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Ficlets from the request thread~ (FMA and Fruits Basket)
Just because I have found new fandom love (omg Haruka/Kantarou FEED ME FIC) doesn't mean I'm being neglectful! It's also not that I'm suddenly productive, it's that I've had these for a while and keep forgetting to post them. XD;
Two more to go, I believe, from this post here. WOO.
The Measure of Human
Fullmetal Alchemist [anime]
Lust + Al; series spoilers; for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rennuian
Prompt: Wrath, wreath, winter
844 words
Sometimes Al dreams of women, with long flowing dark hair and sad, distant faces. One is his mother, not his mother, whose fingers are cold and damp to the touch, and she seems to reach inside of him, curling her fingers around his heart and pulling it out to show him. Whenever she did, his brother would scream no don't touch him leave him alone, but whenever he turned, he'd always be alone.
Other times, the other woman is there, her dark mouth pulled into a pout, her red eyes distant. She never touches him, only skirts around him, and even when she her eyes meet his, she's looking through him. Sometimes she weeps, and blood gathers in the corners of her eyes and overflows, running like scars across her white skin.
"Who are you?" he finally asks her, following her across a blackened plain. It was once a desert, but there are huge burned craters where the grains have been melted to glassy black, and it crackles loudly under their feet. "Who are you? Do I know you?"
She does not turn. She clutches her shawl tightly around her bowed shoulders and moves faster, until Al loses track of her and comes to a stop, standing alone. And even if they're in a desert it's cold, the wind cutting through the thin cloth of his shirt and carving goose bumps out of his skin. He wakes and finds all his blankets kicked to the floor and his breath steaming faintly in the air. When he sits up and presses his hands to the glass, it's snowing outside.
These are more gaps in his memory, more clues to the four years he's missing. When he tries to ask questions, Winry will look to Rose and shake her head, and find some way to avoid the question. I wasn't there for much. You should ask your brother.
But his brother isn't there, though the years trundle past. Every turned corner is a dead end, every path ends abruptly; there are a thousand and one roads, and none of them go anywhere. A few times, he catches himself thinking that maybe his brother is just a figment of his imagination, something and someone he dreamed up to keep him company, in the lonely time after his mother's death. He is always horrified by these thoughts after they pass.
Al studies alchemy voraciously and dreams of these women, and of men -- in the blue uniforms of the Amestris military, swathed in the robes of an Ishbarite refugee, and flashes of one dark-haired figure who shrieked poison as he drove his fist through -- his fist through --
Al can never remember the rest. When he wakes, shivering and sick to his stomach, he feels he's glad for that.
But the woman lingers, like a bitter ghost. Sometimes he swears he can hear her voice, low and husky, rising and falling in familiar cadences. It drives him crazy, listening to her, never quite able to make out her words, and finally he corners Rose when Winry isn't there to hush her, and asks.
Rose looks at him with her mournful eyes, then bows her head. "She wanted to be human," she says softly. "So much that she defied the person who gave her life, so she could die like a human."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Rose's knuckles are white from pressure. "I don't know. I only remember a little, myself."
Al looks at her a moment. "But she died?"
"She died." Rose's voice grows softer. "You were there, and your brother, too. I remember someone saying."
When she says nothing more, Al turns and walks off, into the fields. The corn has long since been harvested, the wheat stored away, but there are still long, dry strands of grass that remain. He picks these, and there is a memory: his brother doing the same, waving the grass around like a switch and laughing, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.
After he has enough, he goes down to the river, to his "argument place," and sits down. For a moment, he feels strange: he hasn't fought with anyone in a long time, and it seems the place no longer remembers him.
He's an alchemist, though, and he knows better than to believe in silly superstitions, or old wives' tales. He stares out at the dark surface of the river; it hasn't been cold enough these year for the water to freeze over, but it moves sluggishly, twigs bobbing their slow steady way downstream.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he says. He believes in monsters, because he's seen them -- he has remembered the horrific, rotting, inside-out creature that had meant to be his mother. "But, if you're listening ... I can't help you. I don't even remember half of what I was. I don't remember you at all."
He tosses his braided creation into the water, and watches it be swept away.
"And if you see my brother," he says, "please tell him to hurry home."
--end--
++++++++++++++++++++++
Man of Wax
Fullmetal Alchemist; anime
Hoenheim + Ed; series spoilers; forazremodehar
Prompt: God, black, brilliance
607 words
Hoenheim Elric has rarely touched his sons.
Not the first one, who grew up to inherit his mother's sly mind -- not the youngest, who looks like the only woman he's ever loved.
And not the middle one, bitter and angry and closest made in his own image. Ed spends his day working like a man possessed, hunched over notes and books, lost in his own world. It reminds Hoenheim of his own youth, when he was desperate to find meaning, to find an answer that would make his short lifespan worthwhile.
It cost him the love of one woman, and life with another. He's been ten kinds of fool, and his sins are visited upon his sons, for all he did his best to distance himself.
Now he watches Ed scribble furiously, ink stains on his fingers and cheeks, and wonders if there has ever been any more danger than this. Alphonse had Tri's round cheeks and smiling mouth, but Ed had her fine-boned beauty, in ways that were dangerous.
"Ed," he says finally, and his voice is loud. "You should go to bed."
"I'm busy," Ed says, without looking up. His candle is burning low; in a moment, it will snuff itself out. There are spots of ink in Ed's hair, and Hoenheim focuses on them, little dark blots against a sea of gold, like a reverse night sky.
"Icarus," he says, "your wax is melting."
It's not really a pet name, and it's not meant to be one. Ed's fingers tighten for a moment on his pen, and his lips press to a thin line. He doesn't look up, only hunches further over his notes. "I'm busy," he says. "I'll go to bed when I'm finished."
But he won't be finished, Hoenheim thinks, not for a long time -- maybe not ever. He ponders this stranger that is his son, with his own hair and eyes and echoes of poor lost Tri in the slant and set of his features. There's a puff and a soft hiss, and suddenly the room is dark; Ed's candle has gone out, and only the moonlight streams in.
"Icarus," he says again, because he can't help but associate that legend with Ed, whose already flown in the face of God more times than should be allowed. In the moonlight, Ed's hair shines gold and silver both, except where the ink has stained the strands. "You really are Icarus, aren't you, you --"
"Shut up." Ed stands in a sharp, jerky motion; the prosthetics pain him more than he will ever admit, especially to Hoenheim. "Shut up, asshole, just -- I'm going to bed. Shut up."
As Ed clumps past, his sleeve brushes against the bare skin of Hoenheim's arm, right under where the rot had been set. The smell of ink and old dusty papers followed him like a cloud. He closes his eyes: Dante smelled like that once, his beautiful sharp scholar-woman, who'd been everything he'd dreamed of and nothing he'd wanted.
He doesn't move until he hears Ed's bedroom door close. And then his breath comes out in a hiss, slow and pained. Tri would weep to see her son now, he thinks -- she would weep to see him hunched over his books like an old man, working his way steadily towards rock bottom.
"God help me," he says, though he is an alchemist, he is a scientist, he is a man of reason who has no place for God. There's only this dark room, and no one is listening -- and certainly not the boy who's already left him. "God help me, I can't save him any more."
--end--
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Radio Heroes
Fullmetal Alchemist [manga]
Hughes/Gracia; fordaringu
Prompt: "high noon sun"
300 words
Radio dramas had become popular in his academy years, in the uneasy time just before the Ishbar War began. He remembered tinkering radios as a cadet, counting down the days before they were all shipped out to the front line, of being clustered with his fellow soldiers around one tiny set and listening for home in the airwaves. Westerns were the most common of the dramas, all the actors drawling in long, exaggerated accents. Good and evil were plain black and white, and there was always a pretty girl who'd go home on the hero's arm, off into the sunset.
Maes sometimes wished to be one of those men, with their gravely voices and their keen eyes. They only drew their guns when necessary, and in the end, anyone they killed deserved death. It was all right in drama, because they were the lonely heroes under the high noon sun. They didn't crawl on their bellies through the desert, targeting the innocent alongside the fanatical, "just in case." Their kind couldn't exist out here, where sand got into everything and you could never be sure that the familiar faces you saw in the morning would still be there at night.
When his tour duty was over and he came home again, his girl met him at the train station and enveloped him in soft arms. He didn't remember too much of that exact moment, only that he stood with his face against her hair and thinking of nothing at all, really. She'd said nothing, he'd said nothing, and they'd just stayed together, as the crowd moved around them. The war was far from over, and all the battles were not yet won, but for a moment he was the hero of dramas, battered and dusty, finding his place at last.
--end--
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The End of the World in a Paperback Novel
Fruits Basket [anime]
fortheladyfeylene
Prompt: "Fruits Basket ... AND THE END OF THE WORLD!"
489 words
"Senseeeeeeeeeeeeei!"
Shigure stuck his pinky finger into his ear and twisted. Maybe, he thought, he could wheedle Tohru-kun into cleaning them for him later.
"Senseeeeeei, are you even listening to me?"
At the very least he could ask her to buy more Q-tips. Though certainly if he suggested one, the other would follow. Tohru-kun was a good girl that way.
"Sensei, the deadline is in three hours! THREE HOURS! Aren't you listening?!"
And maybe he could ask her to make oyakodon for dinner. It wasn't his favorite, but he'd been craving it for a few days, and certainly with Tohru-kun's cooking abilities, she would certainly be able to pull it off. He'd mention it to Yuki, or possibly Kyo-kun, so they could do the shopping for her.
"SENSEEEEEI!"
Perhaps with the right dinner, he'd be able to find inspiration to finish his next novel! But before that, he would write his shopping list. Eggs, he wrote. Chicken. Mushrooms, because they were almost out.
"Sensei, I'm begging you, the manuscript!"
Shigure looked up, and then down, at the young woman curled in a ball by his feet. "Mitchan, you should be careful," he said. "Lying like that is bad for your back."
She looked up at him, with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Sensei ..."
"Besides," he said grandly, "you should learn to put things into perspective. Not having the manuscript isn't the end of the world!"
Her eyes went huge and sparkly. "Does that mean you --"
"Go home and have a nice dinner," he said. "Maybe a little wine, and relax! Life is too short for this sort of worrying, Mitchan, you'll be bald before you're thirty, and that's never attractive."
She looked ready to cry. "Sensei ..."
"Also," he said, "I have a package I need to be delivered. If you could mail it for me? It's on the kitchen table."
Her mouth opened, then closed, working silently. After a moment, she sighed, her shoulders going limp. "This is awful," she muttered. "Sensei, you should take this more seriously, this is how your paycheck and mine is taken care of ..."
"Have a nice day, Mitchan," he said as she left, then turned back to his desk. Tohru-kun and the others would be home within an hour or two, so if he wanted to plan out a menu, he would have to get started on that soon.
From the kitchen, Mitchan started sobbing again. Shigure considered going to comfort her, and decided the manuscript would be enough. Really, she worried too much about little things; it was the bigger things -- like in his novel, his first foray into science fiction, where monsters and giant robots ruled the world in the wake of the Apocalypse -- that were really important.
At the end of his shopping list, he wrote Q-tips, and then set it aside to wait for Tohru-kun and the others to arrive home.
--end--
Two more to go, I believe, from this post here. WOO.
The Measure of Human
Fullmetal Alchemist [anime]
Lust + Al; series spoilers; for
rennuianPrompt: Wrath, wreath, winter
844 words
Sometimes Al dreams of women, with long flowing dark hair and sad, distant faces. One is his mother, not his mother, whose fingers are cold and damp to the touch, and she seems to reach inside of him, curling her fingers around his heart and pulling it out to show him. Whenever she did, his brother would scream no don't touch him leave him alone, but whenever he turned, he'd always be alone.
Other times, the other woman is there, her dark mouth pulled into a pout, her red eyes distant. She never touches him, only skirts around him, and even when she her eyes meet his, she's looking through him. Sometimes she weeps, and blood gathers in the corners of her eyes and overflows, running like scars across her white skin.
"Who are you?" he finally asks her, following her across a blackened plain. It was once a desert, but there are huge burned craters where the grains have been melted to glassy black, and it crackles loudly under their feet. "Who are you? Do I know you?"
She does not turn. She clutches her shawl tightly around her bowed shoulders and moves faster, until Al loses track of her and comes to a stop, standing alone. And even if they're in a desert it's cold, the wind cutting through the thin cloth of his shirt and carving goose bumps out of his skin. He wakes and finds all his blankets kicked to the floor and his breath steaming faintly in the air. When he sits up and presses his hands to the glass, it's snowing outside.
These are more gaps in his memory, more clues to the four years he's missing. When he tries to ask questions, Winry will look to Rose and shake her head, and find some way to avoid the question. I wasn't there for much. You should ask your brother.
But his brother isn't there, though the years trundle past. Every turned corner is a dead end, every path ends abruptly; there are a thousand and one roads, and none of them go anywhere. A few times, he catches himself thinking that maybe his brother is just a figment of his imagination, something and someone he dreamed up to keep him company, in the lonely time after his mother's death. He is always horrified by these thoughts after they pass.
Al studies alchemy voraciously and dreams of these women, and of men -- in the blue uniforms of the Amestris military, swathed in the robes of an Ishbarite refugee, and flashes of one dark-haired figure who shrieked poison as he drove his fist through -- his fist through --
Al can never remember the rest. When he wakes, shivering and sick to his stomach, he feels he's glad for that.
But the woman lingers, like a bitter ghost. Sometimes he swears he can hear her voice, low and husky, rising and falling in familiar cadences. It drives him crazy, listening to her, never quite able to make out her words, and finally he corners Rose when Winry isn't there to hush her, and asks.
Rose looks at him with her mournful eyes, then bows her head. "She wanted to be human," she says softly. "So much that she defied the person who gave her life, so she could die like a human."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Rose's knuckles are white from pressure. "I don't know. I only remember a little, myself."
Al looks at her a moment. "But she died?"
"She died." Rose's voice grows softer. "You were there, and your brother, too. I remember someone saying."
When she says nothing more, Al turns and walks off, into the fields. The corn has long since been harvested, the wheat stored away, but there are still long, dry strands of grass that remain. He picks these, and there is a memory: his brother doing the same, waving the grass around like a switch and laughing, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.
After he has enough, he goes down to the river, to his "argument place," and sits down. For a moment, he feels strange: he hasn't fought with anyone in a long time, and it seems the place no longer remembers him.
He's an alchemist, though, and he knows better than to believe in silly superstitions, or old wives' tales. He stares out at the dark surface of the river; it hasn't been cold enough these year for the water to freeze over, but it moves sluggishly, twigs bobbing their slow steady way downstream.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he says. He believes in monsters, because he's seen them -- he has remembered the horrific, rotting, inside-out creature that had meant to be his mother. "But, if you're listening ... I can't help you. I don't even remember half of what I was. I don't remember you at all."
He tosses his braided creation into the water, and watches it be swept away.
"And if you see my brother," he says, "please tell him to hurry home."
--end--
++++++++++++++++++++++
Man of Wax
Fullmetal Alchemist; anime
Hoenheim + Ed; series spoilers; for
azremodeharPrompt: God, black, brilliance
607 words
Hoenheim Elric has rarely touched his sons.
Not the first one, who grew up to inherit his mother's sly mind -- not the youngest, who looks like the only woman he's ever loved.
And not the middle one, bitter and angry and closest made in his own image. Ed spends his day working like a man possessed, hunched over notes and books, lost in his own world. It reminds Hoenheim of his own youth, when he was desperate to find meaning, to find an answer that would make his short lifespan worthwhile.
It cost him the love of one woman, and life with another. He's been ten kinds of fool, and his sins are visited upon his sons, for all he did his best to distance himself.
Now he watches Ed scribble furiously, ink stains on his fingers and cheeks, and wonders if there has ever been any more danger than this. Alphonse had Tri's round cheeks and smiling mouth, but Ed had her fine-boned beauty, in ways that were dangerous.
"Ed," he says finally, and his voice is loud. "You should go to bed."
"I'm busy," Ed says, without looking up. His candle is burning low; in a moment, it will snuff itself out. There are spots of ink in Ed's hair, and Hoenheim focuses on them, little dark blots against a sea of gold, like a reverse night sky.
"Icarus," he says, "your wax is melting."
It's not really a pet name, and it's not meant to be one. Ed's fingers tighten for a moment on his pen, and his lips press to a thin line. He doesn't look up, only hunches further over his notes. "I'm busy," he says. "I'll go to bed when I'm finished."
But he won't be finished, Hoenheim thinks, not for a long time -- maybe not ever. He ponders this stranger that is his son, with his own hair and eyes and echoes of poor lost Tri in the slant and set of his features. There's a puff and a soft hiss, and suddenly the room is dark; Ed's candle has gone out, and only the moonlight streams in.
"Icarus," he says again, because he can't help but associate that legend with Ed, whose already flown in the face of God more times than should be allowed. In the moonlight, Ed's hair shines gold and silver both, except where the ink has stained the strands. "You really are Icarus, aren't you, you --"
"Shut up." Ed stands in a sharp, jerky motion; the prosthetics pain him more than he will ever admit, especially to Hoenheim. "Shut up, asshole, just -- I'm going to bed. Shut up."
As Ed clumps past, his sleeve brushes against the bare skin of Hoenheim's arm, right under where the rot had been set. The smell of ink and old dusty papers followed him like a cloud. He closes his eyes: Dante smelled like that once, his beautiful sharp scholar-woman, who'd been everything he'd dreamed of and nothing he'd wanted.
He doesn't move until he hears Ed's bedroom door close. And then his breath comes out in a hiss, slow and pained. Tri would weep to see her son now, he thinks -- she would weep to see him hunched over his books like an old man, working his way steadily towards rock bottom.
"God help me," he says, though he is an alchemist, he is a scientist, he is a man of reason who has no place for God. There's only this dark room, and no one is listening -- and certainly not the boy who's already left him. "God help me, I can't save him any more."
--end--
++++++++++++++++++++++
Radio Heroes
Fullmetal Alchemist [manga]
Hughes/Gracia; for
daringuPrompt: "high noon sun"
300 words
Radio dramas had become popular in his academy years, in the uneasy time just before the Ishbar War began. He remembered tinkering radios as a cadet, counting down the days before they were all shipped out to the front line, of being clustered with his fellow soldiers around one tiny set and listening for home in the airwaves. Westerns were the most common of the dramas, all the actors drawling in long, exaggerated accents. Good and evil were plain black and white, and there was always a pretty girl who'd go home on the hero's arm, off into the sunset.
Maes sometimes wished to be one of those men, with their gravely voices and their keen eyes. They only drew their guns when necessary, and in the end, anyone they killed deserved death. It was all right in drama, because they were the lonely heroes under the high noon sun. They didn't crawl on their bellies through the desert, targeting the innocent alongside the fanatical, "just in case." Their kind couldn't exist out here, where sand got into everything and you could never be sure that the familiar faces you saw in the morning would still be there at night.
When his tour duty was over and he came home again, his girl met him at the train station and enveloped him in soft arms. He didn't remember too much of that exact moment, only that he stood with his face against her hair and thinking of nothing at all, really. She'd said nothing, he'd said nothing, and they'd just stayed together, as the crowd moved around them. The war was far from over, and all the battles were not yet won, but for a moment he was the hero of dramas, battered and dusty, finding his place at last.
--end--
++++++++++++++++++++++
The End of the World in a Paperback Novel
Fruits Basket [anime]
for
theladyfeylenePrompt: "Fruits Basket ... AND THE END OF THE WORLD!"
489 words
"Senseeeeeeeeeeeeei!"
Shigure stuck his pinky finger into his ear and twisted. Maybe, he thought, he could wheedle Tohru-kun into cleaning them for him later.
"Senseeeeeei, are you even listening to me?"
At the very least he could ask her to buy more Q-tips. Though certainly if he suggested one, the other would follow. Tohru-kun was a good girl that way.
"Sensei, the deadline is in three hours! THREE HOURS! Aren't you listening?!"
And maybe he could ask her to make oyakodon for dinner. It wasn't his favorite, but he'd been craving it for a few days, and certainly with Tohru-kun's cooking abilities, she would certainly be able to pull it off. He'd mention it to Yuki, or possibly Kyo-kun, so they could do the shopping for her.
"SENSEEEEEI!"
Perhaps with the right dinner, he'd be able to find inspiration to finish his next novel! But before that, he would write his shopping list. Eggs, he wrote. Chicken. Mushrooms, because they were almost out.
"Sensei, I'm begging you, the manuscript!"
Shigure looked up, and then down, at the young woman curled in a ball by his feet. "Mitchan, you should be careful," he said. "Lying like that is bad for your back."
She looked up at him, with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Sensei ..."
"Besides," he said grandly, "you should learn to put things into perspective. Not having the manuscript isn't the end of the world!"
Her eyes went huge and sparkly. "Does that mean you --"
"Go home and have a nice dinner," he said. "Maybe a little wine, and relax! Life is too short for this sort of worrying, Mitchan, you'll be bald before you're thirty, and that's never attractive."
She looked ready to cry. "Sensei ..."
"Also," he said, "I have a package I need to be delivered. If you could mail it for me? It's on the kitchen table."
Her mouth opened, then closed, working silently. After a moment, she sighed, her shoulders going limp. "This is awful," she muttered. "Sensei, you should take this more seriously, this is how your paycheck and mine is taken care of ..."
"Have a nice day, Mitchan," he said as she left, then turned back to his desk. Tohru-kun and the others would be home within an hour or two, so if he wanted to plan out a menu, he would have to get started on that soon.
From the kitchen, Mitchan started sobbing again. Shigure considered going to comfort her, and decided the manuscript would be enough. Really, she worried too much about little things; it was the bigger things -- like in his novel, his first foray into science fiction, where monsters and giant robots ruled the world in the wake of the Apocalypse -- that were really important.
At the end of his shopping list, he wrote Q-tips, and then set it aside to wait for Tohru-kun and the others to arrive home.
--end--
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Okay, this little lurker and fan of your stories has had enough. I hope you don't mind if I friend your journal, so that I can stalk... with ,i>ninja stealth? ^_^;;
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(I don't mind at all! You don't even have to be ninja-stealthy, I like talking to people. :3 Feel free to friend me, if you want♥)
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I'm glad you enjoyed it, thank you! ♥♥♥
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(and I've never mentioned it before, but that icon is incredibly cute)
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Wonderful. Much love to you.
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Thank you very much, I'm glad you enjoyed this! ♥♥♥
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I'm glad you liked this, thanks for letting me know! ♥♥♥
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I hope I didn't keep you up too late tonight...
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(And nah, one's not so bad, and I don't have my earliest class on Tuesday -- I just knew that if I didn't get off AIM when I did, I would have stayed up too late. No worries♥)
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And upon reading the other two FMA ones (still haven't seen Furuba unfortunately): you're so versatile in working with all the different characters. Very cool. <3 Thanks again.
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And thanks for the comments on the others. :D I'm always glad to know people enjoyed my stuff♥♥♥
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Yeah, poor Mitchan gets abused so much and so often, I sometimes think she deserves some sort of reward for putting up with Shigure. XD I'm glad you liked this~
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I LOVE LOVE LOVE the piece you wrote for me!
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and erm...... I'll stay off coffee the next time I comment >_<;;;;
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Thanks, I'm glad you liked the rest too~ XD
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The 2nd drabble is the one I truly loved. The symbolism of comparing Ed to Icarus - an idea which gets wider and develops more interpretations the more I think about it O_o - was just... impeccable. Hoenheim's thoughts on his son are so sad, and yet so detached at the same time, as if he were looking at Ed from a distant future, where all has passed. At least, that was the impression I got. He says he cannot save him, but there was little he could do, at any rate, after Trisha died.
Ed's behaviour was also beautifully in character. You truly captured his obsessive, self-destructive and passionate tendency to jump into things and sink with them. Through Hoenheim's eyes, he became vividly intense. The tone of the drabble was just lovely, one can almost sense the distance-and-similarities between both father and son, and the undercurrent of feelings between them (more hate on Ed's side, here, which was also nice).
The smell of ink and old dusty papers followed him like a cloud
Another image that will stick around. ^_^ Your writings really ARE very 'sensory' (?). I like how you combine the character's physical action with their feelings, and add to that other cues, such as Ed smelling of dust and ink... it makes for a very complete, very absorbing picture.
Ah... I've been wanting to comment on your stuff for a while, but I always get bashful and then don't. ^^ <-- sht00pid individual... I read your stuff back when you were into YYH.
Which makes me one of the slowest reviewers in history, methinks. I should so comment on that other FMA fic you wrote, about Ed's reaction to Roy being Fuhrer... Hm... will do so sometime this week. ^__^ To make up for years of non-commenting: *hangs head*no subject
Wow, I mean -- wow. XD I got this comment and I was terribly flattered by this; it's extraordinarily kind of you to take the time to say anything at all, especially about a handful of small drabbles. ♥♥
I'm really glad you enjoyed the first one -- it actually gave me the hardest time of all of them, mainly because I couldn't think of a good way to have Al and Lust meet until almost the last moment. XD; The fact that Al still comes across as Al makes me very happy♥
Given that there is a version of the Icarus story in the actual FMA world itself (the one Ed tells Rose in the first two episodes), it doesn't surprise me that he'd recognize it -- it's just I think that in our world, the hero actually has the name that Hoenheim applies to Ed. Since seeing him, I've always felt that Hoenheim genuinely loved his sons, but in a much more detached way than he ever loved Trisha, especially given his bad luck with children before.
Please don't feel shy or embarrassed around me (and yeah, I know, easier said than done XD;;). I really really love hearing from people, and it's always great to hear from people who're willing to discuss and natter along with fandom things with me. XD Though dude, if you read my YYH stuff and you're still following me, wooooow. I commend you for having the patience to keep up that long, haha. XD;;
Thank you so much for the kind comments; they really made my day♥♥♥ I really appreciate hearing from people, whee♥♥
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I remember that the Icarus story was told on the FMA universe, I had simply never looked deeper into it, nor applied it to Ed. My brain registered it and filed it away for...er... doing nothing with it, apparently. ^^U I liked your take on it because it's Hoenheim who points the similarity out, and there is a considerable amount of irony in that.
I also have the impression that Hoenheim loved his sons, but in a different, abstracted fashion. Being over 400 years old must have made him immune to a number of things, and I believe Trisha was just an exception. Children would probably be a complicated subject, indeed - as you pointed out - considering his first son. (I actually wrote a fic along those lines not long ago, having a craving instrospective!Hoenheim and his interaction with Ed, post-series. The angst potential won me over. ^.^)
I was shy about writing to you because I've been lurking for too long. XD! Well, not 100% of the time: after YYH you went into fandoms I had no inkling of, and I just drifted off, keeping vague tabs because, damn! I like your writing. I just recently became a FMA
fangirlsqueeee!!!follower, so... ^_^ Yay for fiction-ness and comments!Ah yes, other fanficky of yours I'm in love with: the one about Roy getting a post card. X_x That just killed me, talk about writing something short and sharp enough to leave an ache.