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scar hated when it rained.
in ishval, it was hot, yes, but it was blessedly dry. rain was an old friend, who visited once a year and stayed for a week, then disappeared. but it was always a treat when it did rain. the streams were drenched in fresh, sweet water, and the thick, spiked trees perked up and sang when their roots were kissed with ishvala’s gift. it was always cold, the rainwater, and left the air sticky and cool for days after.
it fascinated him, when he was just a boy. where did it come from? where did it go? why did it rain so little in their sand-brushed town? he was acquainted with everything else, but rain captured his imagination and held him close, tightening around him like a rough blanket. the sun was a mother, warm and hovering, even though she was far, far away. the clouds were a gentle friend, soft-spoken and soothing, and the harsh winds were a brother, stern and harsh, but playful and teasing. but rain? rain was a thunderous occasion, dark and loud and violent. lightning split the sky into tiny shreds and sent him running under the covers.
his brother always knew when the storms scared him. he’d gently knock on scar’s door and come in, to find his younger brother quivering under heavy quilts. he would speak in a soft voice and explain that the loud noises and flashes of light were nothing more than the sparks scar felt from his wool sweaters sometimes. that this was natural, it wasn’t something to be afraid of. just like plants needed open space to grow and move, this energy needed somewhere to go as well. he was safe inside the house, and he needn’t worry. he was four, and logic was a bit less tangible than the crashing screams of lightning, but his brother always soothed him, always helped him.
but now it was raining, and his brother was gone, and he was all alone.
scar was always in pain, but it was always worse in the rain. maybe it was the damp and the wet, the way he could feel it creeping into his muscles and rotting, decayed flesh filling the caverns of his ribcage. maybe it was the pressure, the way his head would pound and strain against the bone of his skull. his joints would stiffen and crack, as if they, too, were expanding, trying to push and stretch out of his too-thin skin. and his arm was the worst. it would throb and ache, a dull pain that spread through his borrowed limb (was it even his? he wasn’t quite sure anymore). he couldn’t move without something twinging, a sharp reminder of everything he’d put his body through.
most days like this, he stayed in his room. miles understood, and let him be. he’d usually emerge for lunch or maybe some tea, to sit and talk for a while, before even that was too much for him. but today was not usual. it was a specific pain, a brand on his arm and a fire in his veins. he missed so much it hurt. he missed the way his mother used to make tea, always with too many cloves, because she loved the warm way the scent filled the house. he missed the way his father used to laugh, a deep, melodic tune that billowed through the house like a summer breeze. he missed the way his brother used to talk, used to smile, used to pray, with scar quietly at his side. he missed his house, his town, his food, his clothes, his god. he missed his god. it wasn’t the same in amestris. he felt a traitor, a liar who had turned his back on his people and on ishvala. he couldn’t think about it without feeling something break inside of him. he was a failure. he was a mistake. he was a waste of his brother’s life.
his mind was a hollow thing, a numb emptiness and a cold comfort. he could get trapped in it, slipping into a crevice and falling for hours. it was a thing with spines and teeth, but he felt he deserved it. how could he sit here, reveling in the joys of life, when so many others were dead? when he escaped, leaving the rest of his country to suffer? why was he allowed to live, when his brother lay in a shallow grave somewhere unknown, unnamed? it wasn’t right. it wasn’t fair.
there was a small knock on the door.
scar didn’t move.
a soft patter of footsteps headed back towards the kitchen, and scar finally willed himself to stand, to open the door. every muscle in his body screamed, but he managed to walk across his room. when he pulled the door open, there was nothing but a small bowl and a spoon. he picked it up, and almost cried.
it was sholeh zard , a sweet rice pudding with saffron and cardamom. it was his favorite dessert, one his mother used to make for birthdays and special occasions. scar was never allowed to make it, but he loved to watch her doing it. she would stir the rice oh, so gently, humming to herself as she gently added in the aromatic rosewater. he would linger around her ankles and tug at her skirts, and with an exasperated smile, she would hand him a small spoonful of the rice. “be careful, saghir , it’s very hot.”
scar, of course, would stuff it in his mouth and then hiss in displeasure as the hot pudding scalded his tongue. his mother would tsk and pour him a glass of cool water, and remind him to be more careful next time. he would never listen. scar dove into all things headfirst, without thought of danger or caution. that was one difference between him and miles. scar was impulsive, reckless, where miles was calm and calculating. he knew every risk, every outcome, everything.
of course miles knew he was in pain. that his body ached, that he was missing his home, thinking of his brother. in honesty, miles knew him better than he knew himself. it was a new feeling, but not unwelcome. there was something soothing about it. that miles knew him, knew every little thing about him, and still wanted him. still loved him. miles was there for him, always and forever. scar didn’t have to do this alone.
with a groan, scar pushed himself off of the floor, careful to hold the dessert upright. he opened the door and slowly walked out into the living room. miles was sitting on the couch, drinking tea and enjoying his own bowl of sholeh zard. when he heard scar approach, his face split into a broad smile. “hello, albi . i see you found your gift.”
scar nodded, and quietly sat down next to miles. setting down the bowl, he leaned against miles, careful to keep weight off of his right arm. his cheek pressed against the other man’s shoulder blade, with soft white curls brushing up against his forehead. miles was so, so warm, and scar was so infernally cold. he nestled in closer, his head now against miles’ chest, so close that he could feel his heartbeat. scar was many things, a murderer, a survivor, a brother and a son. but right now, he was miles’. he felt safe and he felt loved, and that was all that he could ask foR.
“thank you,” scar murmured into miles’ chest, “it tastes just like her’s.”
miles gently ran his fingers through scar’s curls. “i’m glad.” he pressed a kiss to his forehead.
scar closed his eyes, the sounds of the rain a million miles away. finally, there was someone else. someone who wanted to be there, to help when they could, and to be there even when they couldn’t. to hold him and braid his hair and kiss the fear away. he was finally safe. he could finally rest.
he was finally home.