Munchausen's Flight (HeiEd, NC-17)
hime1999 was in need of HeiEd smut this morning? So I wrote some XD;
Title: Munchausen's Flight
Author: cryogenia
Pairing: Heiderich/Ed
Genre: NC-17
For hime1999; SUBTITLE BY herongale, hooray!
It is a measure of how well Edward Elric has settled into his life that he doesn’t even notice the first time the boy goes missing - roommates so familiar, they no longer need to consult on hotcakes and rashers and all the other minor details of domesticated life. Their morning routine is simple but iron-clad - Edward takes the first shower while Alfons starts the bacon, then Edward sets the table while Alfons fetches the paper - and so he is almost to the eggs before Alfons realizes that something is missing from the surrounding soundscape.
He does not hear the drip of the shower, or the step-thump of Edward’s peg leg, or the tell-tale cursing in the hall.
And he’s not sure why this bothers him, exactly. Academically, he is aware that Edward is probably just fine. They hadn’t been drinking (not that he’d let Edward - the boy is completely unmanageable); they hadn’t been any related bar brawls (again, because he knows better than to let his friend drink). He has slept in, that is all; it is Edward’s natural inclination. He’s just surprised that he didn’t remember to wake his friend up.
The door to the study is still slightly ajar, even at ten ‘o clock, and it confirms his hypothesis. Edward only closes the door entirely when he’s vacated the study, so Alfons
“Edward?” He calls once, softly.
No response. He closes his fingers around the doorknob - why is he so nervous, this is ridiculous, it’s his own damn house - and tugs it open, peers inside. There are no lights on, only the faintest glints of daylight slipping in through the cracks in the Venetian blinds.
Edward is lying on his belly in the gloom, still in his nightclothes. Etching something furiously with a yellow piece of chalk.
Across his bedsheets again, Alfons notes sourly. They are already ringed with circles, ghostly echoes of vandalism past - water alone just doesn’t cut it. They don’t have the money to afford to buy bleach.
“Edward?”
Edward starts, drops his chalk.
“Oh, uh. Good morning!” He yelps, visibly embarrassed. He rakes the sheets aside with a violence, as if they are something dirty.
“I’m uh, that is…” He colors, looks away.
Only Edward. Alfons thinks. You’d think I caught him masturbating.
The thought is strangely compelling. Alfons finds his own cheeks coloring, hot. He tries not to look at Edward unfolding himself from the bed.
“If you were feeling artistic, you could have just asked me. Paper isn’t that precious.”
Edward stretches, arches his back in a delightfully cat-like manner. A slight hint of cream-colored stomach peeks out between his shirt and his pajama bottoms. Alfons is temporarily riveted.
“Well, you know how it is.” He says sheepishly. “Sometimes, when you wake up…you just have an idea, you know, and you want to write it down before you forget?”
Alfons nods. He does know, what it was like to wake up with an insight…
“Still doesn’t mean you have to write on the bed.” He grouses. “Come on, there’s bacon on the table.”
Edward grins enthusiastically - god, it’s nice to see him smile, he doesn’t do that enough, of late - and follows him eagerly back to the kitchen.
“Grab a plate.” He instructs. “You want milk?”
Edward makes a horrified face.
“Sorry, I forgot. Water, then?”
He fills a glass with well water and hands it to his friend. Edward reaches out to take it with his free, right arm. There, Alfons makes his mistake. He forgets that Edward’s false arm (that strange thing, which he will never, ever, just explain!) is weaker, slower to grasp things, and releases the glass too early.
It falls to the floor and shatters, christens the wood with the first spill of the day. Alfons watches stupidly as Edward hisses and springs backwards away from the shards.
Watches with concern as Edward claps his hands together for absolutely no reason at all, as he has been known to do.
Edward blinks and stares at his palms, as if he had expected something to happen.
“Shit.” He curses. “Motherfucker, godammit, fucking shit.”
Alfons watches him fuss, alarmed. There are still other glasses in the cupboard, nicer ones that weren’t already chipped.
“It’s only a glass, Ed!” He says, trying to pacify.
Edward looks at him and his expression is mournful.
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs shakily.
“Can’t even fix a goddamn motherfucking glass.” He mumbles underneath his breath.
Alfons swallows.
“W-why don’t you just go and take your shower now?” He suggests, pointedly cheerful. “I’ll stay here and sweep up.”
“But it was my faul-“
“You’re not wearing shoes; I am. Go on, get out of here!”
Edward nods slowly and retreats through the doorway, still with that hang-dog expression. Alfons watches him go, looks with concern at the chalk smudges still visible all over his friend’s hands…
The niggling fear at the back of his mind is that his friend is actually crazy.
The floor is clean a scant five minutes later; not by magical chalk circles but by dust pan and broom. Alfons returns the instruments to the crowded closet where they live, and dusts his hands off.
He realizes that he still hasn't heard the shower.
“Edward?” Alfons calls, sticks his head into the hallway. No sign of his flat mate, there, either. The bathroom door is slightly ajar though, and he moves timidly to close it.
“Edward, please, you need to remember to pull the door shut - it’ll warp the wood-“
Edward is not there, either.
He runs a hand through his hair, nervously. He knows where his friend has to be - there’s only one other room, besides the bedroom, and Edward never ventures there - but he also recognizes that his study, for better or for worse, is Ed-space. He doesn’t want to-what if he--
What if absolutely nothing is wrong, and he’s just inventing things out of an ill humor? He is doing them both a bad turn by standing here worrying over nebulous things that he cannot even put a name to. Determined, he turns and walks to Edward’s-the study’s-door, knocks as firmly as he can.
“Yeah?” Edward calls promptly, and he is immediately relived. Honestly, what had he expected? Edward has a strange effect on him, sometimes; makes him jump at shadows. See things that aren’t there. Perhaps his madness is catching, or perhaps, Edward himself is just a form of madness that man has yet to identify.
Alfons hears a slight shuffling. “It’s okay, I was just headed out…” He fails to appear though, and continues failing as the minutes drag on. Alfons sighs and turns the handle slowly, invites himself in.
“What are you doing in here?” Alfons asks gently. Edward is standing at the desk (his desk!) fiddling with some papers, drops them immediately. He fidgets a little, as if debating telling him some grave secret.
“I was just thinking about the structure of glass.” He says. “You said I could use some of your paper, so…”
He does not seem inclined to flaunt his scribbles, but Alfons, curious, peers at the one on top. Another one of those thrice-be-damned circles. Alfons swallows.
What did one do with crazy people? Humor them?
Edward seems to notice the direction of his gaze, colors slightly. It is a beautiful thing, but an uncomfortable expression mars the effect. His friend rakes the offending page to one side, picks up the stack, apparently to bury it.
“Wait…um. So, uh…tell me. What does this one do?” Alfons asks, tries to back off from this. Just roll with it. Anything to keep those strange eyes from darkening, those smooth lips from twisting downward. He finds himself staring at Edward’s lips a lot, lately; wishes he didn’t.
Edward’s smile is worth the uncertainty, a bright sunburst.
He pushes the page slightly toward him, still looks faintly embarrassed (and it is beautiful, and Alfons hates himself for thinking that; he should not WANT his friend to be embarrassed, even though it brings the color out). The circle - ‘array’ - is a maze of intersecting curves and symbols, some he recognizes, others he doesn’t. It is all nonsense, to Alfons. Edward, he…he really does seem to think alchemy was a real discipline. Is a real discipline. And every time he sees it, the way these arrays bring out the gleam in his friend’s mournful eyes, he can’t quite tell if it’s best to condemn it.
“Well, this - this is the theory for joining something together, see? These intersecting arcs - sand is primarily made of silica, when you break it down, you get silicon and oxygen. You have to-“
He pauses. Freezes, actually. Alfons curses himself, pulls away. He has leaned in too close again, and that makes Edward nervous. He can’t help it though, Edward just sounds so good when he’s talking, even about nonsense - smells so good, even though he hasn’t yet taken his shower - maybe because he hasn’t yet taken his shower, the night sweat is still on him, the warm scent of his natural heat -
“You do…believe me, don’t you Alfons?”
Edward is looking at him, and oh fuck, his expression may seem vulnerable but Alfons knows that his friend is hard as nails underneath; if he says the wrong thing now - and he’s said the wrong thing before, so many times - Edward will close up like a clam, and go take his shower, and then he will be perfectly polite and distant for the rest of the afternoon, but ever so often keep looking at him as if he just isn’t there.
How to do this? Alfons draws his breath in through his teeth. This may be the most tact he has ever had to exercise.
“I believe that…” He began. Yes, that was a good beginning.
“I believe that YOU believe very strongly in the idea of alchemy.” Alfons continues. Edward opens his mouth to protest, and Alfons holds up a hand. “I believe that you have a dream, and that is a good thing for you.”
And that you, for all your brains, could have just as easily been a master storyteller. He thinks, but this part he does not say. The wilder stories - the ones of his homeland, the ones of his folk-heroes, the great alchemists Fullmetal, Flame, Strong Arm - those are the kinds of fiction that great men would sell their souls to publish. They are wildly creative, inspired; all those things that people usually say to the insane yet brilliant. Maybe all writers are just mad, and their creativity is just a by-product of that madness. Alfons couldn’t claim to know.
He gives his friend a wan smile.
“You know what my dreams are. For all we know, they are just as impossible.”
Edward steps back, regards him. His face shutters up.
“I knew it.” Edward says, but there is no anger in his words, only resignation. “Sorry.”
He has misstepped. Again. Alfons wonders if there will ever be a time when he isn’t missing some piece to the puzzle that is Edward Elric, or if this is one of those where the picture on the box will never quite match the jigsaw that ended up inside.
Edward moves to push past him and Alfons stops him with a hand on his forearm, slides down to circle his wrist. Edward’s limbs are much stronger - even the false ones, for all that they are wood and metal - but he is never anything but gentle with Alfons. Alfons wonders if it’s because Ed is afraid of killing him.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Edward says, and yes of course, his voice is rocky. Alfons finds again (disturbingly) that there is nothing he wants to do more than shove his friend onto the bed to pin him down in one spot. He is so tired of Edward running from him all the time; at least the man can give him the courtesy to attempt to make things right.
“Edward, please.” He says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s okay.” Edward protests, seemingly flustered at being caught. “Really. It let me know you weren’t…”
“Weren’t what?” Oh god, oh god. If it wouldn’t seem any more suspicious, Alfons would have pushed Edward’s arm away as hard as he could.
“That you…” Edward is looking at him again, and for once, there is relief in his eyes. It is strange. “That you weren’t somebody else I used to know. You know. Well, you don’t know, but…” He takes a long, shaky breath.
“Suffice it to say, I very much doubt HE would scoff at alchemy.”
And who is ‘HE’, Edward? Alfons wants so desperately to ask, but he can’t push it. Not now, when he’s finally gotten a hint that there IS a ‘he’, that Edward DOES in fact look at him that way because he remembers some old acquaintance. No, rather more familiar with that. Even lover. His treacherous mind supplies, and Alfons shudders. He honestly does not know whether he would be saddened by that, or gladdened that it makes it even a little more possible that--
But Edward seems to require something more out of him, so Alfons mounts another feeble attempt at Rolling With It All.
“Well, I don’t disbelieve you!” Alfons says, as convincingly as he can muster. “I’m just…a man of science, that’s all. I’ll need it proven to me.”
The edges of Edward’s lips quirk up a little again. A shadow passes again, over his face.
“I remember a boy once, a long time ago, who wanted everything proved to him.”
Alfons nods. Another one of Edward’s stories, or…?
“Didn’t believe that god existed, because he couldn’t be proven. Or sin, for that matter.”
Edward goes silent, after that, seeming hardly to breathe.
“…what happened to him?” Alfons asks finally, when it is apparent no more is forthcoming.
“I don’t know yet.” Edward says, and his smile is so wistful that Alfons can no longer stand it. “That part hasn’t been written.”
He knows he shouldn’t do it. He knows he shouldn’t do it, and he embraces Edward nevertheless. He can always say he is just being friendly, if it comes to that. Right now, he thinks that Edward needs a friend more than he needs his life, anyways.
Edward trembles a little, does not even move under his light hold. He is taking a risk, a huge risk, but Edward does not strike him to the ground or call him a name or any of the other reactions he could have worried about. He did not really expect Edward too, honestly. Disturbingly, he’s always suspected that Edward might actually be worse - because Edward has this weakness in him, he’s afraid that if he asked, too brazenly, his friend might simply not be able to tell him “no”.
“A…l…” Edward says, hesitantly.
“Yes.” Says Alfons, and he hopes that is enough. He is too terrified to say it any plainer.
Edward sags into him so suddenly that Alfons almost doesn’t catch him; the weight does in fact send him staggering back toward the bed. His calves hit the mattress and he goes down on his ass, marvels at how ridiculously, horribly suggestive that is. Edward almost goes down on his knees, between Alfons’ legs, and that would be even worse, but thankfully the man has more grace than he does and catches himself just in time.
“S-sorry.” Edward says, looking down at him, and his face is a furious scarlet. Almost purple. It really hadn’t drained from earlier (Edward’s pale skin flushes and stays that way); now it has gotten even worse. Alfons licks his lips. Feels like he is quaking. What should he do now? Should he stand up? He’ll be right up in Edward’s personal space. Or should he stay where he is, pull on Edward, but Edward might take that the wrong way and get spooked.
“Um, here.” Edward says bluntly, and solves the quandary for him. He reaches out with his flesh hand (never the false one, never lets people TOUCH the false one!) and pulls Alfons up with one powerful tug, sends him reeling against Edward’s tight chest and staring up, breathless. Edward is strong, he forgets how STRONG his tiny friend is, and oh holy hell they are so close together their hips are touching, their legs are interlocked, they’re half a step away from just tumbling back down again…
Alfons makes the next decision, and brings his lips down to meet Edward’s.
His friend gasps and retreats from the sudden contact, and Alfons releases him immediately, starts running through the list of excuses in his head.
“Edward, I-“
“Sorry.” Edward ducks his head in that weird mannerism he always uses. “Sorry, I-fuck.” Runs his hand through his hair in his other patently Edward gesture. “I’ve just never…fuck.”
Ah. Alfons understands. Edward is skittish. Edward is also looking so miserable that he nearly considers letting him be, but Edward is staring at his lips, too, and that makes Alfons feel obligated.
“We can try it slower, then.” He says, disarmingly, keeps his hands out to either side and does not make any sudden moves to grab. Bends down slowly, gives Edward ample time to move away.
This time, the kiss is reciprocated.
He begins to wonder if the problem is not just that Edward has never been with a man before, but that Edward has never been with anyone. He seems stunned into submission. He eases up to nibble at the corner of Edward’s lips, and the man actually whimpers - makes a noise - at such a simple, simple action. It is irresistible.
No wonder. Alfons thinks grimly, watching carefully as Edward’s eyes roll back at nothing more than the slip of a tongue along the shell of his ear. He is always so alone, up in his head.
“It must be so lonely.” He does whisper, and Edward struggles a little at that. He seems to be having trouble figuring out where to put his own mouth, whether he should be speaking with it or devouring Alfons’ neck alive. He settles for both at once, but what he mumbles is completely unintelligible. Alfons hisses at the wet scrape of teeth along his skin; god, it’s been too long.
“M-more…” Edward gasps suddenly. Alfons complies, eager to please, and Edward is suddenly shoving at him, directing his mouth away from what seems to be a very sensitive left ear.
“More intense, than I thought it’d be.” Edward clarifies, averting his eyes. His body is not so demure, though; Edward has warmed to the idea of someone against him. He is rocking against the top of Alfons’ thigh, rather desperately now. Alfons’ own groin burns and he bends to slide his leg even further between Edward’s, give his friend something to press against and for the love of all that is holy, a way to press back…
They clutch at each other and shove together like a pair of wild animals, claw at one another and bite at mouths, necks, throats, anything they can reach. Edward is not gentle, now that he has started; he is ravenous, needy. He will not last long. Alfons catches Edward the elbows and sucks on his neck hard enough to leave a mark, urges the man to thrust against his thigh harder, faster. Edward rewards him with a throaty moan (sounds, he makes sounds) and looks like he’s about come standing up.
Edward leans into him harder, harder, and he just can’t stand like this anymore, it hurts too much, he doesn’t have the strength for it. He pulls back and Edward gives him a stricken look.
“Too hard.” He pants, and Edward agrees with him. “Can’t…”
“Yeah.”
It is only a moment before they both are sitting on the bed, entwined again with the sort of haste Alfons thought was reserved for teenagers sneaking down to the alley. Edward is sloppy, seems to be operating more by copying him than on any kind of actual instinct, but when he slides his hand down a little and makes a querulous noise, Alfons does not need any prompting at all. Some things are universal.
Think. Has to think. Doesn’t want to, thinking too hard. Armful of Edward. Edward is amazingly urgent, desperate; his tongue is writing symphonies across the divot of Alfons’ throat and it feels wonderful. But they can’t sit like this, have to do something; one of them is going to have to lay back more or something, he - ah, the chin, right under the chin, he has always been weak there. He hasn’t gotten a single article of clothing off and he already feels like he’s close, and that is enough to make his head spin.
He takes a deep breath and begins to lie back (doesn’t want to scare Edward, but scaring Edward seems like less and less of a possibility. So much pent up hunger, here). He pulls his legs up off the floor and runs them briefly into Edward’s side; the man is crawling dazedly toward him and doesn’t seem to have gotten the idea yet.
“On top of me.” He rasps, and stretches an arm out to intercept. They get briefly tangled up in each other’s limbs, in the sheets, in those god-forsaken yellow-circle dotted sheets, but it doesn’t matter because Edward is here, and Edward is smiling so hard his face looks like it’s about to split in half.
This is new. His smile says. Something he enjoys, something he likes; something that, heaven forbid, doesn’t make him want to run instantly back to his doodles and fantasies. Something of the world, something Alfons can share, and he doesn’t bother to even pretend anymore. As soon as Edward wiggles even halfway onto him, he grabs the man by the arms and hauls him up into a rib-cracking embrace.
Edward shudders and presses his lips against Alfons’ collar, claws at his shirt sleeves. Alfons guides his hips down, a little lower - bemoans the loss of mouth, but Edward is not tall enough to do this any other way - and brings their still-clothed groins together, bucks once, hard. Lets Edward get a taste of what it’s like to rub against his own hardness. It is pure, delicious friction, and he snakes his hand down intending to be bold, but Edward it seems, cannot wait for that.
He begins rubbing himself quickly, erratically, against Alfons and the motion sends sparks out behind his eyes. Beautiful, Edward and the friction and the floating wisps of hair, and the scent of him, feel of him, his very weight, pressing down on his body-
“I’m-“
He very nearly misses it when Edward snaps and comes, because he is soundless, but the expression on his face speaks the words that his lungs have no air to voice.
Edward shudders, spasms hard against him, and then finally collapses. Doesn’t move to one side, or another, just drops. Alfons swallows and whimpers, though he is not normally given to noise. It is possible he has never been more turned on in his life.
Please. He mouths, and shivers, arches as hard as he can under Edward’s dead weight. God, the man is beautiful, he wants to stroke him, hold him; but that is not an easy thing. His body is taut and screaming at him, and the need to come is overriding the need for affection and romance.
Please, Edward, just LET me…
Edward grunts a little and shifts slowly, agonizingly off him. He looks so tired, his head just lolls to the side. There is no tension left in him, just a bliss-filled full-body smile. He flops down on Alfons’ right, nestles snugly against Alfons’ side, and offers up a beautifully dazed expression.
If there were ever a case in which Alfons could believe in spontaneous human combustion, this would be it.
“E-Edward…” He wets his lips and dammit, needs his arm free; he’s right-handed and he NEEDS to use it, he’s going to die if he doesn’t. It isn’t even a question. Edward makes a soft sound but does not release him. Instead, slowly, sleepily, drags a heavy hand down across his belly. Alfons keens, can’t hardly believe it. There are no words now, only air; he draws the next breath in on a hiss.
Curious fingers run over his length; even through pants, the sensation is amazing. Edward. Edward is touching him, and that alone is almost enough to bring him. His lungs are on fire but he is not about to stop now, he is so CLOSE, so--
Edward’s hand is slowing, and at first he thinks it is his fault - thrusts his hips faster to compensate, until he realizes that there is simply no resistance there to meet. No, no no NO, he shakes his head, but there is no help for it. He looks over at his friend and realizes that Edward’s eyes have slid shut, and he is breathing out slowly in the low, steady cadence of sleep.
Ah well. It is frustrating, but the thought that he is what caused Edward to nod off makes his groin throb anew, and he surreptitiously extracts his handkerchief from his back pocket. He groans and pushes Edward's hand aside, forces himself not to give into the temptation to wake the man. It is weird doing this with his left hand, but it takes little more than an unzip, an unbutton, a few firm tugs, and then he is coming into the tiny square cloth, his lungs a pair of coals in his chest. A little much, perhaps that was. He remembers why he does not do this often, but it still feels so, so wonderful for the rest of him...
Edward’s hand never stirs from where Alfons displaced it, and he smiles through the sweat at the sight of it, lying lax upon his hip. Edward will need to get in the shower, eventually; is probably getting itchy down there already, but for now he can only lie here and concentrate on his breathing, listen to Edward snore gently beside him.
Lies there, amidst the stained and chalk-marked sheets, feels his breath coming in and out on a whistle, and wonders if Edward will still belong to his fantasy world when he wakes, or if Alfons, perhaps, can someday coax him into his own.
::take me away, then take me farther…::
Title: Munchausen's Flight
Author: cryogenia
Pairing: Heiderich/Ed
Genre: NC-17
For hime1999; SUBTITLE BY herongale, hooray!
It is a measure of how well Edward Elric has settled into his life that he doesn’t even notice the first time the boy goes missing - roommates so familiar, they no longer need to consult on hotcakes and rashers and all the other minor details of domesticated life. Their morning routine is simple but iron-clad - Edward takes the first shower while Alfons starts the bacon, then Edward sets the table while Alfons fetches the paper - and so he is almost to the eggs before Alfons realizes that something is missing from the surrounding soundscape.
He does not hear the drip of the shower, or the step-thump of Edward’s peg leg, or the tell-tale cursing in the hall.
And he’s not sure why this bothers him, exactly. Academically, he is aware that Edward is probably just fine. They hadn’t been drinking (not that he’d let Edward - the boy is completely unmanageable); they hadn’t been any related bar brawls (again, because he knows better than to let his friend drink). He has slept in, that is all; it is Edward’s natural inclination. He’s just surprised that he didn’t remember to wake his friend up.
The door to the study is still slightly ajar, even at ten ‘o clock, and it confirms his hypothesis. Edward only closes the door entirely when he’s vacated the study, so Alfons
“Edward?” He calls once, softly.
No response. He closes his fingers around the doorknob - why is he so nervous, this is ridiculous, it’s his own damn house - and tugs it open, peers inside. There are no lights on, only the faintest glints of daylight slipping in through the cracks in the Venetian blinds.
Edward is lying on his belly in the gloom, still in his nightclothes. Etching something furiously with a yellow piece of chalk.
Across his bedsheets again, Alfons notes sourly. They are already ringed with circles, ghostly echoes of vandalism past - water alone just doesn’t cut it. They don’t have the money to afford to buy bleach.
“Edward?”
Edward starts, drops his chalk.
“Oh, uh. Good morning!” He yelps, visibly embarrassed. He rakes the sheets aside with a violence, as if they are something dirty.
“I’m uh, that is…” He colors, looks away.
Only Edward. Alfons thinks. You’d think I caught him masturbating.
The thought is strangely compelling. Alfons finds his own cheeks coloring, hot. He tries not to look at Edward unfolding himself from the bed.
“If you were feeling artistic, you could have just asked me. Paper isn’t that precious.”
Edward stretches, arches his back in a delightfully cat-like manner. A slight hint of cream-colored stomach peeks out between his shirt and his pajama bottoms. Alfons is temporarily riveted.
“Well, you know how it is.” He says sheepishly. “Sometimes, when you wake up…you just have an idea, you know, and you want to write it down before you forget?”
Alfons nods. He does know, what it was like to wake up with an insight…
“Still doesn’t mean you have to write on the bed.” He grouses. “Come on, there’s bacon on the table.”
Edward grins enthusiastically - god, it’s nice to see him smile, he doesn’t do that enough, of late - and follows him eagerly back to the kitchen.
“Grab a plate.” He instructs. “You want milk?”
Edward makes a horrified face.
“Sorry, I forgot. Water, then?”
He fills a glass with well water and hands it to his friend. Edward reaches out to take it with his free, right arm. There, Alfons makes his mistake. He forgets that Edward’s false arm (that strange thing, which he will never, ever, just explain!) is weaker, slower to grasp things, and releases the glass too early.
It falls to the floor and shatters, christens the wood with the first spill of the day. Alfons watches stupidly as Edward hisses and springs backwards away from the shards.
Watches with concern as Edward claps his hands together for absolutely no reason at all, as he has been known to do.
Edward blinks and stares at his palms, as if he had expected something to happen.
“Shit.” He curses. “Motherfucker, godammit, fucking shit.”
Alfons watches him fuss, alarmed. There are still other glasses in the cupboard, nicer ones that weren’t already chipped.
“It’s only a glass, Ed!” He says, trying to pacify.
Edward looks at him and his expression is mournful.
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs shakily.
“Can’t even fix a goddamn motherfucking glass.” He mumbles underneath his breath.
Alfons swallows.
“W-why don’t you just go and take your shower now?” He suggests, pointedly cheerful. “I’ll stay here and sweep up.”
“But it was my faul-“
“You’re not wearing shoes; I am. Go on, get out of here!”
Edward nods slowly and retreats through the doorway, still with that hang-dog expression. Alfons watches him go, looks with concern at the chalk smudges still visible all over his friend’s hands…
The niggling fear at the back of his mind is that his friend is actually crazy.
The floor is clean a scant five minutes later; not by magical chalk circles but by dust pan and broom. Alfons returns the instruments to the crowded closet where they live, and dusts his hands off.
He realizes that he still hasn't heard the shower.
“Edward?” Alfons calls, sticks his head into the hallway. No sign of his flat mate, there, either. The bathroom door is slightly ajar though, and he moves timidly to close it.
“Edward, please, you need to remember to pull the door shut - it’ll warp the wood-“
Edward is not there, either.
He runs a hand through his hair, nervously. He knows where his friend has to be - there’s only one other room, besides the bedroom, and Edward never ventures there - but he also recognizes that his study, for better or for worse, is Ed-space. He doesn’t want to-what if he--
What if absolutely nothing is wrong, and he’s just inventing things out of an ill humor? He is doing them both a bad turn by standing here worrying over nebulous things that he cannot even put a name to. Determined, he turns and walks to Edward’s-the study’s-door, knocks as firmly as he can.
“Yeah?” Edward calls promptly, and he is immediately relived. Honestly, what had he expected? Edward has a strange effect on him, sometimes; makes him jump at shadows. See things that aren’t there. Perhaps his madness is catching, or perhaps, Edward himself is just a form of madness that man has yet to identify.
Alfons hears a slight shuffling. “It’s okay, I was just headed out…” He fails to appear though, and continues failing as the minutes drag on. Alfons sighs and turns the handle slowly, invites himself in.
“What are you doing in here?” Alfons asks gently. Edward is standing at the desk (his desk!) fiddling with some papers, drops them immediately. He fidgets a little, as if debating telling him some grave secret.
“I was just thinking about the structure of glass.” He says. “You said I could use some of your paper, so…”
He does not seem inclined to flaunt his scribbles, but Alfons, curious, peers at the one on top. Another one of those thrice-be-damned circles. Alfons swallows.
What did one do with crazy people? Humor them?
Edward seems to notice the direction of his gaze, colors slightly. It is a beautiful thing, but an uncomfortable expression mars the effect. His friend rakes the offending page to one side, picks up the stack, apparently to bury it.
“Wait…um. So, uh…tell me. What does this one do?” Alfons asks, tries to back off from this. Just roll with it. Anything to keep those strange eyes from darkening, those smooth lips from twisting downward. He finds himself staring at Edward’s lips a lot, lately; wishes he didn’t.
Edward’s smile is worth the uncertainty, a bright sunburst.
He pushes the page slightly toward him, still looks faintly embarrassed (and it is beautiful, and Alfons hates himself for thinking that; he should not WANT his friend to be embarrassed, even though it brings the color out). The circle - ‘array’ - is a maze of intersecting curves and symbols, some he recognizes, others he doesn’t. It is all nonsense, to Alfons. Edward, he…he really does seem to think alchemy was a real discipline. Is a real discipline. And every time he sees it, the way these arrays bring out the gleam in his friend’s mournful eyes, he can’t quite tell if it’s best to condemn it.
“Well, this - this is the theory for joining something together, see? These intersecting arcs - sand is primarily made of silica, when you break it down, you get silicon and oxygen. You have to-“
He pauses. Freezes, actually. Alfons curses himself, pulls away. He has leaned in too close again, and that makes Edward nervous. He can’t help it though, Edward just sounds so good when he’s talking, even about nonsense - smells so good, even though he hasn’t yet taken his shower - maybe because he hasn’t yet taken his shower, the night sweat is still on him, the warm scent of his natural heat -
“You do…believe me, don’t you Alfons?”
Edward is looking at him, and oh fuck, his expression may seem vulnerable but Alfons knows that his friend is hard as nails underneath; if he says the wrong thing now - and he’s said the wrong thing before, so many times - Edward will close up like a clam, and go take his shower, and then he will be perfectly polite and distant for the rest of the afternoon, but ever so often keep looking at him as if he just isn’t there.
How to do this? Alfons draws his breath in through his teeth. This may be the most tact he has ever had to exercise.
“I believe that…” He began. Yes, that was a good beginning.
“I believe that YOU believe very strongly in the idea of alchemy.” Alfons continues. Edward opens his mouth to protest, and Alfons holds up a hand. “I believe that you have a dream, and that is a good thing for you.”
And that you, for all your brains, could have just as easily been a master storyteller. He thinks, but this part he does not say. The wilder stories - the ones of his homeland, the ones of his folk-heroes, the great alchemists Fullmetal, Flame, Strong Arm - those are the kinds of fiction that great men would sell their souls to publish. They are wildly creative, inspired; all those things that people usually say to the insane yet brilliant. Maybe all writers are just mad, and their creativity is just a by-product of that madness. Alfons couldn’t claim to know.
He gives his friend a wan smile.
“You know what my dreams are. For all we know, they are just as impossible.”
Edward steps back, regards him. His face shutters up.
“I knew it.” Edward says, but there is no anger in his words, only resignation. “Sorry.”
He has misstepped. Again. Alfons wonders if there will ever be a time when he isn’t missing some piece to the puzzle that is Edward Elric, or if this is one of those where the picture on the box will never quite match the jigsaw that ended up inside.
Edward moves to push past him and Alfons stops him with a hand on his forearm, slides down to circle his wrist. Edward’s limbs are much stronger - even the false ones, for all that they are wood and metal - but he is never anything but gentle with Alfons. Alfons wonders if it’s because Ed is afraid of killing him.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Edward says, and yes of course, his voice is rocky. Alfons finds again (disturbingly) that there is nothing he wants to do more than shove his friend onto the bed to pin him down in one spot. He is so tired of Edward running from him all the time; at least the man can give him the courtesy to attempt to make things right.
“Edward, please.” He says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s okay.” Edward protests, seemingly flustered at being caught. “Really. It let me know you weren’t…”
“Weren’t what?” Oh god, oh god. If it wouldn’t seem any more suspicious, Alfons would have pushed Edward’s arm away as hard as he could.
“That you…” Edward is looking at him again, and for once, there is relief in his eyes. It is strange. “That you weren’t somebody else I used to know. You know. Well, you don’t know, but…” He takes a long, shaky breath.
“Suffice it to say, I very much doubt HE would scoff at alchemy.”
And who is ‘HE’, Edward? Alfons wants so desperately to ask, but he can’t push it. Not now, when he’s finally gotten a hint that there IS a ‘he’, that Edward DOES in fact look at him that way because he remembers some old acquaintance. No, rather more familiar with that. Even lover. His treacherous mind supplies, and Alfons shudders. He honestly does not know whether he would be saddened by that, or gladdened that it makes it even a little more possible that--
But Edward seems to require something more out of him, so Alfons mounts another feeble attempt at Rolling With It All.
“Well, I don’t disbelieve you!” Alfons says, as convincingly as he can muster. “I’m just…a man of science, that’s all. I’ll need it proven to me.”
The edges of Edward’s lips quirk up a little again. A shadow passes again, over his face.
“I remember a boy once, a long time ago, who wanted everything proved to him.”
Alfons nods. Another one of Edward’s stories, or…?
“Didn’t believe that god existed, because he couldn’t be proven. Or sin, for that matter.”
Edward goes silent, after that, seeming hardly to breathe.
“…what happened to him?” Alfons asks finally, when it is apparent no more is forthcoming.
“I don’t know yet.” Edward says, and his smile is so wistful that Alfons can no longer stand it. “That part hasn’t been written.”
He knows he shouldn’t do it. He knows he shouldn’t do it, and he embraces Edward nevertheless. He can always say he is just being friendly, if it comes to that. Right now, he thinks that Edward needs a friend more than he needs his life, anyways.
Edward trembles a little, does not even move under his light hold. He is taking a risk, a huge risk, but Edward does not strike him to the ground or call him a name or any of the other reactions he could have worried about. He did not really expect Edward too, honestly. Disturbingly, he’s always suspected that Edward might actually be worse - because Edward has this weakness in him, he’s afraid that if he asked, too brazenly, his friend might simply not be able to tell him “no”.
“A…l…” Edward says, hesitantly.
“Yes.” Says Alfons, and he hopes that is enough. He is too terrified to say it any plainer.
Edward sags into him so suddenly that Alfons almost doesn’t catch him; the weight does in fact send him staggering back toward the bed. His calves hit the mattress and he goes down on his ass, marvels at how ridiculously, horribly suggestive that is. Edward almost goes down on his knees, between Alfons’ legs, and that would be even worse, but thankfully the man has more grace than he does and catches himself just in time.
“S-sorry.” Edward says, looking down at him, and his face is a furious scarlet. Almost purple. It really hadn’t drained from earlier (Edward’s pale skin flushes and stays that way); now it has gotten even worse. Alfons licks his lips. Feels like he is quaking. What should he do now? Should he stand up? He’ll be right up in Edward’s personal space. Or should he stay where he is, pull on Edward, but Edward might take that the wrong way and get spooked.
“Um, here.” Edward says bluntly, and solves the quandary for him. He reaches out with his flesh hand (never the false one, never lets people TOUCH the false one!) and pulls Alfons up with one powerful tug, sends him reeling against Edward’s tight chest and staring up, breathless. Edward is strong, he forgets how STRONG his tiny friend is, and oh holy hell they are so close together their hips are touching, their legs are interlocked, they’re half a step away from just tumbling back down again…
Alfons makes the next decision, and brings his lips down to meet Edward’s.
His friend gasps and retreats from the sudden contact, and Alfons releases him immediately, starts running through the list of excuses in his head.
“Edward, I-“
“Sorry.” Edward ducks his head in that weird mannerism he always uses. “Sorry, I-fuck.” Runs his hand through his hair in his other patently Edward gesture. “I’ve just never…fuck.”
Ah. Alfons understands. Edward is skittish. Edward is also looking so miserable that he nearly considers letting him be, but Edward is staring at his lips, too, and that makes Alfons feel obligated.
“We can try it slower, then.” He says, disarmingly, keeps his hands out to either side and does not make any sudden moves to grab. Bends down slowly, gives Edward ample time to move away.
This time, the kiss is reciprocated.
He begins to wonder if the problem is not just that Edward has never been with a man before, but that Edward has never been with anyone. He seems stunned into submission. He eases up to nibble at the corner of Edward’s lips, and the man actually whimpers - makes a noise - at such a simple, simple action. It is irresistible.
No wonder. Alfons thinks grimly, watching carefully as Edward’s eyes roll back at nothing more than the slip of a tongue along the shell of his ear. He is always so alone, up in his head.
“It must be so lonely.” He does whisper, and Edward struggles a little at that. He seems to be having trouble figuring out where to put his own mouth, whether he should be speaking with it or devouring Alfons’ neck alive. He settles for both at once, but what he mumbles is completely unintelligible. Alfons hisses at the wet scrape of teeth along his skin; god, it’s been too long.
“M-more…” Edward gasps suddenly. Alfons complies, eager to please, and Edward is suddenly shoving at him, directing his mouth away from what seems to be a very sensitive left ear.
“More intense, than I thought it’d be.” Edward clarifies, averting his eyes. His body is not so demure, though; Edward has warmed to the idea of someone against him. He is rocking against the top of Alfons’ thigh, rather desperately now. Alfons’ own groin burns and he bends to slide his leg even further between Edward’s, give his friend something to press against and for the love of all that is holy, a way to press back…
They clutch at each other and shove together like a pair of wild animals, claw at one another and bite at mouths, necks, throats, anything they can reach. Edward is not gentle, now that he has started; he is ravenous, needy. He will not last long. Alfons catches Edward the elbows and sucks on his neck hard enough to leave a mark, urges the man to thrust against his thigh harder, faster. Edward rewards him with a throaty moan (sounds, he makes sounds) and looks like he’s about come standing up.
Edward leans into him harder, harder, and he just can’t stand like this anymore, it hurts too much, he doesn’t have the strength for it. He pulls back and Edward gives him a stricken look.
“Too hard.” He pants, and Edward agrees with him. “Can’t…”
“Yeah.”
It is only a moment before they both are sitting on the bed, entwined again with the sort of haste Alfons thought was reserved for teenagers sneaking down to the alley. Edward is sloppy, seems to be operating more by copying him than on any kind of actual instinct, but when he slides his hand down a little and makes a querulous noise, Alfons does not need any prompting at all. Some things are universal.
Think. Has to think. Doesn’t want to, thinking too hard. Armful of Edward. Edward is amazingly urgent, desperate; his tongue is writing symphonies across the divot of Alfons’ throat and it feels wonderful. But they can’t sit like this, have to do something; one of them is going to have to lay back more or something, he - ah, the chin, right under the chin, he has always been weak there. He hasn’t gotten a single article of clothing off and he already feels like he’s close, and that is enough to make his head spin.
He takes a deep breath and begins to lie back (doesn’t want to scare Edward, but scaring Edward seems like less and less of a possibility. So much pent up hunger, here). He pulls his legs up off the floor and runs them briefly into Edward’s side; the man is crawling dazedly toward him and doesn’t seem to have gotten the idea yet.
“On top of me.” He rasps, and stretches an arm out to intercept. They get briefly tangled up in each other’s limbs, in the sheets, in those god-forsaken yellow-circle dotted sheets, but it doesn’t matter because Edward is here, and Edward is smiling so hard his face looks like it’s about to split in half.
This is new. His smile says. Something he enjoys, something he likes; something that, heaven forbid, doesn’t make him want to run instantly back to his doodles and fantasies. Something of the world, something Alfons can share, and he doesn’t bother to even pretend anymore. As soon as Edward wiggles even halfway onto him, he grabs the man by the arms and hauls him up into a rib-cracking embrace.
Edward shudders and presses his lips against Alfons’ collar, claws at his shirt sleeves. Alfons guides his hips down, a little lower - bemoans the loss of mouth, but Edward is not tall enough to do this any other way - and brings their still-clothed groins together, bucks once, hard. Lets Edward get a taste of what it’s like to rub against his own hardness. It is pure, delicious friction, and he snakes his hand down intending to be bold, but Edward it seems, cannot wait for that.
He begins rubbing himself quickly, erratically, against Alfons and the motion sends sparks out behind his eyes. Beautiful, Edward and the friction and the floating wisps of hair, and the scent of him, feel of him, his very weight, pressing down on his body-
“I’m-“
He very nearly misses it when Edward snaps and comes, because he is soundless, but the expression on his face speaks the words that his lungs have no air to voice.
Edward shudders, spasms hard against him, and then finally collapses. Doesn’t move to one side, or another, just drops. Alfons swallows and whimpers, though he is not normally given to noise. It is possible he has never been more turned on in his life.
Please. He mouths, and shivers, arches as hard as he can under Edward’s dead weight. God, the man is beautiful, he wants to stroke him, hold him; but that is not an easy thing. His body is taut and screaming at him, and the need to come is overriding the need for affection and romance.
Please, Edward, just LET me…
Edward grunts a little and shifts slowly, agonizingly off him. He looks so tired, his head just lolls to the side. There is no tension left in him, just a bliss-filled full-body smile. He flops down on Alfons’ right, nestles snugly against Alfons’ side, and offers up a beautifully dazed expression.
If there were ever a case in which Alfons could believe in spontaneous human combustion, this would be it.
“E-Edward…” He wets his lips and dammit, needs his arm free; he’s right-handed and he NEEDS to use it, he’s going to die if he doesn’t. It isn’t even a question. Edward makes a soft sound but does not release him. Instead, slowly, sleepily, drags a heavy hand down across his belly. Alfons keens, can’t hardly believe it. There are no words now, only air; he draws the next breath in on a hiss.
Curious fingers run over his length; even through pants, the sensation is amazing. Edward. Edward is touching him, and that alone is almost enough to bring him. His lungs are on fire but he is not about to stop now, he is so CLOSE, so--
Edward’s hand is slowing, and at first he thinks it is his fault - thrusts his hips faster to compensate, until he realizes that there is simply no resistance there to meet. No, no no NO, he shakes his head, but there is no help for it. He looks over at his friend and realizes that Edward’s eyes have slid shut, and he is breathing out slowly in the low, steady cadence of sleep.
Ah well. It is frustrating, but the thought that he is what caused Edward to nod off makes his groin throb anew, and he surreptitiously extracts his handkerchief from his back pocket. He groans and pushes Edward's hand aside, forces himself not to give into the temptation to wake the man. It is weird doing this with his left hand, but it takes little more than an unzip, an unbutton, a few firm tugs, and then he is coming into the tiny square cloth, his lungs a pair of coals in his chest. A little much, perhaps that was. He remembers why he does not do this often, but it still feels so, so wonderful for the rest of him...
Edward’s hand never stirs from where Alfons displaced it, and he smiles through the sweat at the sight of it, lying lax upon his hip. Edward will need to get in the shower, eventually; is probably getting itchy down there already, but for now he can only lie here and concentrate on his breathing, listen to Edward snore gently beside him.
Lies there, amidst the stained and chalk-marked sheets, feels his breath coming in and out on a whistle, and wonders if Edward will still belong to his fantasy world when he wakes, or if Alfons, perhaps, can someday coax him into his own.
::take me away, then take me farther…::