Colours- I

#1- Reality

He always closes his eyes as they kiss, as if afraid to see her face so close to his own, as if the reality will be lost if he does; she keeps her eyes open, drinking in the shape and gentle contours of his face. He is almost afraid to touch her, unsure and constantly doubting what seems so real- the feel of her skin, the softness and light touch of her hair- he doesn’t want to ruin them; she wraps her arms around him and holds him close to her chest. He always wants to talk, needing assurance that she is really there, that what he feels, she feels too, and that she is happy; she tells him that she has never been happier, and it is true- but she is tired of talking, has done nothing but talk to him for her whole life- and she kisses him just to keep him quiet. He has always been cautious, and explains softly to her that he doesn’t want to spoil everything by moving too fast; she laughs at the idea and tells him with fervour that if anyone will move too fast in this relationship, it will be her.

And, somehow, he finds that a comfort.

#2- Haste

Ed realises, of course; realises that their visits get longer and longer each time; realises that his little brother’s face has begun to light up more and more at the prospect of going to see her; realises that he himself has suddenly become the composed one, walking steadily along as Al breaks away from his side and runs eagerly down the path to the wide yellow house; realises that the sentiment is reflected in the way she dashes out of the door, sometimes with a tool or piece of wiring still clutched in her hand, and flings her arms around him.

And as they whirl each other round in the embrace that gets more and more heartfelt every time they see each other, and Ed’s unwavering pace at last brings him to where they spin together, a smile lodged on his face despite himself, he reflects wryly that if things continue this way, he won’t put it past Al to begin damaging his older brother’s automail in secret, just so he can come here and see her face again.

#3- Colours

Her eyes are blue, and of a certain shade he almost never sees anywhere else. Most of his life is dark and violent, and this is reflected in the colours of his brother’s clothes- black, and red. He himself is grey, a terrible colour, lifeless and meaningless when compared to her vibrancy. He sees grey, black, dark green and red, all around him, everywhere in the life they lead, reflecting the nature of their mission and the pain of their journey in everything he sees. He spots navy, in the severe military uniforms, and gold, in the flash of his brother’s hair. Even yellow and white are not unheard of. But, he reflects silently as he watches her raise her eyelids and look at him, a smile spreading over her face, bright blue is a colour he sees only in her gaze, and in the dazzling midmorning blaze of the sky.

#4- Bluebell

He tries to count the number of times he’s told her he loves her, tallies them up in his mind, and wonders if it could possibly be enough to express the way he feels about her. He says it constantly, asleep or awake, whether shouting it at the top of his lungs from down in the garden as she laughs from the windowsill two stories above, or whispering it into the gentle whorls of her delicate ears, almost talking to himself, dusky and drooping beneath a heavy approaching sleep. But it feels insufficient, as if he must do much more for her, pay her back, satisfy the equivalent exchange of all she has done for him over the years. He worries about it constantly: surely all her kindness and tolerance and patience have given him more that he has paid back with his inadequate words of love.

Head filled with the idea of showing her his gratitude, he slips out of the house early one morning, leaving her asleep in the bedroom, and gathers flowers from all around the house, plucking them from his carefully cultivated plots until his arms flow over with them. He goes into the kitchen and fills countless vessels with water, then sneaks cautiously back upstairs, balancing everything in his arms, to where she sleeps, hair spread like sunlight over the rumpled white sheets. He puts the largest bouquet on the dressing table in a chipped blue vase and fills the room with the rest of the flowers, in jars, pots, mugs and glasses. He places one last flower, a tiny bluebell, on the windowsill where she can see it as she opens her eyes, and at last flees from the room, flying down the stairs breathless with excitement.

She comes into the kitchen where he is sitting a few minutes later, hair tangled and loose over her shoulders, holding the flower between curious, sleep-numbed fingers, and places it on the table in front of him, looking a question at him with her eyes.

He silently picks up the bluebell and tucks it into her ruffled golden hair, just above her ear, in response.

And as the smile dawns across her face, washing warmly over him, and she reaches up to kiss him, he realises that Equivalent Exchange is wrong. There is nothing he can give that will be equal to this.

#5- Routine

A long time ago, before anyone was entirely sure about the nature of their relationship, Ed used to sit between them on the sofa.

He enjoyed it; enjoyed sitting with them, his brother on one side, their mutual best friend on the other; enjoyed the company the two of them provided. He also appreciated the sense of control: sitting there in the centre, keeping the flow of conversation moving between them all.

That was the way he saw it.

But over time he slowly, subconsciously became aware that that was not the way it was. Nothing had changed on the outside, and nobody spoke of the tiny difference that had come over the situation, but Ed could somehow sense the two of them shifting uncomfortably, but invisibly, as they sat wedged on either side of him. There was an almost imperceptible weight in the air, as though they were communicating with each other over the top of his head- which by now could have been achieved with grace and ease.

He didn’t mention it, fearing that it would sound stupid and not entirely sure about it himself, and continued doggedly in the old routine, pointedly ignoring the looks they gave him.

One summer day, instead of going into the living room after dinner, he decided to go for a walk outside. The day had been hot, gradually forcing the sweat out of him, and cool air was something he was in need of.

When he came back inside half an hour later he headed straight for the living room to sit and relax. He turned the handle and opened the door with next to no sound, and when he came into the room he saw them sitting on the sofa, kissing with their arms around each other.

He closed the door as silently as he had opened it, and went into the kitchen, sitting at the table and staring at the wall for a long time.

The next day he bolted his dinner and strode off into the living room without a moment’s pause after he finished, positioning himself slap-bang in the centre of the sofa. It was a mix-up of a sofa, one that had never quite decided whether to sit two people or three. Normally they could all three fit onto it, but they would be slightly squashed together- just enough to be cosy- but the way he was sitting now, legs wide apart, there was barely room for a small person on either side. He stretched his arms out along the back of the couch in order to take up as much space as possible, settled himself, and waited.

They walked in together a few minutes later, and stopped in the doorway when they saw him. He looked up at them, frowning, almost glaring from under his brows. They stared back, wide-eyed, bewildered.

Then Ed’s face split into a grin and he moved over, edging up to the far end of the sofa and patting the cushioned seat beside him.

Sighing with relief, they walked over to join him, and their smiles were grateful and happy as they sat down together.