[envy/alfons; nc-17] A Cold, Dead Moon Title: A Cold, Dead Moon (aka "Zanne's First-Class Express Ticket to Hell") Author:emilie_burns Fandom/Pairing:Fullmetal Alchemist; Envy x Alfons Heiderich; implied EnvyxEd and AlfonsxEd. Written for:fma_fuh_q month 5 (Envy) claim Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 3506 Warnings: Rape and twisted Envy-brand mindfuckery. Some cough-related descriptions that might turn the weaker stomachs, and not recommended for anyone with a weak stomach for the abuse of Al-types. Spoilers: End of Series/Movie Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) is copyrighted by Hiromu Arakawa/Square Enix. This is a work of fanfiction for personal entertainment only. And yes, the author is fully aware that she is going to hell for writing this, but then, she's going to hell for a lot of things, so what's one more? :D Notes: So many slash fics (and het fics, to be honest) treat penile penetration as the ultimate goal of a sexually-oriented fanfic. It's been ranted about enough in the past on fanficrants that I wanted to try something different. It probably would have been classifiable as "hot" if the fic hadn't demanded being written in the POV it's in. Hmm. Just something for me to keep in mind for my next slash fic, eh? Teaser:He felt the stranger laying on his back, lips brushing his ear in cold mockery of tenderness. Original LJ Post Date: September 6, 2006 @ Chaotic_Library
A Cold, Dead Moon
"The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo." - William Shakespeare; Love's Labours Lost
Alfons never liked how the moon looked in the fall. It looked colder in the winter, but there was a sharp sort of clear beauty to it, the way it illuminated snow and ice. In the fall, it lacked that brilliant shine of light reflecting off silver, or perhaps mercury. In the fall, it only looked dead.
He turned away from the window, chiding himself for the distraction; there wasn't enough time for woolgathering, and he rather regretted it. Not just for the time lost, but for the way his thoughts played and preyed on his mind. Edward had left for an overnight trip to try and locate his father; money had been too tight the last month. Although he'd lived on his own in that flat for longer than Edward had been living with him, it was harder to go back to how it was before. It seemed colder in there, darker, without that cryptic, intense heat of passion that was in nearly everything his unusual roommate did.
"Get back to work, you're just being silly," he whispered to himself in German, and fetched another cup of weak tea before sitting back down at the table to resume his studies. He continued looking over the designs, the formulas, the equations, looking for anything missed, anything he could improve, anything to tweak and refine and impress the sponsors in hopes of getting more funding out of them.
A knock at the door startled him, and with a frown, he glanced to the clock before getting up to open it. It was late; who could be calling at that hour? A familiar face greeted him on the other side, brushing past him into the flat without a word.
"Edward, you're back already?" Alfons blinked, feeling a knot of dread forming. This could not have good news, especially not how his roommate was acting. He shut the door. "Forget your keys again?" he asked, trying to smile, trying to lighten the mood. It's not bad news, tell me it's not bad news.
"Yeah." Edward's voice was flat, monosyllabic as he looked around the room. His gaze landed on the table and he smirked. "Enamored with your work, I see."
"I wouldn't put it like that," Alfons said, crossing his arms, trying to get rid of that sick, tight feeling inside. It was making it hard to breathe. "Just... something to do while you were gone." He hesitated. "Did you find your father?"
The smaller blond's gaze snapped to him, and Alfons almost recoiled from the passionate intensity of hatred there.
Cold hatred. No heat. None at all. Even at the worst of his rages, Edward always burned hot. Like fire. Like the sun.
Then a twisted grin, chilling, like icy death, bared his teeth. "No. No, I didn't."
For the first time, Alfons felt scared. "Ed-- Edward... what's wrong? What happened?"
"What happened?" Edward repeated, his tone mocking. It was his voice, but... it wasn't. It wasn't.
It wasn't him.
The certainty of truth froze his blood, and his lungs ached, threatening a coughing fit. The grin widened.
Alfons turned to the door, quick to reach for the knob, to get out of there, to escape, to hide (oh god, it's a nightmare, I'm asleep and this is a nightmare and it's not real) but there was a weight to the door preventing him from pulling it open, a body pressed against his back, a hand gripping his hair hard enough to make his eyes water.
"Where are you going?" the Not-Edward whispered, his voice silky, coy, almost gentle. The hand, the fingertips stroking over the pulse on his throat was cool. Too cool to be Edward's. Too cool to be human.
Oh, god. "Who are--" His question dissolved into a coughing fit, his lungs spasming and rattling wetly, and his mouth tasted of copper.
"What a weak thing you are. You'd never be enough for him. You'd never be able to be what he wants," that silky voice purred in his ear.
And then, before he could formulate even an inward reply, there was a sharp flash of pain as he was jerked roughly from the wall and shoved to the floor. Alfons tried to push himself up, to get away, to fight back, anything, but it took more than he had to draw even a decent breath.
Weight settled on him, pinning his hips, Edward (Not-Edward) sitting on his waist. Nothing more, nothing less. Finally, the coughing spasms abated, and his head swam, dizzy as he tried to breathe.
"So this is what's drawn his attention." There was a low, throaty chuckle that made his blood turn to ice. Ice like the fingers on his cheek, soft and cool. "A pale imitation of the real thing, but an imitation nevertheless. I really have to wonder about Shorty some days."
"You're not Edward," Alfons managed to say, his voice a raspy, hoarse whisper, thick with cough and strain.
"Looks like we have another boy genius here." The voice -- Edward's voice -- was mocking him. "Was it terribly hard for you to figure out? Granted, I did give you a few clues."
"Wh-- who are-- no, what are you?" he asked. Not who. What. Those fingers weren't human. And how could someone be so completely like Edward and not be him? Was this the brother he spoke about? No, no. It couldn't be. That brother, he supposed looked like him, and he looked nothing like Edward.
The weight on his hips shifted, and he felt the stranger laying on his back, lips brushing his ear in cold mockery of tenderness. "I'm everything you want," Edward's voice whispered, and then grew harsher with a hateful intensity. "And everything you'll never have."
Alfons flinched and tried to turn his face away. No, no, not true, that's not Edward, he's not Edward, it's not true, Edward cares about me, he does, he's-- everything I'll never have? Not true. No, no, not true, I don't want him. And even as the thought went through his mind, another inner voice resounded deeper, lower, like far-rolling thunder, renouncing it as lies.
"Fine, fine, I get it, I understand, I'll leave, I'll leave him alone, I don't even want him!" Alfons insisted, trying to choke back the coughing fit threatening to cut off his ability to even breathe. "Just go away, please go away, I'll leave him alone, just go!"
"Why are you so eager to get rid of me?" Something wet -- a tongue -- traced along his ear and he shuddered, repulsed. "I'll play your little games, give you a taste of what will never be yours."
He felt sick; fear knotted his stomach and lumped in his throat and he couldn't breathe. His lungs burned and his mouth tasted of foul, thick copper. "No, no, I don't want him, I don't care, just go away!"
"But that would be heartless of me." There was a note of sick glee in the voice. The weight shifted and was briefly gone, and reflexively he sucked down a lungful of air, triggering an uncontrollable coughing fit so intense he almost vomited. Maybe he did. He gagged and choked and spat out thick, yellowish, blood-laced mucous and the taste made his stomach heave in protest.
Even before he could be sure the coughing fit had passed, a booted sole shoved rough against his hip, flipping him onto his back. The Not-Edward thing pounced, a frozen sun, full of all the same intensity but cold, an ice fire in those gold eyes.
"What a weak little human you are," Not-Edward said, the tone sardonic, the lips curled in a smile that looked alien to those features. Edward was hardly the friendliest of roommates, a constant brooding storm shadowing over the brilliance, a scowl almost perpetually marring his face, but he was never cruel. "You should be thanking me. I'm doing you a favor. There's a saying here, it's better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all."
"Shut up," Alfons whispered, closing his eyes tight. "Shut up!"
The slap left his cheek first cold, then burning hot, and stars jumped in his eyes. "You're nothing, a nobody. He only gives you the time of day because Shorty's so damn obsessed with his brother it got him killed." Another dark grin appeared as he was able to get his eyes to refocus. "Yeah. Killed. How well do you really know Shorty anyway?" He planted his hands on Alfons' shoulders and gyrated his hips in a slow teasing motion. "This well?"
He tried to shove him off, tried to get away, tried to him stop, but he couldn't even budge him. Lashing out, he managed to rake stubby fingernails over that face, trying to make him recoil, loosen his grip, anything. Instead, he watched in horror as the bloodied welts closed up right in front of him.
"So. Copycat likes to play," Not-Edward purred, grinning with a feral sadism that made his stomach clench. "I never pegged you for the rough sort. Appearances are deceptive." He leaned in and licked Alfons's lips. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Get off me! Get away from me!" Alfons's grasp on English slipped and he continued screaming at the Not-Edward in German, resorting to profanities that always made his ears grow hot whenever he heard his roommate mutter them, stalking around their small apartment in one of his tantrums. When the hands left his shoulder, he found a burst of adrenaline reaching beyond the burning lungs and throbbing headache that was starting to form, and balled his fist for a punch. He only managed a glancing blow to the chin before his wrists were captured, pinned hard above his head with only one hand.
Oh, God, please, God, no, stop, please. Another coughing fit rattled his lungs and choked him, but even behind that he was aware of another hand unbuttoning and undoing his trousers. Cold fingers slid into his boxers around his flaccid penis, stroking and fondling it.
"This is what you really want, isn't it? You want him doing this, sucking and fucking his brother's look-alike. He's so pretty, isn't he?" Not-Edward said, and Alfons tried to protest, tried to tell that thing to get away, to stop touching him, to go back to hell and the words thundered and screamed in his head over the heaving, rattling cough that kept him from even fucking breathing.
Then he realized hands -- hands; plural -- were tugging his boxers past his hips, baring him down to the knees, and his hands were free. Lungs burning, aching, he struggled to sit up, trying to summon the energy to hit him, to shove him away, to escape and he struggled, every muscle on fire from the lack of being able to breathe, his lungs spasming and rattling wetly and choking him. He kicked and hit and tried to push or pull him off, but those chilled, dead hands gripped his hips hard enough that he was certain he'd have bruises.
And he felt a mouth there. Opening his eyes, focusing them on the Not-Edward was the worst idea he ever had. It wasn't Edward, it wasn't, and it looked like him, like what he'd always imagined in those rare moments he had alone, his hand around his cock, stroking it, pretending it was Edward's hand, pretending to feel that perfect mouth wrapped around it, and he struggled harder, hating that faint twitch, that slight, reflexive hardening as he tried to push that face away from him.
Then the Not-Edward straddled his legs, pinning them, and a hand shoved hard on his chest, pressing him back against the floor with enough strength that even if his lungs would cooperate, Alfons wasn't sure he would be able to breathe. That mouth, that face, kept sucking him, and a wet, firm, cool tongue was lazily dragged over the sensitive head, teasing the foreskin, flicking over that bundle of nerves along the underside.
"Alfons?" He hated that voice -- it was Edward's voice and it wasn't. "Don't you like this?" Another rough lick. "Don't you like me sucking your cock? You dreamed about this, didn't you? You like pretending you're fucking my lips, don't you?" For emphasis, the tongue darted out, and frozen golden eyes stared at him with feral intensity.
He groaned and coughed and closed his eyes, trying to blot the sight of his head. Not Edward. Between the pain and coughing, it was more difficult than not for his body to sustain an erection, even with direct stimuli, once the sensations ceased. Even then at best, it was only a partial hardness, not the solid, aching need of a true hard-on.
Another shift of weight shifted the clarity of focus back out from the dazed trance prolonged coughing fits always brought about, and his buttocks clenched in reflexive recoil as he realized the Not-Edward was moving up his body with no indication of leaving. In fact, he was aware of chilled skin against warmth, and wondered when the intruder had even managed to shed his trousers without Alfons realizing that.
But he made no move to shove Alfons's legs apart; instead, Not-Edward ground his hips against him, a cock too cool to be human rubbing against his semi-flaccid warm one. "Do you like that, Alfons?" Not-Edward purred, and thrust his hips against him in a lewd manner. "Do you like feeling your cock against mine?"
"No," he managed to gasp, coughing out the word.
The lips parted in another dark grin, the only light and warmth there a pale reflection from the actual face the Not-Edward wore. He leaned forward and licked Alfons's cheek slowly. "And why not? I'm Edward, aren't I? Don't you want me to fuck you?" Another thrust punctuated the question.
"No. No, you're not Edward, and no, I don't!"
"Are you really sure about that? Maybe I really am Edward."
Alfons could not breathe. No, no, it's not Edward, you can't be Edward, you can't. Think. Think about it. It's not him. It looks like him, it sounds like him, but he's cold, too cold, in every way, it's not him.
"What? Nothing more to say?" He continued thrusting, cock against cock, cold against heat, his motions slow, teasing. Alfons kept his eyes firmly shut, blocking out the sight of that face, the sight of him, repeating over and over in a never-ending round in his mind.
Shock forced his eyes open when he felt the Not-Edward shift his weight, sitting up, and felt a hand, slimy and wet, wrap around both of their cocks, the chilled, hard one and his softer, warm one, stroking them together. Before he could question the wisdom of it, he looked down, and stared in state of incomprehension at the red smears. Realization dawned even as he turned his head, looking over at the floor where he'd laid, face down, wracked with coughing spasms. Alfons slammed his eyes shut tight and he gagged, his stomach heaving in protest and revulsion and he struggled again, trying to get away from that demented thing with Edward's face.
"You like this," he said, practically purring as cool fingertips stroked over the spongy head, making his cock twitch in reflex. The stimulation gradually coaxed blood downward, bringing him to a moderately hardened state, trapped between the Not-Edward's hand and cock. Alfons didn't answer, gritting his teeth, trying to breathe, trying not to cough, trying to wake up from the surreal nightmare, get out of his skin, get away, stop.
"That's nice. So do I. Bet you've thought about this a lot, how Shorty's cock would feel rubbing up against yours, how it would feel to bury it inside his ass, fucking him until he's a sweaty, panting mess on the bedsheets." Suddenly, the hand gripped with an almost painful intensity, holding still, and the Not-Edward rocked his hips, thrusting up against his hand and the hardening cock. "But you're never going to know, are you?" he hissed. The grip bordered on vicious, and somewhere in the back of Alfons's mind, he felt something akin to dark amusement that it was almost a welcome distraction from the burning, intense ache in his lungs.
It was too surreal. It couldn't be happening. He could almost pretend that it was just all a very, very bad nightmare, and he would wake up from it, and everything would be fine.
"If you touch him, I'll know. And I'll come back for you. And next time it won't be this enjoyable for you."
Alfons shuddered, trying to keep his stomach from losing anything it might still contain as his lungs seized up. He pressed his lips together in a futile effort to stay the coughing fit, but couldn't stop the wracking, rattling coughs which made it impossible to breathe. It was a mixed blessing; when the fit subsided, he became aware that the Not-Edward's hand was no longer squeezing their cocks together. Then his lungs tightened in another fit of protest as both hands rested on his chest, the Not-Edward's weight pressing down on him.
"Now here's a question, dear pale imitation scientist," he said, the golden eyes mocking and scornful as Alfons looked up at him. "Is this real, or is this all just a very warped delusion from a sickened mind? Prove I exist, someone who looks like Shorty in every way, who steals his voice, and yet..." The lips curved into a dark grin. "Prove me. Defy your precious science and logic and believe this is real. Who'd believe you?"
And in the next heartbeat, he was gone.
Alfons lay there, trembling and coughing, and trying to ignore the ice frosting over every nerve as the words reverberated in his mind. He sat up, slowly and pained, gasping for air, and looked around the apartment. The Not-Edward was nowhere to be found. He couldn't even remember hearing the door shut. The only immediate evidence was the cool, drying semen on his clothes and skin, and the blood-tainted mucous smeared over his limp cock. Even his hands were covered with it, but whether it had been from jacking off in a fevered delusion, or covering his mouth during the fits, it was hard to say.
Who would believe such a thing could exist, let alone would take place. Why him? Why this? Admitting to it would likely mean admitting to Edward that the visitor -- if there even had been a visitor -- to how he felt. And admitting to that would likely lose him the last ray of light in the twilight years.
Everything you'll never have.
Alfons tried to get to his feet, stumbled, and crawled away to the bathroom to try and scrub away the nightmare.
He opened his eyes when he heard his name.
"Alfons!" There it was again, accompanied now by running, uneven footsteps, the door banging open. "Alfons!" Panic. Fear. "What happened? Are you okay?"
He couldn't turn around, didn't want to see the face, that face. He curled up tighter. "I'm fine, Edward."
"Don't give me that!" The footsteps rushed around the bed, crouching beside it, and Alfons squeezed his eyes shut tight. "The kitchen..."
The kitchen? His stomach clenched; he'd forgotten to clean up the kitchen. A hand touched his forehead and he flinched. The hand was warm. Life-warm.
"Goddamnit, I shouldn't have left you, are you okay?"
"Who was that, Edward?" he whispered, not daring to open his eyes, wanting to sink into the bed, through the bed, into a hole in the ground and never wake up.
"What, who?" Confusion. "It's just me, Alfons. The kitchen, did you have another one of your coughing fits?"
Don't say it. That way lies madness. It was just an attack of sickness, a delusion from a fevered mind. Nothing more. Nothing happened. Don't tell him a thing. "Yes. It's okay now. I'm sorry, I would ha--"
"Don't apologize!" A harsh tone, a snap. Alfons flinched. "God, I'm sorry, Alfons, I shouldn't have gone, stay there, do you need anything?"
He risked opening his eyes and saw the sun. Brilliant, intense, alive, warm. Passionate worry. Passionate guilt. "Water," he whispered, then snaked a hand out to grab his arm as Edward pushed to his feet, feeling the heat of his skin through the shirt. "Did you find him? Your father?"
For just a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then a wide smirk cracked his lips, and Edward's tone was brash, cocky, alive. "Of course I did. That old bastard's not able to hide from me. I'll get you water, and then I'll go get some more medicine for you, and pick up some food. He gave me a little extra, do you want anything special?"
Everything you'll never have. And nothing I can bear to touch now. Alfons closed his eyes. "Just water would be fine."