wear me like a locket around your throat

[ the wind is bitter cold, the snow on his face making it chafe and he can feel the flush of blood in his cheeks from the chill. he's hardly dressed for the weather and any more time spent outside could be the death of him. ironic, after how far he's come...

and how far he's come... he's not really sure how he came to be here or how. one moment was munich, the next, well, it looks like northern amesteris, but he can't be sure. at least there's a cabin ahead, but from the looks of it, the flags make it a military outpost. how much welcome he'll receive there is difficult to say. the fullmetal alchemist has been missing for two years, last seen in central before he'd disappeared beneath the city. he doesn't even have his watch anymore, so who would believe him if he said who he was?

they're dark thoughts, much like the questions in his mind. like the question of how he came here, in the blink of an eye, after trying and failing to find a way home through the stars. but also like the question of who now will take him. is his brother even alive? had he succeeded? and what about...

the colonel. again, like the night he'd met mabuse, the image of mustang flashes through his mind. was he alive? had the colonel succeeded in killing the fuhrer? the last time he'd seen him, he'd hardly had the chance for a proper goodbye. a mere brush of hands. a light touch between two men who'd finally come to understand each other. and then he'd been gone.

when he'd first woken up in munich, he'd told himself he wouldn't have regrets. but he does and many of them centered on what little time he'd had to spend with the man who had inspired him to move forward. it's too much to hope that he might see mustang again, even if the men at the outpost believe him. so he doesn't hold onto that hope. not like the way he grips his brown coat closer in hopes of warding off the cold.

the cabin is only a few feet ahead of him now. and he's grateful for that much because the wind is whipping his long hair, making it hard to see ahead of him. if there's anyone standing guard, they'll likely see him sooner than he'll see them. ]

[ When people say don't stray too close to the Mollyedge, it's for a reason. There are no streets, just mud filled paths where the areas with most traffic have bigger puddles. The sturdiest buildings are wooden shacks and everything smells vaguely moldy, vaguely rotten thanks to the sodden way the entire district seems to be slowly sinking into the river. But even though it certainly has a darker (and well deserved reputation) compared to the other maidens, it's still so distinctly Thremeden that once a person finds themselves there, they become stuck, unable to really escape the grasp of the Three Maidens.

Naturally, one of the greatest parts of the Mollyedged is that for all the rank, all the poverty, and all the filth, it's still got some of the best views of the dragons as they burst through the sky overhead. Ed's eyes are on one of them now, watching the way sunlight flashes and glints against gold, almost blinding him with the glare. The great, mechanical but magical beast forms a stark contrast against the blue of the sky, kind of like the glint of the sunlight on his hair as he leans against one of the many shacks the comprise the district, the end of a small, handrolled cigarette between his chapped lips. The blond locks, tied back in a simple tail in order to keep it from getting in his way, have always seemed a bit out of place in the Mollyedge, a point of contention even, and he can't remember how many times he's had to wash mud out of it after it'd been slung at him. But he's learned since his earlier years. He's learned since then and most inhabitants in the Mollyedge know better than to insult him, especially with the mean right hook he has.

It's that right hand that he's trying to keep hidden at the moment, slipped into a dirty pocket as he shifts his gaze from the sky to the passers by, calculating each new person that walks by as if trying to decide who might have the most money on them and who would be easiest to take down. Because people in the Mollyedge rarely every have much to lose and thus hold on a lot tighter to what they do have. And Ed's far from interested in getting on his knees again tonight in order to get just enough to bring back something edible to his brother.

That right hand, though... it's one of his rare prizes, which is why it's even more important to keep it hidden. People in Mollyedge would kill to get a piece of anything of value. He's seen it before. When people lost a limb in Mollyedge, they usually died. No one in Mollyedge could ever manage to afford a prosthetic much less one of automail, and if it hadn't been for the old hag that had fitted him with it, he wouldn't have it either. Much like the left leg he casually kicks against the wooden wall next to him, it's what keeps him from disappearing entirely, and he just can't have that. Not when he's got a little brother to take care of.

Finally— His thoughts derail as a likely candidate for pickpocketing passes him on the muddy street without so much as a second look. The mark looks like they have just enough to "spare" a bit for him while not being too rich for the area (which happens from time to time when the Provost's people decide to do a bit of "street cleaning"). Pushing off the wall and tossing the butt of his cigarette to the ground, he casually slips through the crowd with the intention of following after the other person, keeping his eyes peeled for just the right moment. ]

[ AU!Continuation from this post.

He can feel the way Al tenses beneath him and he doesn't like it. He doesn't want Al to withdraw or even feel uncomfortable. He wants Al to be warm and alive and molded against him like he should be. And though it feels slightly wrong to initiate anything (because how much of it is out of concern for Al and not his own selfish wants?), he pulls away just enough to discard his already open shirt. It's dropped to the floor, like his pants had been earlier, and then he's resting his hands on either side of Al's head, making sure their legs are entangled enough to prevent Al from moving too far.

In this position, he looks down on his brother, bangs creating a curtain around them and making his eyes darken in already scant light. But even in the low light, it's still enough to tell how full of emotion his eyes are. As if looking at Al can somehow convey how he feels or the words he wishes he could say but can't because he's never been good with words like Al is. ]

Al...