Morphed

Chapter Twenty Eight

So, it's been just over a month since my last update, and I'm super sorry about that. I know I said I'll have this story finished by the end of the year, and I swear I will, but ugh, motivation is so hard to come by these days.

Also, I technically have a job now, too, so that makes things just a bit harder.

For the sake of conversation (and totally not because I wanna up the word count to make myself feel better about the shortness of this chapter) I turned seventeen at the start of this month (June 5th to be precise) so that was cool. I got an iPad of my very own for said birthday so now I can draw on that instead of vying for time on the family iPad, so my drawing output has increased slightly (Yo, check out my DeviantArt would ya? Much like when I write, when I draw comments are love and I tend to get a grand total of zero when I post art... [ WrathAndRain is my account name by the way {links don't post here -_-}]).

I also got a scarf - which I love, a DVD - Doctor Strange, woot-woot, an iPencil - for drawing on said iPad, and some adorable, fluffy sleep-socks with little zebras on them because Winter is BLOODY COLD (it's been getting down to -1 over here in dear old 'Straya) and my feetsies were getting coldsies.

Anyway, enjoy. :3

./././././././

Previously:

He very vaguely registered Mustang picking him up by his bangs and lifting him into the air. The pain from having his hair pulled then hit him very suddenly, and he grunted. Mustang lowered himself to eye level.

"You're a piece of shit, you know that, Elric? An ungrateful. Piece. Of shit." The words stung Ed, and he fought tears as Mustang dropped him unceremoniously back onto the bed and left, slamming the door behind him. As the lock twisted and the sound of Mustang's steps faded away, Ed, not bothering to pull the blankets back over himself, instead letting the change come over him and warm himself with his fur, curled into a ball.

And cried.

./././././././
Can't undo the scars
All up and down our hearts
Can't forget how it felt when it all fell apart
And we talk a big game like we wanna get well
In our prison made of pain
Only fooling ourselves

~Get Well II (Icon For Hire)

./././././././

"Al wants us to stay for dinner tonight." Ed said as they ate breakfast at the relatively small dining table the next morning. Mustang didn't even look up at him when he said no. Ed sighed. Sorry, Al, he thought, I tried. He stuffed some more pancake in his mouth, stomach growling, hungry from receiving no food the night previous. Something else he retained from last night was a pounding headache accompanied by a lump on his head, and a black and purple bruise right on his chest from where Mustang has kicked him. He also had a little bruise on his back from the drawer handle. He'd made sure to put on a shirt that covered it all up completely.

He doubted the shirt could cover up that it hurt to breathe.

After a few minutes of silence while Mustang continued to ignore him, intent on devouring whatever knowledge the day's paper had for him, Ed decided to try again and find out what the Colonel had learned from that bastard, Hohenheim, but maybe from a subtler angle.

"So," he said, as casually as he could, "What's on the itinerary for today?"

"You misused 'itinerary'." Was Mustang's response. Ed clenched his fist.

"Oh?" He prompted. Mustang sighed, likely in exasperation.

"Itinerary means a planned travel route, or a document detailing a travel route. 'Schedule' would work better in your context."