The Pen is Mightier! (penismightier) wrote in chaotic_library, @ 2011-06-30 01:43:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | edward elric, fma, fma: anime, fma: post-anime, post-series, r-rated, short shorts, slash, yuuo, yuuo: fma |
[Edward Elric; R] Somehow This Hell Is Home
Character/Series: Edward Elric; Fullmetal Alchemist (original)
Rating: R
Notes: Written for first line prompt 'So this is Hell. The walls need paint.' from emilie_burns. Sorry this took so long, love. :( I suck.
Title: Somehow This Hell Is Home
Author: yuuo
Word Count: 550
Summary: So this is Hell. The walls need paint.
So this is Hell. The walls need paint.
Edward turned his head, looking around the room, at the cracked and peeling paint, at the dirt, at the cockroach skittering up the wall, at anything but the man above him, pounding into him without a shred of finesse or grace. Edward could feel the thin lubrication of blood and the fiery ache of torn tissue.
But it was money, money that would pay for food and Alfons's medicines for another week. Money that would buy him another bottle of scotch to crawl into the bottom of and wait out the heart ache of missing his brother, of watching the only friend he had in this miserable world slowly waste away in front of him.
Oh god, isn't he done yet? This hurts. I want to go home. He wanted a shower, even though nothing would wash off the many layers of 'oh god, why did I do that'. Nothing would wash off the filth of selling himself like a cheap whore, nothing would wash off the dirt, the grime, the blood and the come.
But Franz had paid him up front for this man, with a promise of future jobs when they were needed, and if this man would ever hurry up and get off, he'd get paid again from him.
The bed squeaked ominously underneath them, and Edward honestly wondered if it would hold up to the heavier man's gruntings and thrustings.
Finally, the sweat-soaked man went still and rolled off, pulling on clothes while he left Edward laying there, feeling as if his flesh were trying to crawl off his body. The man tossed the money on his chest and left. Edward waited for several minutes before he grabbed the money and sat up, wincing at the pain.
"Asshole," he grumbled to himself, carefully dragging himself off the bed, stuffing the money in his pants pocket before going to the bathroom to clean up. The bathroom was as dirty as the main room, and Edward knew he'd be taking a shower when he got home, if only to clean that dingy flat off of his skin. Franz had it set up for his customers to use, but how anyone could focus on sex in such filthy conditions was beyond Edward. Especially sex someone was paying for.
Edward watched without much emotion as a roach crawled across the toes of his artificial leg. He kicked it away, finished cleaning up, then stepped back into the main room to get dressed. He wanted out of that room, out of that flat, and quite frankly, out of that world and back home. Where things made sense. Where there were other options to him besides to sell himself to sweaty, overweight men that had to pay strangers for sex. Where there was a way to maybe fix Alfons. Where his brother was waiting for him.
But there was no getting out of Hell. Edward would be back to this room, of that he had no doubt. And some part of him had already reasoned that he'd never get back home, either. Alfons would die, and Edward would wither away, cast away from the light.
The least this world could do was slap on a fresh coat of paint.