they say? He can't remember.

He looks down at himself. "Oh." A dark red splotch on the front of his

He rushes to the bathroom, attempting to cover himself on the way but it is futile. Frank has no change of clothes, he feels sick, does everyone know, they have to have known, this is a sick joke. Who made him this way? Who assigned him to work with Roy in Central? Why couldn't he just work alone again!?

He's a disgusting, evil little girl, who forces others--

He's a disgusting evil little girl who forces others to--

He's a disgusting little girl who used to live in East city,

She's a disgusting little girl who used to live in East city with his grandparents,

She's a disgusting little girl who had to live with her parents after they had passed away,

She's a disgusting little girl who'd rather stay in bed all day selfishly spending her time in there,

locked away from the rest of the world.

Frank wakes up in the medical ward.

Was that a nightmare? What was that?

Someone is there by his side, he can't quite tell who, since he had just woken up, but they hold his hand, gently rubbing circles into it with their thumb.

He feels as if he had done something wrong, why is he here? Frank's only crime is that he had been born wrong, wrong in a way you could never see, even taste or feel.

Frank feels numb, vaguely remembering what his nightmare was about, he shudders. Hours pass, and he notices that the person that was once there with him is gone, where did they go?

They looked so familiar.

Havoc?

No, that can't be right, they're only co-workers, maybe they talk sometimes and even Frank will laugh at his jokes, but Havoc, Jean Havoc?

Maybe it was Breda? Roy? Hawkeye? Fuery? Falman? God forbid any of his past lovers.

He feels so tired, still.

Was that even real?

Frank returns the next day, he's been told off, don't come to work for about two weeks, or at least that's how he remembers it. He spends a little too much time in bed, eating, sleeping, masturbating, though the one thing that stays consistent in his mind is the noise, the faint ringing noise that follows him everywhere and his windows are always covered. There's a dresser in front of it.

When Archer finally returns to work he is greeted with worry and concern, even though he spent a little extra time to make himself look pretty and clean. (it's 7:23 in the morning.)

He waves them off dismissively, and he does feel much better, but always always always always tunes them out whenever they talk for too long, he doesn't bother listening anymore, unless it's particularly important, which Roy will then get his attention by snapping his fingers (without the stupid alchemical gloves thankfully).

Living does get hard even if he lives a privileged life, he can't stop what comes to his mind, he can barely even hold back vomiting because of those vile things. He's no longer a child, no longer a teenager, Frank Archer is thirty-seven years old and still resides alone in his bed, fearing the outside world as if it's his problem, as if he caused it. (Thing's that he cannot even percieve go on out there,) Frank is terrified by the thought of someone taking him, stealing him away from his parents as if they're still here.

He still sleeps in their bed, as if awaiting the sirens to stop blaring, for his mother to tell him, it's okay baby, I'm here.

He is, of course, no longer able to hear these words.

He shows up to work the next day, his hair grew a little longer, and he finally notices such, although too lazy to get a haircut, puts it in a little hair-tie he had from when he was seven years old, it's a pastel pink with a yellow tinge to it. Riza comments on it, that it suits him, and he smiles.

Today is normal, for once, it's Monday 9:34 in the morning, and Frank can remember most of it. Another State Alchemist much alike Roy visits, he doesn't remember his name, though. Short, (well, Frank himself is nearly the same height, just a few inches taller) Blond and accompanied by a large suit of armor. Frank tunes them out quickly after seeing their appearances, he continues working.

Soon though, he has to tune back into the conversation, the blond one pushes him slightly, even though he has little reaction to it, the boy becomes more irritated, it seems?

"Hey, are you even listening to me?" He sounds annoyed with Archer. "Hellooooo?" The boy, Fullmetal, waves a hand in front of his face. Frank is having none of it and quickly grabs the boy's wrist, the automail one,

The boy seems a little scared, and Roy says--

He isn't listening.

Frank doesn't remember the rest, it's entirely blank from there. Apparantly he had chewed out the young man with quite crude language. He doesn't remember this at all. Frank doesn't tell anyone that last part though.

Why is he like this.

Frank get's a long, long lecture after this by Roy, he vaguely remembers the details, that boy is above his rank, he should pay a bit more respect to Fullmettle, Foolmetal, whatever his name was.

Work goes on as usual afterward thankfully. The boy stays however, Fullmetal, the irritable blond one, he sits nearby within Frank's eyesight, how unfortunate.

Paperwork is a bitch.

Sometime's he'll see names, words in strange combinations, shakes his head and then they're gone, they look normal again. Despite not having been tested for dyslexia, that's what it seems to be, to Frank at least. It feels so eerie how quiet the room gets when someone runs out of things to say, he almost misses Havoc's voice when the irritating ringing starts again.

Frank goes to get groceries after work, he looks dead-tired, still in his uniform, it's too late to change. The lights feel just a little bit too bright, he squints almost the entire time trying to read signs attatched to the stands with various vegetables.

He barely remembers what he picked up or even bought when he comes back home. His mother loved his cooking whilst she was still here, so he makes pasta (minus one ingredient...) it's one she loved in life.

He feels hollow.

Frank cries for the first time in a while, breaking down after cleaning up the kitchen. He misses his mother, feeling his lungs cave in and his heart ache, longing to be with her once again. He holds onto the picture of all of them when he was eighteen, he clutches it near his chest, but is careful to not crush the fragile glass and wooden frame.

He feels so useless not having his family with him anymore, he doesn't have any cousins or grandparents anymore, he's the last man of his family. They accepted him as such, but they have never seen the horror that went on behind his eyes, the fear of being rejected as a young, still developing, man.

When Frank was nineteen he went on HRT for the first time, it had been around for a while since before he was born so it wasn't an entirely new concept to his parents, thankfully.

When he was twenty-one, Frank changed his name and applied to the military with it, wanting to be a great man like his grandfather. The first fime Frank looked into a mirror with his hair in a military buzzcut, things felt right for once, despite his illness riddled mind since he was around five. Frank always looked very much like his dad, gaining his receeding hairline and uneven complexion along his transition aswell, looking like a younger version of him.

What was his name? Gerry?

Yes, that's right.

He feels ill when looking into the mirror now.

Something like this doesn't feel good, having skin as pale as a ghost with deep scars all over, it's like seeing the phantom of his father who had since passed.

"How long have you been like this?" The doctor asks, his mental state having deteriorated so badly that even his co-workers want him involuntarily hospitalized. "For as long as I can remember," Frank replies.

He simply has never thought other people had different mindsets, at least not too much. Too many things are left unsaid to him that his vision of life is blurry and obscured, his life is abnormal, but he always thought this is how other people experienced life.

He can't keep his eyes shut, wide open, though squinting when it is too bright, and has a hard time reading the clipboard the doctor hands to him.

"Sir?"

He feels sick.

"...Are you alright?"

He feels faint

I feel,

He can't finish his sentence, stuttering about what God and the light feels like (He wonders if there are others outside of this world he's made in his mind.)

"Sir?"

This will not be the last time he ends up in a hospital bed. He's cold, so cold that the floor feels less like a way to travel the building and more like ice, burning the soles of his feet.

The hospital gown rips somewhere, he doesn't quite pay attention to it though, but he hears it. It's 4 in the morning (a Friday.)

He wonders if his mother and father watch over him, even now in this horrible, messy, state.

He's always been a sheltered little girl,

He looks into the mirror provided by the bathroom that's connected to his room, he sees no longer a phantom of his father, but the little girl who still lives inside himself. His hair grew out a bit longer, how long had he been out? It couldn't have been that long, he checked the calender. Maybe it was out of date? Someone forgot to fix it? Or maybe he just never noticed how long it had gotten.

Frank can't tell anymore.

It's 5:56 in the morning (a Friday) and Frank lays back in his hospital bed, he's exhausted. He doesn't want to move, yet he does.

A hand slips under the hem of his underwear, although not delicately, he pleasures himself, making no noise.

A sigh, maybe even a couple of squirms but he's so quiet that often times his partners thought he had been left unsatisfied.

Maybe not the wisest decision considering he is in a semi-public space, but he doesn't have half the mind to care in the first place.

This left him quite uncomfortable afterward though, intrusive thoughts telling him he had been watched,

Dirty

What?

You're a filthy little girl

He feels eyes, in fact, he sees them, two tiny bright lights at the end of this bed but no real body attatched to them. This isn't real, is it? What is that?

It was lights attached to a monitor of some sort. Like most things, he couldn't make out the shape immediately. He breathes slowly, in and out to calm himself. Frank decides he'll sleep, and is out for a while after this.

He wakes up to the smell of santization, it burns his nostrils and eyes, he closes them again. The nurse tells him to wake up sometime after the smell has gone away, and he does.

Why is it so Goddamn bright in here!? Damn you all.

"What does this say?" Frank asks, it's a clipboard with all of his information that his mother once put in for him when he was found unresponsive at twenty (this is not the first time this has happened.)

"This is all of your previous info, we'll be updating it with

Frank can't remember the rest. Something about mental disorders. He's not formally diagnosed with anything yet however.

He doesn't quite care though. This is how life had always been for him, this is normal, his mother told him so.

He goes home with a warning.

Frank rests, and rests, and rests, and rests, and rests

and rests

Frank wakes up with in a cold sweat, what happened? What did he even dream about? nothing? It was nothing. He curls up, knees held up to his chest as he lays in his bed.

Something is wrong.

Sex was maybe the worst decision he had ever made in his life, he thinks, as the ringing starts in his ears again, it's a cacophony of strange noises until someone knocks on his door and snaps him out of it. Is that even real?

"Archer?" Knock, knock, knock

"Archer?"

Oh it is real.

Knock, knock

Get me out of here.

Frank gets up finally, making a small noise of effort I'm so tired and opens the door. Roy?

"I know it's very early but I just wanted to check on you, Archer." It isn't early, though? What the hell is he talking about. "I also wanted to ask if you were free later," ...Roy? Of all people? Why would he want to ever treat him to a Goddamn thing?

But Frank doesn't turn down the offer for later, (It's a nice cafe near where they work, somehow Frank hasn't heard of it) Frank wonders if he will remember this event in whole (They leave at 2 in the afternoon) It feels nice, to be thought of, even if he can't entirely say the same for Mustang.

Frank looks at the clock after Roy leaves, it's currently 6:45 in the morning.

...It's six-fourty-five in the morning?

Frank takes a shower, often looking through the glass door and into the mirror covered by the steam. The water is hot, too hot-- It reminds him of

When he gets out he presses a palm to the mirror, making a handprint on it whilst the other hand holds the towel firmly up to his chest. There is a mirror in his own room not covered by steam thankfully, but always has it's back turned unless he has use for it.

Frank looks at himself, all of him, tracing over his scars with his eyes, faintly reminding him of himself when he was younger, he's long overdue for a haircut, but it looks nice (to him at least.)

He remembers something he thought of when he was fourteen, how she was scared she'd grow up to be bad. He couldn't understand what she mean't back then, but it makes him uneasy thinking about it now.

Does it make me bad, these thoughts I have no control over? Frank shakes his head and proceeds to get dressed, nice yet casual. It's all a nice blue and black accents. He puts on a bracelet he's had since he was fifteen (he and his mother made it together), it has little wooden charms, every part about it a dark brown, nearly black.

He feels good for once, like this.

It's 1:34 in the afternoon, he plugs back in his phone to call Roy, he's ready now and just waiting for Roy to come pick him up.

Frank gets into Roy's car and feels increasingly uneasy, the sun is a little too bright, but Frank hates wearing sunglasses, he thinks it makes him look like a creep. "You okay?" Frank is actively picking the skin on his fingertips, but nods, "Yeah." Be normal, and casual. He has no script nowadays since he barely even talks to people, but that's okay.

When they arrive at the cafe, Frank feels a little less nervous but the feeling persists. It's a little dimmer inside, the sun makes for great light since the windows are very large. Something still makes Frank a little uneasy however, the glances he gets because of his half-burnt face (at least that's how he put it since he was seventeen.)

He overhears a conversation while waiting for their food and Roy has gone to the bathroom, something about Kimblee, the Crimson Alchemist. He's read a lot about the man, maybe a little too much, and they're saying he recently broke out of prison. This makes him feel something, but he has to ignore it as Roy comes back to their table, he shall dwell on this information later.

"You okay?" Frank nods, he guesses he just spaced out and started staring into the table as if it were as deep as the ocean. Roy still looks a bit concerned but shrugs it off, he knows how stubborn Frank can be.

They have a nice conversation for once, about how work has been since Frank had been gone, turns out Riza worried about him the most (that's a half-truth, it's actually Roy but he won't admit that) and then their interests, which Frank doesn't have many of other than Kimblee classic art and what might come on the radio (he rarely turns it on anymore.)

It's nice, talking like this with Roy, even if he has no script and the sun hurts his eyes, he covers the side of his face with a hand to keep the sun out of them. He off-handedly mentions Kimblee for a moment and it confuses Roy. "The Crimson Alchemist? You know him or something?" Frank's face goes a little red, he realizes a little too late that he should not be talking about the Crimson Alchemist so casually. "Ah, no, I've just done a lot of research on him..." Frank will say that as if it's entirely normal, too. But Roy thinks it's nice, maybe even cute. They laugh it off.

Maybe they're both just a little messed up in the head.

Frank thinks, today was a good day, whilst Roy drives him back to his parents house, and he picks at the skin on his fingertips again, trying hard to resist the urge to bite and tear at his nails and bleed. They still talk though, it's nice, it feels light and lovely as they converse.

When Frank finally enters his home, he stares at the kitchen again, but with a sort of goofy smile, today was a good day! He can remember most of it! Roy is a lot more considerate than he originally thought, only thinking that Roy was just awfully polite at first.

When Frank gets ready for bed he remembers what those strangers were conversing about earlier. Kimblee... His mind wanders, brushing his hair gently with his mother's old hairbrush (some of the bristles have since fallen off.) "Oh, Kimblee..." He says with a fake dreamy sigh, joking to himself where no one else can see him, chuckling softly. Frank lays in their his bed, thinking about Kimblee, Kimblee, Kimblee,

Kimblee--

Frank lays there, head tilted back into the pillow as he

Oh, mm, there--

Frank laughs at his own theatrics even now as he masturbates under the sheets.

He rests soon after, cleaning himself for once and not just sleeping in his own mess, and for the first time in a while,

he has no dreams.

He has no dreams,

the static chases him thoroughly running through his mind and the

edges of his brain

that is where it returns

the feeling

of--

Frank wakes up slowly, feeling his heart race, he's sweating. What was that? He can't remember. Frank lays his head back into the blankets, curling up further, and falling back asleep.

It burns.

What?

Mama my skin is burning.

It's melting off my bones.

Mama?

...?

Mama?

It's hurting me, the fire.

The fire

burning me alive.

The phone is ringing.

What?

The phone is ringing.

Frank wakes up again, he remembers this nightmare clear as day (or as clear as his days get) he gets up to the living room where the phone is on a little table. "Hello?" He picks it up, answering whoever is calling at this ungodly hour (but when he checks the clock above the phone it's 12:20, just a bit after noon.)

"Frank?" It's... Roy? "Yes," He groans quietly for a moment, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. "I just woke up, sorry." Roy stifles back a laugh. "It's okay, Frank. I was just checking up on you." For totally normal reasons, or something. Frank tries to rationalize it in his mind, Roy is a nice guy, he's charming, sweet, the kind of guy you'd bring to meet your parents, but Frank has already set his heart out for another man he doesn't even know. He wishes he could kiss him through phone, some sort of strange feeling taking over.

They have a nice conversation, Roy being as compassionate and empathetic as possible, or something like that.

When Roy hangs up it feels as if he is still there with him in a way, it's strange. Frank returns to bed, just a little longer. He does however have to go to work the following day. Oh, he gets to see Roy his co-workers again.

This isn't the first time he's felt like this.

Over the following week he goes back to work, he feels something for Roy. A crush maybe? It feels so much more than that, and Frank often returns home and thinks about Roy almost obsessively. But is that it, truly? Roy is just being nice, right?

Right?

He glances at Roy from his desk, smiling somewhat, but covering it up quickly with a shake of his head and his focus returning to his paperwork. Tonight though, Frank takes Roy to his home his parents house and there's this longing feeling that neither of them can deny any longer, truly. It feels natural to hold another in his arms, the comforting warmth that radiates off Roy makes his heart flutter.

Roy kisses him.

Roy Mustang kissed me?

Roy--

He almost feels nauseated, the amount of obessive thoughts that go through Frank's mind as this happens. He's shocked, very nearly appalled by Roy's behavior (Isn't this what we had been building up to, though?) They kiss again and again and again until,

Until,

He feels hands on his hips and thighs groping and grasping almost violently as they continue on passionately--

Frank digs his nails into Roy's clothes by accident tearing some of his shirt--

It feels good whatever this is, this soul crushing obession, but not the first he's had.

He still feels that thought persist in the back of his mind, dirty, dirty little-- Kimblee-- Dirty little-- DIRTY-- KIMBLEE--

"R-Roy," Frank speaks with a smirk, half lidded eyes as Roy has a hand down his

Oh, there--

Do that again--

It's blurry, but it feels so, so good,

Roy's free hand rests on his cheek,

caressing his face gently as his other hand does wonderful things to him--

His own hands clench tightly onto the back of Roy's shirt and the material of the couch they sit on--

He let's out a shakey sigh as he nearly tears the material of the old couch too, thighs clenching slightly around Roy's hand.

Frank can barely remember the rest of the night after that, it's all just sensation and sounds. He awakes the next morning (clean thankfully), holding Roy as he sleeps soundly, skin to skin although he can't shake the feeling that he used Roy of his intrusive thoughts, crawling over his scalp, into his ears invading his skull, then the membrane, then into the wrinkles of his brain.

His hand rests on Roy's stomach, his thumb rubbing little circles into the pudge there, so soft, he absentmindedly traces over Roy's hair, lowering but not too far. He doesn't want to wake up Roy so soon, taking in how serene and calm Roy looks for once.

Later on though, they do have to go to work. Riza does glance at them suspiciously as to why they showed up at the same time (in the same vehicle, no less) and Frank seeming a little less out of it (he isn't though, in all actuality he's just in a slightly better mood.)

That boy, Fullmetal, visits again, once again though Frank has no actual idea what they are saying (tuned out so fast?) but Fullmetal seems almost scared of him, and Roy seems to be reassuring the boy that Frank isn't dangerous? Is that right?

Frank tunes in for once, not entirely spacing out even if from the outside it looks like he's staring a hole into the seperator on the desk (where Havoc is on the other side of.) "Edward, I can assure you that Frank is of no danger to you,

No danger to you,

No danger to

Where did he start. Hell, where did Roy even finish his sentence? The boy leaves after a good few hours, writing his report down in the office. He seems a little more relaxed now, thankfully (good for both of them.)

Frank returns to his home, though later than usual (without Roy) he stares into the floor of his parents kitchen (no warmth to be found here) and stands there until his feet ache from being planted solely on the old creaky wooden floor.

He relapses in thought again, head slowly tilting upward to look at the one window he hasn't covered entirely. The curtains are drawn, a nice blue floral pattern that his father and mother picked out however long ago now.

Mama?

Are you there?

Watching me?

He gets ready for bed, already noticing little spots of blood. It's fine, he can handle this.

Frank wakes up the next day in his parents bed, feeling oddly wet. He lifts the blanket slowly, rubbing his eyes trying to chase away the blurry vision. There's a deep red spot there.

He can't handle this

all.

But he has to go to work. I mean, Riza has never missed a day (though maybe Riza is just like him) the thought entirely bugs him, why him, why does he have to go in like this.

He spirals, and whilst in the shower he scrubs more like cutting his scalp, it bleeds a little bit there too. He feels like tearing his hair out but has enough of a mind to realize that'd it only make everything so much worse.

Frank feels nauseated, the painkillers and whatever other medication he had been prescribed haven't kicked in yet, oh God,

The car ride there (Roy picked him up) is a Goddamn nightmare. It's nearly 8 o'clock, they'll be late, isn't today important? Something about that secretary, what was the name-- Juliet?

He doesn't have time for this, and as soon as they even reach the building he rushes to the nearest bathroom to vomit. Although the meds kick in soon after. What the hell is wrong with his body. He rests his head on the desk, thankfully not near vomiting again though, just sitting there, eventually going back to writing.

His hands get shaky.

He can barely write.

What is he seeing -- sensing -- What is this?

Frank feels the urge to stab someone

something.

He taps on the desk, staring a hole into the seperator again. Frank?

"Are you alright?" Falman puts a hand on his shoulder, it's warm he thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. "I..." Frank doesn't break eye contact with the seperator, not once. "I..." Frank feels like he's about to cry, scream, something, he needs to feel something, he taps insistently on the desk with his (scarred) hand.

His burnt hand.

"I..."

His hand was burnt.

"I..."

"Mama?"

"Do you need to go home?"

"Mom?"

Frank? He doesn't listen, where is he? Mom? Where are you? Why aren't you here with me? Mom? Please answer the phone, we're worried. Mom please answer the phone, mom?

Mom?

Frank hadn't even realized he started crying, tears streaming down his face as he stares into the seperator, the seperator that seperates him from Havoc's side of the desk. He wipes the tears, though smearing some ink on the side of his face from a pen he broke because he crushed it in his palm just a few moments before. When did he break it? Mom? Why aren't you answering? Me and dad are worried, please-- Mom-- Please answer the phone...

Mom?

Frank? "Huh?"

Frank finally returns to reality, face in his hands, tears and ink mixed together to make some sort of toxic concoction of

"I'm sorry," He whispers, he doesn't even realize who he said it to.

"Mommy?" The little girl asks as she tugs on the older girl's dress, her mom's dress, it's a nice beige with a floral all around the skirt.

Frank wishes he could just turn back time, go home where his parents were, maybe even his grandparents, he wishes he could've spent much more time with them.

The fire--

No. Don't even start with that.

Frank is in the bathroom as Roy helps him calm down, even helping him clean his face, now free from ink and tears. They hold hands for a moment before someone else enters, then wiping away some non-existent tears.

His face is so red and splotchy from the bloodflow. God, why does life have to be like this? The fire--

Do not. We don't have time for that.

Tonight Frank goes home alone, but the proceeding days are followed by things that Frank didn't even think were real.

Something about chimeras and a man with an array on his arm--

Mom?

Along with the boy, Fullmetal and his brother (apparantly that suit of armor houses his soul?) He doesn't have time for this, even just thinking about it in the shower.

Frank feels like he's being boiled alive like a lobster, unpleasant and hot, his already burnt skin needs a break.

He looks into the mirror, the one covered in steam, the condensation creating an entirely different vision. Is this what it's like? Frank never truly had any solid sense of self, this blurry and foggy appearance feels as if it suits him more than his actual body. I want to go home (but you are home) I want to go back to the time it felt like home, then (it never felt like home) love doesn't heal wounds, does it? (it never has.)

When Frank goes into work, he finds that Hawkeye, Roy, Havoc and Breda are gone. "What happened?" He asks Falman, they've been assigned to East city, the lot of them. Frank feels sad, maybe even a little disappointed. He misses Roy. Come on, can't I keep something for

one

MOMENT!

The next few months drag on, he misses Havoc's voice, he misses the way Roy would snap his fingers to get his attention, he misses Riza actually caring about him, and Breda bouncing off Havoc's jokes... they were a good team. Now all the work has been piled onto him, Fuery and Falman. This fucking sucks. The three of them do as their told, begrudgingly, the other two also hate this change of course.

This isn't enough, it will never ever ever ever

ever

ever ever

ever

be enough.

Frank wishes things didn't have to be this way. Mother, do you see me from up above? Tell me, what do you see?

Father, do you see me from up above? Tell me, what do you see?

Will I ever be free?

Have I crossed some invisible line I didn't even know existed? If so, when? Where? How?

Frank wakes up, it's too hot in here, he pushes all of his blankets away from him and sits there, sweaty and uncomfortable.

There's--

Frank freezes up whilst peering into the dark doorway that leads him out of the bedroom and into the living room, he stares wide eyed at the pitch black darkness that proceeds.

There's someone something watching--

Watching him in the dark. This goes on for what feels like hours, days, weeks months, years, decades, centuries, eons

But eventually, Frank stops staring, warily looking at it as he pulls the blankets up and over him as if he were a little girl again hiding from the sound of thunder, waiting desperately for his mother to tell him it's okay, it's okay baby--

...

Only the deafening silence and ever present darkness greets him.

Life goes on for Frank, albeit painfully.

When Roy eventually returns he is greeted with horror. Roy is missing an eye, his left eye--

"Who did this?" Archer asks softly as he gently holds Roy's face, gently lifting the eyepatch with permission (in front of everybody else no less) he hopes it was just an accident-- like his scars, his burn scars, just an accident, please, God, let us go.

Roy stays with Frank a long while after this.

Roy says that his vision of course got worse, but the eye just needs time to heal (it looks like a big scab more than anything though) It just needs time to heal.

When it does, he's nearly blind in that eye, having extremely spotty vision there. Frank tries his very best to take care of Roy during these times, despite not comprehending half the words that pass through his ears.

Months pass, life is normal again (or as normal as it'd get for Frank) and Roy continues to live with Frank. It feels a little strange, how this house is finally inhabited by more than one person for more than a single night.

(Does it feel like home yet?) not quite

(will it ever?) I don't think so.

For the longest time after the fire, Frank felt so disgusting, unlovable, ugly, repulsive. He was only a girl healing from grave wounds, crying herself to sleep almost every night whilst he was in that hospital bed as his mother held his un-burnt hand.

Never before had Frank truly known the pain outside of natural occurence.

This was the second most traumatizing experience to him though. He's aged out of it, finding it makes him look more masculine now (as if Frank were a real soldier and not just some guy who worked at some desk in Central.)

The feeling never goes away though, does it? The burning sensation he feels in his nightmares as if he were still sixteen and realizing after the accident that it was his grandfather's fault for the fire starting and killing--

Frank takes a deep breath, in and out as he holds onto Roy by his clothes. "Are you okay?" Frank nods, he can't doesn't want to talk right now.

Beep, beep, beep--

Mom? No, no this isn't happening again--

I just want to go home, okay? It wasn't my fault, right?

Frank lays in Roy's arms, desperate for the comfort that his mother once brought him

Mom?

and lays there holding hands.

The phone is ringing.

Mom? Do you hear me?

Frank wrestles with his thoughts, holding onto Roy's shirt for dear life. "Frank?" He buries his face into Roy's shouler. Don't look at me cry, please--

This is wrong this is all wrong. Isn't mom supposed to be there? Why isn't she answering the phone? Mom, please--

I'm so cold, mom, please answer the phone.

Roy holds him for a long time in bed, waiting and waiting for him to fall asleep and have this living nightmare be over with. He stays with Frank, always, always caring and loving.

Love doesn't heal all wounds though, does it? (Of course it doesn't, you idiot.)

Frank still often dreams of the man he cannot have, Solf J. Kimblee. He was always intrigued by how sadistic and positively chaotic he is. Though he always feared how the man had a sort of attraction to the extreme noise the explosions his alchemy induced. If anything, this man was a walking nuclear bomb. Hell, those haven't even been invented yet.

What? (Nothing.)

He still often daydreams about touching meeting Kimblee, imagining the way he must smell, it makes him feel dirty wet.

Though, there is a fear behind this, that he will be burnt, but this time on purpose. A man like the Crimson Lotus Alchemist should not be let free ever, but as he heard, he's still out there.

He leans closely toward Roy in bed as he reads a book of some sort, he can't make out the title, but they are close, so close. It's warm, it's finally cozy here.

Hello?

No! I don't have time for this--

Frank holds onto Roy as he slowly eases into a deep sleep, exhausted from how much Goddamn overtime he's had to commit to over the past

however many months. Frank wasn't counting.

He's sleeping, he feels it, sort of, the beige peeling wallpaper and the sensation of warmth slowly fade into darkness, pitch black.

There's a room, a place--

Mom? A payphone, he's standing inside of a box a clear box and answering a phone-- or is he the one calling?

Mom? Please, fuck-- He fumbles with the quarters in his hand, trying to put more into the slot. Mom? Please answer the fucking phone, me and dad are worried sick about you. Please mom...

He wakes with a start, once again, staring into the dark as he feels it consume him, the static growing larger, absorbing his body.

"Frank!? Wake up!" He hears it, but he cannot see, he can't see,

This will not be the last time he ends up in a hospital bed, it's 11:43, nearly midnight when he finally wakes up. Roy is by his side as he fears whatever had happened to him, he can't remember.

He doesn't tell Roy that part though, for his own safety. He wishes he could just be alone again, conflicting thoughts course through his mind.

Frank doesn't just crave love, he needs it, just like everybody else does, but the problem comes with

with

Frank feels his vision fall away from him again whilst sitting in his desk, but continues to write down whatever he was supposed to, he hopes it comes out comprehensible. "Frank." Falman? No. Who's voice is that? "Frankie." The voice changes, who is calling?

Something lurks deep within this voice, he can't quite tell what.

"Frankie." Mom?

"Frankie!" The older woman calls out for the young man, pulling him in tightly for a hug. "How did it go?" Frank smiles, saying it went good.

"Frank." He snaps out of it, realizing he's still sitting at his desk, the middle chair where Fuery is on his left and Falman on his right. "Yes?" Frank responds with a kind tired voice. "Were you daydreaming again?" Frank stills, but nods after a moment of hesitation. "Thought so..." Havoc goes back to his work. What was that about?

It doesn't matter how many times Frank cuts his hair, he should just let it grow out this time. He chases away the thought as he reads some extremely classified files that he stole from work however many years ago now. Kimblee again, huh? Frank focuses on it a lot more than someone might originally think, the rest of the world being more than a blur, maybe even darkness around him as he reads, falling into the pages of a long document.

He stares at a particular phrase for a moment, the Philosopher's Stone, something that he had become quite familiar with during his time working there but something finally clicks in his brain. There is something special about it, the fact so few had been made, for State Alchemists during a war no less, it almost makes him feel a bit uneasy.

Days pass, mind stewing over this info. Something about those boys, Fullmetal and his brother, weren't they after it? Does he even have time to think about such frivolous things? No,

no.

Frank sits there on the shower floor, letting the cool water run over him. He looks over his scars, all of them, seeing where it reached, where he needed stitches, where his skin stretched unnaturally. This is his life now, isn't it?

"Frank? Are you okay?"

Frank laughs to himself. "Yes." He feels the eyes again, but he doesn't care anymore, does he? (He cares greatly so) but not in the same way, currently, spreading himself as if the creature that seeps through the cracks of doors and nooks of the walls will see him. Frank laughs to himself.

Frank returns to work with an extra scar on his face, it crosses over his lips. He feels better, something about that felt good but in the worst way possible. What he did was wrong, but a natural conclusion to his mental state. Work goes on.

And on

and on.

Frank feels faint standing in front of the door to their his house. What's wrong? (Nothing.) Frank stands there, fumbling with his keys-- Answer the phone please-- He freezes up. What if this is just like before, will he find the corpse of his mother Roy as soon as he steps inside?

He dreads opening the door, instead knocking as if he forgot his keys. He waits for this feeling to stop, despite how cold tonight has gotten. "Frank?"

Oh thank God, he holds Roy in a tight embrace for a long while after that.

Life feels a bit brighter though, now that Roy has a permanent spot to sit in it, often cuddling and talking about life experiences as couples do. He feels a little less hollow, but when Roy is asleep, he gets out of bed wandering, pacing, all around the house.

Even Frank doesn't understand why he does it, but still does it anyway, not bothering to stop himself most nights. He will stare at the corner every which way, as if looking for an answer, to what though? He can't remember.

Mom?

I don't have time for this.

#time moves slow #frank archer #;fma #;ag #yes i named this after a song.#if anyone else reads this i am so so so so so sorry.#does this follow canon? no. barely.#edit: now with reblogable

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