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31_days2010-05-26 03:07 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2010-05-26 03:07 pm
[May 26] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Adjustments
Title: Adjustments
Day/Theme: May 26, 2010 "I write it out in verse"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee (before the war)
Rating: PG
There was sheet music in his brother's office. Kimblee picked it up and studied it, roughly imagining how it might sound within the echoing confines of his own mind. He carried it over to the piano and tapped out the notes, slowly, much slower than they were written to be played. He changed the timing too. He made the piece into a waltz. He was always doing things the way he liked. He did what he wanted in a way that didn't give anyone pause. He was polite, and since he had left his hometown, he was generally well-regarded.
Lon had been too. But Lon had been well-regarded in Millerton, while he had not. Neighbors found him suspicious. When they were "those Kimblee brothers." Maybe Mr. Shepard even regretted passing the old alchemy books on down to them- to him.
Lon had imagined they might run a business. "Kimblee & Kimblee" the sign could say. There was only one "Kimblee" now, and that was him. He didn't have to be "Solf" any longer. He'd never cared much for "Solf."
Kimblee thought that a man was supposed to be sad when he went through his dead brother's things. If someone confronted him, he could probably act properly, but privately there was no need. He didn't really feel sad, just mildly curious. Lon had kept some things from him. Of course he would; he was his own man. But Kimblee hadn't known what. There wasn't just one little thing. There were pages and pages, books and boxes, scribbly journals and notebooks of sheet music, letters from girls, an overabundance of photographs (Family photographs, photos of the two of them, more photographs of just Lon himself than was seemly- it made him into a narcissist postmortem. He must've liked posing for them.) and various news clippings.
The music was the most interesting to Kimblee. The Kimblee. The only Kimblee. These were Lon's notes. His private notes. Kimblee could tell. And older brother could always tell. He scooped up binders of them and sat at the desk, where Lon must have sat each day (Kimblee had seen him sitting here plenty of times himself, after all), and studied the music. Some of it he knew, some of it he could learn. He would take the work for his own. Lon had always been better at writing music.
He thought about how he had ruined a good suit with his brother's blood. He hadn't been thinking fast enough to avoid that. Remembering the explosion, remembering the blood, words came to him. There was melody to the music. Melody enough. He took up his pen and added words. They flowed from just a tick faster than he could transcribe them.
The music was Lon's way, the verses were his. Alchemy upon alchemy, an opera grew.
Day/Theme: May 26, 2010 "I write it out in verse"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee (before the war)
Rating: PG
There was sheet music in his brother's office. Kimblee picked it up and studied it, roughly imagining how it might sound within the echoing confines of his own mind. He carried it over to the piano and tapped out the notes, slowly, much slower than they were written to be played. He changed the timing too. He made the piece into a waltz. He was always doing things the way he liked. He did what he wanted in a way that didn't give anyone pause. He was polite, and since he had left his hometown, he was generally well-regarded.
Lon had been too. But Lon had been well-regarded in Millerton, while he had not. Neighbors found him suspicious. When they were "those Kimblee brothers." Maybe Mr. Shepard even regretted passing the old alchemy books on down to them- to him.
Lon had imagined they might run a business. "Kimblee & Kimblee" the sign could say. There was only one "Kimblee" now, and that was him. He didn't have to be "Solf" any longer. He'd never cared much for "Solf."
Kimblee thought that a man was supposed to be sad when he went through his dead brother's things. If someone confronted him, he could probably act properly, but privately there was no need. He didn't really feel sad, just mildly curious. Lon had kept some things from him. Of course he would; he was his own man. But Kimblee hadn't known what. There wasn't just one little thing. There were pages and pages, books and boxes, scribbly journals and notebooks of sheet music, letters from girls, an overabundance of photographs (Family photographs, photos of the two of them, more photographs of just Lon himself than was seemly- it made him into a narcissist postmortem. He must've liked posing for them.) and various news clippings.
The music was the most interesting to Kimblee. The Kimblee. The only Kimblee. These were Lon's notes. His private notes. Kimblee could tell. And older brother could always tell. He scooped up binders of them and sat at the desk, where Lon must have sat each day (Kimblee had seen him sitting here plenty of times himself, after all), and studied the music. Some of it he knew, some of it he could learn. He would take the work for his own. Lon had always been better at writing music.
He thought about how he had ruined a good suit with his brother's blood. He hadn't been thinking fast enough to avoid that. Remembering the explosion, remembering the blood, words came to him. There was melody to the music. Melody enough. He took up his pen and added words. They flowed from just a tick faster than he could transcribe them.
The music was Lon's way, the verses were his. Alchemy upon alchemy, an opera grew.