[Fic] "Echo and Fade" (Hei/Ed, NC-17)
Title: Echo and Fade
Author: cryogenia
Pairing: Hei/Ed
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Direct sequel to Siren and Wave. Drabble for hime1999, whom I heard was having a bad few days :( Feel better!
For the first few minutes afterwards, it is all he can do to lie there and breathe.
Sex always leaves him drained in a pleasant sort of way, and he’s never quite sure what he thinks about that. Ed is no slouch with anatomy and he’s aware that this is perfectly normal - after first discovering the mystery of his cock’s second function when he’d turned thirteen, he had promptly followed up with a conscientious visit to the First Central Library’s Restricted Stacks - but it is still hard, emotionally, to get used to feeling so weak. It’s like his legs have run out on him and he doesn’t even think of standing. He curls into a boneless ball and sinks deeper into the soft leather chair, swathed in one of Alfons’s warm woolen blankets, and if he never moves again, it might be too soon.
He does feel good. Not just ‘good’; he feels everything. The texture of the chair’s crinkled old leather upholstery against his cheek, which smells of well-oiled hide, the way his own hair is sweaty and clinging about his neck and face; all of it is intriguing to his newly heightened senses. Lying there and being able to experience all these minute little details is a complete turnabout compared to the previous glorious five-minutes-ago, and Ed shudders and sighs. He muzzily thinks he’d like to curl up next to someone, maybe even be fawned over and petted.
He will have none of those things, though. As always, as ever, Alfons finished the job and then promptly deserted him.
That is the one sour note in this, a subtle and jarring discord that prevents him from drifting off to the lullaby of his own heartbeat. It’s happened a handful of times now, and he gets increasingly leery each time it does. Always the same thing. One minute, Alfons is kneeling there and working him over like he wants to inhale him, and the next he is taking off like the ass of his pants is on fire, and Ed doesn’t have any clue what it means.
He’d sort of love to ask - okay, not just sort of - but fuck, what is supposed to do? It’s embarrassing enough to look down and see Alfons doing…that, wrapping those soft, amazing lips around his cock and lathing his tongue up the underside, a tight space of hot slickness that makes Ed’s mind go white. And fuck, he’s just come, but even still the memory makes him shiver - makes him want to turn the clock back to ten minutes ago, when Alfons first went down on his knees to nuzzle him, the sheer anticipation making Ed sit ramrod straight in his chair.
Ed’s eyes flutter closed. He swallows hard, feeling his own Adam’s apple work. There really is nothing he has experienced, not his own hand, not a well-moistened crevice in a transmuted device (read in the Restricted Section long enough and one is bound to get ideas) that remotely comes near to Alfons going down on him, and Edward draws his blanket tighter and tries to focus on anything but. He’d always heard the other men in going on about it in the days when he had flitted about military barracks and mess halls and showers - does your girl go down? - never understood the reason. He hadn’t even really known for a long time what it meant for a girl to “go down”, just that men begged, pleaded, cajoled their ladies with roses for the sacred privilege - and he, foolishly, had assumed he would never care quite so much. He was above petty pleasures, above lust, above boorish needs, and he had sneered down his own button nose at those much older men who’d complained long and loud whenever they weren’t regularly getting laid. He had honestly had no clue why they even liked to talk about it so much.
Now, seventeen and enlightened, he thinks he knows why. The sight of Alfons licking his lips gets him hot sometimes these days, the thought of how round and perfect Alfons’s mouth becomes whenever he says ‘oh’ gets him beside himself. Holy hell, that mouth. He wants to sing about it to the universe, sometimes has a hard enough time not screaming to the rafters. His hormones are awake and rearing their angry head (ha-hah), and part of Ed would like nothing more than to sit back and get a blow job from Alfons every single evening.
There’s another part though, a more rational and sensible part, that worries about doing exactly that. He doesn’t even know why Alfons regales him with this phenomenal service; he has done absolutely nothing to warrant something that amazing. It makes him very nervous. He used to get propositioned a lot back when he was the Fullmetal Alchemist - some offers, indeed, that he had been hard pressed to turn down - but on the whole it got tired to have people throwing themselves at you because of your title, not because they knew who you really were. Ed had realized he had a problem with it the first time a pretty girl offered herself in an attempt to curry favor and get ‘the People’s Alchemist’ to come and save their dying village. The experience had horrified him; he’d thrust her away.
Do I have so little integrity to you, he’d thought, that I would ignore you if you did not pander to me!? Like any other of the slimy military brass. He’d taken care of drilling their new well, and reconstructing their town hall besides, and taken nothing from the girl except a fistful of daisies that she plucked from a nearby field, and that had been that and he hasn’t ever considered accepting ‘payments’ since.
This is different though, this is Alfons, and Alfons does not even believe him when he says he was the People’s Alchemist; how can Alfons be doing this for that reason when there is nothing that he gets from Ed? Alfons is the one who was always letting Ed crash at his place; Alfons is the one forever loaning him rocketry books. If anyone should be down on their knees on this unforgiving hardwood floor, it should be him, not Alfons.
Ed shifts about in the squishy chair moodily, again, not sure he likes all this.
Alfons has been a saint, and then he goes and adds that on top of it. Ed almost wants to scream.
But what do you want from me!? he wants to yell at the man, each and every time he gets up and turns his back to him. He can tell Alfons has needs, god, his gait alone afterwards makes Ed want to wince in sympathy. And he can't imagine that anyone would do that, holding their jaw open and fighting gagging and all of that, just for the hell of it.
He sighs again and thinks about Alfons and his tongue, and wonders what the fuck it is that he keeps doing so horribly wrong.
Maybe, it occurs to him suddenly, it's not so much what he is doing as what he's not doing. Ed sits up a bit more, considering. Alfons always runs off to one of two places, the bathroom, or his bedroom, and although he has never been invited into the latter, perhaps when Alfons goes there it is supposed to be some sort of signal. It occurs to him again that he is very alone in this world sometimes - there were things he never even experienced in his own world and now he's going into them all in a foreign place and blind. Maybe European culture is really just that different. Amestris is all he's ever known, and maybe outside of Amestris, people entice lovers by soft touches and actions rather than long dates and conversations over coffee and words. (Again, assuming he even knows anything about dating in the first place, which honestly, he really doesn't.)
Fighting the fatigue running rampant through his limbs, Ed finds a way to force himself to stand up.
It is like moving through molasses, but he manages to get his brain functional enough to allow movement, navigation down through the narrow hallway. Alfons's room is small and has a door to it; that door is shut right now and no lights are on.
Is Alfons asleep? Ed wonders, but that seems unlikely, and anyhow, they are used to casually interrupting each other. Alfons certainly seemed to have no qualms about interrupting his reading to bury his head in Ed's lap earlier. He suddenly can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and butterflies the size of eagles are crashing about inside his stomach, but simply having a course of action planned is generally enough to see him through with it. Ed raps the knuckles of his prosthetic hand against the door frame and then just walks in without any other preamble. He has no idea what he might see.
His imagination is happy to provide him with several tantalizing possibilities, though.
Whatever nebulous debauchery he was expecting though, he does not see much. There is a brief rustling sound, but when his eyes adjust to the low light streaming in from the hall, all he really sees is just Alfons curled up at the center of his bed on top of the covers, his back to the door. It looks as though he might be asleep.
Doubt wars with disappointment. What the hell am I supposed to do now, he thinks tiredly, slumping sideways against the door frame. Nothing makes sense, and now here he is waking Alfons for no reason at all. The line of Alfons's body has gone tense, and Ed searches for some excuse.
I just would like to touch you, can that be a reason? he thinks, cheeks flushing, but white lies come easier to his lips.
"Just stealing that book back," he says softly, in case Alfons isn't actually awake, and steals closer to the bed. He doesn't even know which one Alfons grabbed when he went tearing out of the sitting room so he can't call it anything besides just 'that book'. Fuck, what a lousy excuse. He doesn't see it anywhere though, he can just slip back out now and pretend he couldn't find it, and...
...and ohhhhh, because he glances over the man's side and the front of Alfons's trousers are undone, and that is clear despite how desperately Alfons is trying to shield himself with his hands. Clear also that he is hard, and a hot rush rolls down Edward's front at the realization that yes, indeed, he has walked into a room in which Alfons was busy jacking himself off in not moments before, and the evidence of such is right here in front of him.
He did not think it was physically possible but his own cock twitches as if it's trying to rally.
Alfons's eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he is breathing very shakily. He is not acknowledging Ed's presence at all.
That's not fair, a part of Ed wails desperately, while exactly at the same time he has also realized a potential for mischief, for repayment, hell, the potential for plain old understanding. He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed and Alfons visibly flinches, but still continues the charade of not moving, not speaking, pretending to be asleep.
Very, very gently, Ed places a hand on the jut of Alfons's hip.
Alfons's entire body comes to life at once, surging forward so hard that Ed jerks his hand away again, stunned. The man curls even tighter into himself, trying to shield his erection. Still he says nothing. The butterflies in Ed's stomach churn riotously and he bites down on his lip so hard it hurts.
What do you want from me-do you not want me-why why WHY he thinks all at once and if it weren't for the simple fact that Alfons still hasn't said anything he would long since be out of here. This is all just far too weird. What right did he have to touch Alfons, what right did he have to come in here; god, Alfons at least always asks before he does anything, except for that first, glorious night when they had both been drunk and it hadn't just been Alfons and his subserviant sucking then, had it? They had fumbled with each other's clothes equally and he had clumsily slid his hand down and in along the cleft of Alfons's hip, and there had been no asking and no careful distance between the two of them, just a few frenzied, frantic moments in the dark.
His palms are sweaty, but still he puts his hand back.
He wants to ask the way Alfons does, but his mouth is dry and his fingers are hypersensitive to the rough cloth of Alfons's trousers, then to the smooth skin of his lower abdomen. "Please," he chokes out finally, aware he's probably already fucking this up, and before he can lose his resolve he slides his hand down lower and ohallthatisdear he is wrapping his hand around Alfons's smooth, lengthy cock.
He doesn't think he remembers this part from that one drunken encounter, and the reaction is something that upon seeing, he is quite sure he never will forget. The man's response is something Ed could never have expected, just a solitary gasp - in the same way that First National and its twelve million books is just a library, in the same way that the great eastern desert is just a patch of sand. Alfons jerks out of his sorry little hiding position to arch back toward Ed with a harsh whooping gasp that speaks volumes alone on how needy and surprised and grateful he is, and Ed feels that warm feeling roll all the way down his front to make him feel good all over. He closes his hand around Alfons tighter, and tugs.
Alfons gasps again and his hips jerk spasmodically against Ed's palm, and Ed realizes with a vague sort of wonder that this, oh fuck, this is amazing to watch and feel and maybe, just maybe, there is a reason Alfons does things to him. He touches Alfons and Alfons shudders and pants and bucks his hips, and there is something in being needed that makes Ed just want to curl on top of Alfons and hug the life out of him. He only doesn't do it because it looks like right now that could be painful - the poor man's cock is so hard it feels like it might split open if Alfons gets any more excited.
It's okay, fuck, you're good like this; he murmurs all sorts of nonsense and tries to think about things like rhythm and keeping his grip consistent when really all he wants to do is watch Alfons's face twist in the low light. The man suddenly throws an arm out and clutches onto his desperately, and he nearly stops for a moment until he realizes that oh fuck, Alfons is trying to make sure he doesn't stop. Alfons's entire body has gone rigid and he gasps again, and then he is coming.
It gets absolutely everywhere.
Alfons relaxes like a marionette with his strings cut - he just sags all at once and lets out the shakiest, most nervous sigh. Ed releases Alfons and wipes his hand off on the sheet beneath him. Neither speaks. It is hard to know what to say.
Ed reaches out, hesitantly, to stroke Alfons's hip again.
Alfons hisses on an incoming breath. He rolls forward a bit and buries his face in the comforter, rubs his face back and forth briskly for a few seconds.
He surfaces again and swallows, and there is a glimmer of wetness on his cheeks. His eyes challenge Ed to mention it.
He doesn't.
"...what made you do that?" Alfons asks finally, lowly.
Ed tries to think about that. His mind is preoccupied with other things right now though, all caught up in his fingertips. The knob of Alfons's hipbone. The silky skin stretched over it, the soft bit of down leading in toward coarser hair between the man's legs. Hell, maybe that is all he is thinking.
"Nothing," he says truthfully. "I wanted to."
Alfons makes a face. His blue eyes are dubious. But still, still, he does not roll away.
"I didn't want to have to do this," Alfons says quietly, and for the moment everything that is Edward freezes; his breath itself crystallizes within his chest. It is painful that his heart still beats.
"Now it's all over and where are we now, you know?" Alfons clarifies with a mirthless laugh. He sounds so hopeless. Edward grips onto his hip hard, digs his fingers in, hoping to be some kind of anchor.
"Why do you want it to be over?" he asks, strangely wounded. He wasn't ware there was an 'it' to be had, or if 'it' was just sex, or...too many variables, not enough defined operating parameters. Alfons looks down at Ed's fingers on Alfons's hips and his eyes widen.
"This is fine," Ed says, and he does the hardest thing he's done in a while. He lets go of his deathgrip on Alfons's hip and runs his fingers gently along the line of Alfons's body, drinking in every last inch of him. "This is good - why would you want it to be over?"
He winks.
"And anyway, I don't know about you - but I'm not running away," Ed says decisively, and finally, at that, Alfons cracks a smile.
***
::and when this feeling hits your mind / this star will shoot to let you know::
Author: cryogenia
Pairing: Hei/Ed
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Direct sequel to Siren and Wave. Drabble for hime1999, whom I heard was having a bad few days :( Feel better!
For the first few minutes afterwards, it is all he can do to lie there and breathe.
Sex always leaves him drained in a pleasant sort of way, and he’s never quite sure what he thinks about that. Ed is no slouch with anatomy and he’s aware that this is perfectly normal - after first discovering the mystery of his cock’s second function when he’d turned thirteen, he had promptly followed up with a conscientious visit to the First Central Library’s Restricted Stacks - but it is still hard, emotionally, to get used to feeling so weak. It’s like his legs have run out on him and he doesn’t even think of standing. He curls into a boneless ball and sinks deeper into the soft leather chair, swathed in one of Alfons’s warm woolen blankets, and if he never moves again, it might be too soon.
He does feel good. Not just ‘good’; he feels everything. The texture of the chair’s crinkled old leather upholstery against his cheek, which smells of well-oiled hide, the way his own hair is sweaty and clinging about his neck and face; all of it is intriguing to his newly heightened senses. Lying there and being able to experience all these minute little details is a complete turnabout compared to the previous glorious five-minutes-ago, and Ed shudders and sighs. He muzzily thinks he’d like to curl up next to someone, maybe even be fawned over and petted.
He will have none of those things, though. As always, as ever, Alfons finished the job and then promptly deserted him.
That is the one sour note in this, a subtle and jarring discord that prevents him from drifting off to the lullaby of his own heartbeat. It’s happened a handful of times now, and he gets increasingly leery each time it does. Always the same thing. One minute, Alfons is kneeling there and working him over like he wants to inhale him, and the next he is taking off like the ass of his pants is on fire, and Ed doesn’t have any clue what it means.
He’d sort of love to ask - okay, not just sort of - but fuck, what is supposed to do? It’s embarrassing enough to look down and see Alfons doing…that, wrapping those soft, amazing lips around his cock and lathing his tongue up the underside, a tight space of hot slickness that makes Ed’s mind go white. And fuck, he’s just come, but even still the memory makes him shiver - makes him want to turn the clock back to ten minutes ago, when Alfons first went down on his knees to nuzzle him, the sheer anticipation making Ed sit ramrod straight in his chair.
Ed’s eyes flutter closed. He swallows hard, feeling his own Adam’s apple work. There really is nothing he has experienced, not his own hand, not a well-moistened crevice in a transmuted device (read in the Restricted Section long enough and one is bound to get ideas) that remotely comes near to Alfons going down on him, and Edward draws his blanket tighter and tries to focus on anything but. He’d always heard the other men in going on about it in the days when he had flitted about military barracks and mess halls and showers - does your girl go down? - never understood the reason. He hadn’t even really known for a long time what it meant for a girl to “go down”, just that men begged, pleaded, cajoled their ladies with roses for the sacred privilege - and he, foolishly, had assumed he would never care quite so much. He was above petty pleasures, above lust, above boorish needs, and he had sneered down his own button nose at those much older men who’d complained long and loud whenever they weren’t regularly getting laid. He had honestly had no clue why they even liked to talk about it so much.
Now, seventeen and enlightened, he thinks he knows why. The sight of Alfons licking his lips gets him hot sometimes these days, the thought of how round and perfect Alfons’s mouth becomes whenever he says ‘oh’ gets him beside himself. Holy hell, that mouth. He wants to sing about it to the universe, sometimes has a hard enough time not screaming to the rafters. His hormones are awake and rearing their angry head (ha-hah), and part of Ed would like nothing more than to sit back and get a blow job from Alfons every single evening.
There’s another part though, a more rational and sensible part, that worries about doing exactly that. He doesn’t even know why Alfons regales him with this phenomenal service; he has done absolutely nothing to warrant something that amazing. It makes him very nervous. He used to get propositioned a lot back when he was the Fullmetal Alchemist - some offers, indeed, that he had been hard pressed to turn down - but on the whole it got tired to have people throwing themselves at you because of your title, not because they knew who you really were. Ed had realized he had a problem with it the first time a pretty girl offered herself in an attempt to curry favor and get ‘the People’s Alchemist’ to come and save their dying village. The experience had horrified him; he’d thrust her away.
Do I have so little integrity to you, he’d thought, that I would ignore you if you did not pander to me!? Like any other of the slimy military brass. He’d taken care of drilling their new well, and reconstructing their town hall besides, and taken nothing from the girl except a fistful of daisies that she plucked from a nearby field, and that had been that and he hasn’t ever considered accepting ‘payments’ since.
This is different though, this is Alfons, and Alfons does not even believe him when he says he was the People’s Alchemist; how can Alfons be doing this for that reason when there is nothing that he gets from Ed? Alfons is the one who was always letting Ed crash at his place; Alfons is the one forever loaning him rocketry books. If anyone should be down on their knees on this unforgiving hardwood floor, it should be him, not Alfons.
Ed shifts about in the squishy chair moodily, again, not sure he likes all this.
Alfons has been a saint, and then he goes and adds that on top of it. Ed almost wants to scream.
But what do you want from me!? he wants to yell at the man, each and every time he gets up and turns his back to him. He can tell Alfons has needs, god, his gait alone afterwards makes Ed want to wince in sympathy. And he can't imagine that anyone would do that, holding their jaw open and fighting gagging and all of that, just for the hell of it.
He sighs again and thinks about Alfons and his tongue, and wonders what the fuck it is that he keeps doing so horribly wrong.
Maybe, it occurs to him suddenly, it's not so much what he is doing as what he's not doing. Ed sits up a bit more, considering. Alfons always runs off to one of two places, the bathroom, or his bedroom, and although he has never been invited into the latter, perhaps when Alfons goes there it is supposed to be some sort of signal. It occurs to him again that he is very alone in this world sometimes - there were things he never even experienced in his own world and now he's going into them all in a foreign place and blind. Maybe European culture is really just that different. Amestris is all he's ever known, and maybe outside of Amestris, people entice lovers by soft touches and actions rather than long dates and conversations over coffee and words. (Again, assuming he even knows anything about dating in the first place, which honestly, he really doesn't.)
Fighting the fatigue running rampant through his limbs, Ed finds a way to force himself to stand up.
It is like moving through molasses, but he manages to get his brain functional enough to allow movement, navigation down through the narrow hallway. Alfons's room is small and has a door to it; that door is shut right now and no lights are on.
Is Alfons asleep? Ed wonders, but that seems unlikely, and anyhow, they are used to casually interrupting each other. Alfons certainly seemed to have no qualms about interrupting his reading to bury his head in Ed's lap earlier. He suddenly can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and butterflies the size of eagles are crashing about inside his stomach, but simply having a course of action planned is generally enough to see him through with it. Ed raps the knuckles of his prosthetic hand against the door frame and then just walks in without any other preamble. He has no idea what he might see.
His imagination is happy to provide him with several tantalizing possibilities, though.
Whatever nebulous debauchery he was expecting though, he does not see much. There is a brief rustling sound, but when his eyes adjust to the low light streaming in from the hall, all he really sees is just Alfons curled up at the center of his bed on top of the covers, his back to the door. It looks as though he might be asleep.
Doubt wars with disappointment. What the hell am I supposed to do now, he thinks tiredly, slumping sideways against the door frame. Nothing makes sense, and now here he is waking Alfons for no reason at all. The line of Alfons's body has gone tense, and Ed searches for some excuse.
I just would like to touch you, can that be a reason? he thinks, cheeks flushing, but white lies come easier to his lips.
"Just stealing that book back," he says softly, in case Alfons isn't actually awake, and steals closer to the bed. He doesn't even know which one Alfons grabbed when he went tearing out of the sitting room so he can't call it anything besides just 'that book'. Fuck, what a lousy excuse. He doesn't see it anywhere though, he can just slip back out now and pretend he couldn't find it, and...
...and ohhhhh, because he glances over the man's side and the front of Alfons's trousers are undone, and that is clear despite how desperately Alfons is trying to shield himself with his hands. Clear also that he is hard, and a hot rush rolls down Edward's front at the realization that yes, indeed, he has walked into a room in which Alfons was busy jacking himself off in not moments before, and the evidence of such is right here in front of him.
He did not think it was physically possible but his own cock twitches as if it's trying to rally.
Alfons's eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he is breathing very shakily. He is not acknowledging Ed's presence at all.
That's not fair, a part of Ed wails desperately, while exactly at the same time he has also realized a potential for mischief, for repayment, hell, the potential for plain old understanding. He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed and Alfons visibly flinches, but still continues the charade of not moving, not speaking, pretending to be asleep.
Very, very gently, Ed places a hand on the jut of Alfons's hip.
Alfons's entire body comes to life at once, surging forward so hard that Ed jerks his hand away again, stunned. The man curls even tighter into himself, trying to shield his erection. Still he says nothing. The butterflies in Ed's stomach churn riotously and he bites down on his lip so hard it hurts.
What do you want from me-do you not want me-why why WHY he thinks all at once and if it weren't for the simple fact that Alfons still hasn't said anything he would long since be out of here. This is all just far too weird. What right did he have to touch Alfons, what right did he have to come in here; god, Alfons at least always asks before he does anything, except for that first, glorious night when they had both been drunk and it hadn't just been Alfons and his subserviant sucking then, had it? They had fumbled with each other's clothes equally and he had clumsily slid his hand down and in along the cleft of Alfons's hip, and there had been no asking and no careful distance between the two of them, just a few frenzied, frantic moments in the dark.
His palms are sweaty, but still he puts his hand back.
He wants to ask the way Alfons does, but his mouth is dry and his fingers are hypersensitive to the rough cloth of Alfons's trousers, then to the smooth skin of his lower abdomen. "Please," he chokes out finally, aware he's probably already fucking this up, and before he can lose his resolve he slides his hand down lower and ohallthatisdear he is wrapping his hand around Alfons's smooth, lengthy cock.
He doesn't think he remembers this part from that one drunken encounter, and the reaction is something that upon seeing, he is quite sure he never will forget. The man's response is something Ed could never have expected, just a solitary gasp - in the same way that First National and its twelve million books is just a library, in the same way that the great eastern desert is just a patch of sand. Alfons jerks out of his sorry little hiding position to arch back toward Ed with a harsh whooping gasp that speaks volumes alone on how needy and surprised and grateful he is, and Ed feels that warm feeling roll all the way down his front to make him feel good all over. He closes his hand around Alfons tighter, and tugs.
Alfons gasps again and his hips jerk spasmodically against Ed's palm, and Ed realizes with a vague sort of wonder that this, oh fuck, this is amazing to watch and feel and maybe, just maybe, there is a reason Alfons does things to him. He touches Alfons and Alfons shudders and pants and bucks his hips, and there is something in being needed that makes Ed just want to curl on top of Alfons and hug the life out of him. He only doesn't do it because it looks like right now that could be painful - the poor man's cock is so hard it feels like it might split open if Alfons gets any more excited.
It's okay, fuck, you're good like this; he murmurs all sorts of nonsense and tries to think about things like rhythm and keeping his grip consistent when really all he wants to do is watch Alfons's face twist in the low light. The man suddenly throws an arm out and clutches onto his desperately, and he nearly stops for a moment until he realizes that oh fuck, Alfons is trying to make sure he doesn't stop. Alfons's entire body has gone rigid and he gasps again, and then he is coming.
It gets absolutely everywhere.
Alfons relaxes like a marionette with his strings cut - he just sags all at once and lets out the shakiest, most nervous sigh. Ed releases Alfons and wipes his hand off on the sheet beneath him. Neither speaks. It is hard to know what to say.
Ed reaches out, hesitantly, to stroke Alfons's hip again.
Alfons hisses on an incoming breath. He rolls forward a bit and buries his face in the comforter, rubs his face back and forth briskly for a few seconds.
He surfaces again and swallows, and there is a glimmer of wetness on his cheeks. His eyes challenge Ed to mention it.
He doesn't.
"...what made you do that?" Alfons asks finally, lowly.
Ed tries to think about that. His mind is preoccupied with other things right now though, all caught up in his fingertips. The knob of Alfons's hipbone. The silky skin stretched over it, the soft bit of down leading in toward coarser hair between the man's legs. Hell, maybe that is all he is thinking.
"Nothing," he says truthfully. "I wanted to."
Alfons makes a face. His blue eyes are dubious. But still, still, he does not roll away.
"I didn't want to have to do this," Alfons says quietly, and for the moment everything that is Edward freezes; his breath itself crystallizes within his chest. It is painful that his heart still beats.
"Now it's all over and where are we now, you know?" Alfons clarifies with a mirthless laugh. He sounds so hopeless. Edward grips onto his hip hard, digs his fingers in, hoping to be some kind of anchor.
"Why do you want it to be over?" he asks, strangely wounded. He wasn't ware there was an 'it' to be had, or if 'it' was just sex, or...too many variables, not enough defined operating parameters. Alfons looks down at Ed's fingers on Alfons's hips and his eyes widen.
"This is fine," Ed says, and he does the hardest thing he's done in a while. He lets go of his deathgrip on Alfons's hip and runs his fingers gently along the line of Alfons's body, drinking in every last inch of him. "This is good - why would you want it to be over?"
He winks.
"And anyway, I don't know about you - but I'm not running away," Ed says decisively, and finally, at that, Alfons cracks a smile.
***
::and when this feeling hits your mind / this star will shoot to let you know::