Prompt: 100moods #25 Depressed
Disclaimer: Unless wishful thinking counts, I don't own FMA.
It’s a sinking feeling. It aches and throbs, dragging to the depths of nothing. It’s a wordless, noiseless scream, a sobbing, wretched thing that leaves him a little more broken each day.
It falls in the snow, soft, silent and deadly. It bites in the wind that whips and thrashes on the window panes, whistling angrily around the shack he calls home. It buries him deeper with each step he takes outside, worming its way in until there’s no warmth left, nothing with which to fight it.
It’s a creeping, skulking darkness that gnaws at the sun. The golden light that dripped in long locks of hair, that glittered in wide, intense eyes is fading by inches and miles.
It’s a desperate, bleeding thing. Planes of warm, bronzed skin are fading, leaking crimson in his dreams. Locks of hair scatter over stone, matted and crusted with blood. There’s no reason to believe that is what happened. There’s no evidence Ed’s body was ever even there. Still, the dream is haunting and chills him to the core.
He wakes up one day, and cannot remember the exact curve of the once familiar smile any longer. He cannot recall just how the light gleamed in amber eyes. There’s a voice that calls to him in half wakefulness, but it is hollow and broken, an ebbing shadow of whatever it was when Ed was still around.
Two years have passed, and it still feels like dying. He wishes on nights like these that Riza had not saved him. What is there left to him now?
He cannot help but resent the sacrifice Ed made. He has seen Alphonse, knows the child is beautiful, innocent to the horrors of this world now that he has forgotten. Roy knows the gate, knows it as Ed described it, and does not believe it would have granted something so beautiful in exchange for nothing.
He knows Edward would hate him for his selfishness, for resenting the cost of a dream made real. He cannot help it though, because he misses having someone to love. He cannot remember what automail wrapped around his shoulders feels like anymore, and it’s driving him mad.
Ed’s lips were deceptively soft, but he cannot remember the pressure of worried, shaking kisses. There were whispered confessions once, but the words are lost to him now.
Red and gold wrap around him, choking him even in his dreams. Blood and liquid gold that fall like rain, run in heavy currents over his skin until he is drowning in all that Edward was.
He wakes and the fire has gone out again. He is too weary to care, shaking from cold, shaking from sorrow, and if Edward would just come home it could all be okay.
It is only a distant voice, unclear, unrecognizable that saves his battered body. It prods and urges, shoving him from the bed to relight the fire.
How will you hold me when I come home if you’ve frozen to death?
Who does he think he is fooling?
Have a little faith.
There is no faith, no belief left to be had. He is swallowing down the lies his own mind feeds him, grasping at the threads that hold his mind together. He clings to sanity, his fingers slipping in the silence of this place, interrupted only by the howling, angry wind, and the crackle of flames he has no desire to see again.
He could not save even one.