FMA -- Sappily Ever After (Part II)
Title: Sappily Ever After
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 12,400
Warnings: language, nauseating quantities of schmoop, lots and lots of sexytalk, AU but with major spoilers for Brotherhood
Prompt: Roy/Ed wedding. And everything is fluffy and everyone lives happily ever after *___*
Summary: Ed and Roy are going to get married. At least theoretically speaking…
Author's Note: It is unadvised to proceed without having read Part I. XD
SAPPILY EVER AFTER (PART II)
They’ve just barely succeeded in rearranging the chairs into something like two segments with an aisle when some unspecified summons makes the guests start pouring in.
After that, Ed’s got his arms full-of people. Winry almost knocks him to the ground, and then Sig Curtis lifts him about four feet off of it, and Teacher pats his ankle in greeting, because it’s the only thing she can reach right this second.
People keep appearing in the doorway and then rushing forward to wrap him into a hug or shake his hand so hard his elbow feels like jelly-Sheska has a pencil in her pocket that almost punctures his lung when she squeezes the breath out of him; Lieutenant-Colonel Ross and Lieutenant Brosh both try to hug him at once and end up with one arm each; Rebecca gives him a giant, sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, winks, and murmurs “You think maybe Jean’ll get a clue?”; Granny stares him down for an incredibly long, unnerving moment before she cracks a wide grin and says “I have never seen you look so handsome, Ed.”
Roy is greeting people, too, with that sort of graceful cordiality that he can make look easy. He must feel Ed’s gaze on him, because he turns, and smiles, and Ed’s heart goes all messy-gloopy-soft. Then he comes over and settles the palm of one hand against the side of Ed’s neck, thumb stroking gently at Ed’s jaw.
“We have a tremendous amount of friends,” he says.
“I was thinking that,” Ed says. “I hope Al remembered that some of ’em are chimeras when he planned the menu.”
Roy grins, and then he glances at the door, and he grins a little more.
It’s Gracia and Elysia, dressed to the nines, looking like a pair of visions, and jeez, what Ed wouldn’t give for Hughes to be here, too.
Roy’s all over it and oozing charm, of course.
“Good afternoon,” he says, taking Elysia’s hand first and bowing low to kiss it and look up at her through his eyelashes. Elysia goes bright red, and Ed fights hard to swallow a laugh-she’s twelve now, which is about the age he first started crushing on Roy freakin’ Mustang. The girl’s got good taste on top of everything else. “I knew we’d invited a princess from Xing, but I hadn’t realized we’d found one from Amestris, too.”
“You’re terrible,” Ed says. The pink in Elysia’s cheeks has deepened a little, but she manages to shake the stars from her eyes long enough to catapult onto Ed with a hug. “Hey, kid!” he says, trying not to mess up her hair. “How’s school?”
Roy’s hugging Gracia in the meantime while Elysia starts going on about how they don’t teach nearly enough alchemy and maybe one of her surrogate big brothers could help her…?, and then Roy touches Gracia’s elbow and turns to clasp another woman’s hand in both of his. She’s kinda nice-looking-about Roy’s age, short brown hair in a bob cut, dressed all in black, seems vaguely nervous.
“Edward,” Roy says, beckoning him over, “this is Beverly Masenca-the justice I was telling you about.”
“Uh,” Ed says, “hi.”
Exactly what are you supposed to say in this situation? Hey, I hear you’re pretty cool; thanks for agreeing to show up and declare that we’re legally married in front of a bunch of people you don’t know.
“Good afternoon,” Beverly Masenca says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Ed says helplessly.
“Oh, good,” Al says, coming up on Ed’s other side and checking something off on a clipboard. Ever the great multitasker, is Al: he’s also gnawing on his lip, scanning the room, and tapping his foot a lot. “I think we’re just about ready to start-Captain Hawkeye went to change, and almost everybody’s here-” He flips back to the first page, frowns around the room, and knocks the end of his pencil against the clipboard in a slightly frantic tattoo. “I swear I saw… How can someone so big be hard to find-?”
Before Ed can even ask who they’re talking about, he gets a viciously sharp elbow in the ribs that would probably double him over if he wasn’t used to that sort of shit.
“Hey, shorty!” Paninya says brightly. Apparently her idea of getting dressed up for a wedding is putting on some slacks instead of her camo pants and tying a bow in her hair. Ed has to admit, though-he probably would’ve done about the same if it wasn’t for Al. “Hurry up and get the sappy stuff over with so we can eat!”
“You’re a menace to society,” Ed says, returning the way-too-tight hug. “Thanks for coming.”
Roy looks delighted as Ed draws back, winces, and rubs at his permanently dented ribcage, because Roy is a sadist. “I suppose perhaps we should get started, if only so that none of our dear friends starve to death in the meantime.”
Paninya jabs her thumb at Roy, grinning. “See? That’s why I voted for this guy.”
“I didn’t,” Ed says.
Roy sighs, rather loudly. “The things we do for love… apparently do not extend to the ballot.”
“Captain!” Al says, and then Al says, “Oh-um-Captain.”
Ed turns pretty fast at that reaction, only to find that it’s completely merited, because Hawkeye looks fucking stunning in a red dress and a black tuxedo jacket. Roy’s groomsmen, who are all wearing red silk waistcoats with their matching jackets, all go very, very still, as if they’re seeing something they shouldn’t be.
Hawkeye claps Al on the shoulder briskly on her way over to the trellis-thing, where she takes up what must be the Best Woman position next to the lectern and raises an eyebrow.
Al shoves his clipboard into a flower arrangement, hastily buttons his yellow waistcoat, and darts over to stand opposite her.
Roy’s team snaps to pretty speedily after that, and Winry (who looks pretty darn great in her yellow dress, it can’t be denied) goes over to join Al, and then there’s a whole line of people Ed loves half to death standing up there on either side of the trellis, and Beverly Masenca gets up there and opens a book on the lectern, and Roy turns to Ed and offers him a hand.
And that’s where they started, isn’t it? And that’s never going to change.
So they go up there, linked together, and Roy takes both of Ed’s hands in his, and the room goes remarkably quiet, and Beverly Masenca says, “We’re all here today to bear witness to the union of two people. As one of them happens to be the ruling authority of this country-”
Awkward laughter from a few people who don’t recognize Roy’s sense of humor is, as it turns out, pretty much the best wedding present Ed could ask for.
“-and has asked me to, and I quote, ‘Keep the boring part brief so that there’s time for Ed to have a second slice of cake’, I’m going to do my best to make this quick. I have worked with Führer Mustang for a while now, although I doubt I’ve known him anywhere near as long as most of you have known one of these two gentlemen. It’s very likely that many of you saw the very beginning of the love that has brought us all here on this not-especially-sunny afternoon. I didn’t. The Roy Mustang that I know has always had Edward. The Roy Mustang that I know has always talked about him in a slightly different voice than any other topic of conversation. The Roy Mustang I know relies on him, depends on him, and absolutely cherishes him.”
Ed is going to die of happiness and embarrassment at the same time. Will that be a first? Roy’s grinning, the bastard.
“I have only known Edward for about five minutes,” Beverly Masenca says, “but about five seconds was enough to confirm my suspicion that the feeling-or the wealth of feelings; a fortune’s worth of feelings-is entirely mutual. So as far as I know…” Ed dares to glance over, and Beverly Masenca smiles. “The love right here before us is and always has been an inviolable fact. They might as well already be married-marriage, as I hope many of you happily know, is about the trust, devotion, dedication, and support that are founded in a love like this one. But while we’re all here in any case, we might as well make it official, don’t you think?”
Ed’s changed his mind. He’s not going to die; he’s just going to kill Roy for doing this to him.
It really is a shame; the bastard his heart beats for looks so good in that stupid hat.
“Führer Mustang,” Beverly Masenca says, “is there anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, thank you,” Roy says, although he hasn’t looked away from Ed’s eyes in… about since they got up here, actually. “Ed,” he says, “there is nothing in the vast world that I would rather do than wake up next to you-and be a martyr about fishing your hair out of the shower drain-every day for the rest of my life.”
Ed is trying to figure out the best order in which to kill Roy and also cry. It’ll be hard to kill Roy effectively if he’s crying; it’ll mess up his aim.
“Edward?” Beverly Masenca says.
“You are a bastard,” Ed says to the love of his life in front of all of his friends. “And you are damned lucky I like it that way. And you are really damned lucky that I love every single stupid day with you, even the bad ones, more than I’ve got words for, and the whole idea of forever is kind of beyond describing.”
“I know,” Roy says, beaming at him. “Jean, would you be so kind?”
There’s some fumbling in Ed’s peripheral vision past Roy’s hat, and then there’s silence, and then there’s a very faint noise of great distress.
“Jean,” Roy says in an extremely calm voice, “please tell me you did not lose the rings.”
“Lose-” Havoc’s voice has never sounded so high and terrified in as long as Ed has known him. “-‘lose’ is such a strong word, sir; maybe something like-‘misplace’-?”
For the first time since the night at the restaurant-which makes for the second time in a hell of a long while-Roy looks… scared.
His grip on Ed’s hands tightens, and a disconcerted murmur ripples around the room, and Havoc sounds like he’s gulping in air that he’s going to use to start sobbing in a second.
“Oh, come on,” Ed says. “Really?”
Roy blinks at him, and Ed grins and squeezes his hands, and then there’s a little ray of hope breaking through the fear, and Ed just… always wants to be that. That’s the thing.
“Hey, Winry,” he says. “You got any silver on you? Platinum, maybe?”
“I can’t believe you,” Winry says. “Why would you assume I’d have my pockets full or scrap metal at a wedding?”
Ed turns to look at her.
She holds up the pout for three more seconds before rolling her eyes and digging into a pocket, from which she turns up a pretty good selection of assorted little metal things.
“I love you, Win,” Ed says.
“Shut up and get married already,” Winry says, picking two little shiny pieces from the small collection in the palm of her hand.
Ed takes them, trying not to grin so hard he breaks his face. “All right, all right. What’s the composition here?”
“It’s your lucky day, stupid,” Winry says contentedly. “Sterling silver. That’s a classic. Didn’t you read Modern Wedding?”
“Funny story about that,” Ed says, curling his left hand around the metal for a moment, feeling his pulse beat. “I’ll tell you later.”
Beverly Masenca obligingly moves her book-which, as far as he can tell, is just for show anyway-clear of the lectern so that Ed can set the metal down, take one last gauging glance at Roy’s extremely familiar fingers in their gloves, and clap and touch his hands to the first little scrap of silver.
It’s easy, too, because alchemy is all about the full circle, the infinite curve, the completion, the self-contained configuration-that is, the ring.
“Okay,” he says, wrapping his prize into his left hand again to warm it while he waits. “Your turn.”
“Oh, good,” Roy says. “I have always so wanted to follow the world’s premiere alchemist in an act of improvisation in front of a crowd.”
“You could always start a fire and, like, forge it,” Ed says.
Roy gives him a withering look, which lasts for about a second and a half before they both start laughing.
It’s kind of funny, too, that there might be people in this room who have never seen Roy Mustang get the giggles over a stupid joke. A lot of the time, that’s a privilege reserved for Ed and Ed alone.
Roy shakes his head, peels off his gloves, pockets them, and draws a deep breath.
“It’s simple,” Ed says, very quietly, nudging Roy’s elbow with his right hand. “This is a purer distribution of molecules than you usually deal with. Don’t think about it too much.”
“If I muck it up colossally,” Roy says, “will you fix it?”
“No,” Ed says. “I’ll wear it, and I’ll be fucking proud.”
Roy smiles at him-the realest, warmest, brightest, eye-crinkliest of the billion smiles in the smile arsenal-and then touches his palms together and presses his fingertips to the silver.
For all of the bitching and moaning, in Ed’s fairly practiced opinion, the ring is pretty close to perfect.
“Well, then,” Beverly Masenca says. “Führer Mustang, do you take Edward Elric to be your lawfully-wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
“I most certainly do,” Roy says.
“Edward-”
“You’re damn right I do,” Ed says.
“Excellent,” Beverly Masenca says. “It’s done.” She gestures, and Roy takes Ed’s hand, and maybe it’s shaking a little, but that’s just because there’s an audience; it has nothing to do with the Holy shit, this is mine, forever, forever, forever, spiraling endlessly in Ed’s brain.
Roy slips the cold little ring onto his finger, and it fits like-well, like it was made for him. And Ed has a moment of entirely irrational panic that the one he made won’t, but the only thing he knows better than Roy’s hands is Roy’s heart, and damn if Roy’s finger wasn’t designed specifically to wear Ed’s claim to him; it looks good there. It looks right.
“You may-” Beverly Masenca says, but Ed doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s flinging his arms around Roy’s neck, and Roy has one hand buried in his hair and the other arm around the back of his waist, and Ed’s sort of anti-exhibitionist most of the time, but he has to admit that the cheer that goes up in the whole fucking room gives him one hell of a rush.
When he draws back, he can barely hear himself think over the roar of his blood in his ears and the banging of his heart in his chest, but who needs thinking anyway?
“Do we get cake now?” he asks.
“Yes,” Roy says. “Yes, we do.”
“Well,” Al says, “you would if we could find the cake.”
Ed whirls to look at him, and Al is grimacing in a way that makes it pretty clear he’s not joking.
“The cake is gone,” Al says, and there’s a flash of deep and genuine distress across his face that makes Ed’s heart crumple a little bit; it’s not Al’s fault; Al’s perfect; he- “I was waiting to tell you. I’m not sure what happened, since it was right there, but when I checked in the back a few minutes ago, it… wasn’t right there anymore.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Roy says. “Who in the world would steal a wedding cake?”
Al is apparently in agreement, since he appears to have murder in his eyes, and Ed’s about to grab his shoulder and find some way to convince him that it’s okay when there’s a giant shadow in the doorway, and somebody gasps.
In the doorway, on a trolley, shuddering slowly into the room, is the biggest fucking cake Ed has ever seen.
It is at least six feet tall, with a dozen tiered layers blanketed in little white piped flowers; it’s being pushed along with no small amount of difficulty by some dude wearing a wrist cuff, with a huge military jacket slung over his shoulder; and it’s slightly… lopsided?
“What,” Ed says, “the shit, Al?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Al says. “That isn’t the cake that Captain Hawkeye and I-”
Roy’s hand clenches too tight around Ed’s arm, and he’s being yanked backwards, and Roy’s in front of him, and the nearest side of the cake is crumbling-
And Armstrong bursts out.
Bits of cake fly everywhere, raining down on the floor and splattering the closest guests, and Ed’s insatiable morbid curiosity makes him lean around Roy’s protectively outstretched arm to watch in mortified fascination as Armstrong, who is covered in frosting, strikes a pose.
The dude who was pushing the trolley has both arms raised in an unmistakable gesture of absolute triumph and seems to be doing a small victory dance. Who invited that guy?
“What a truly momentous occasion!” Armstrong booms before Ed can think about it too much. “The sanctified, loving union of two noble souls, commemorated this day, sealed with undying affection, witnessed by so many who care for, follow, adore, and respect one or both of these magnificent men-it’s enough to bring a longtime friend-” His voice quavers mightily. “-to the brink-of tears-!”
“Alex,” Roy says, gripping Ed’s arm again and propelling them slowly backwards, “let’s remember that you just came out of a ca-”
It’s too late.
Like a striking cobra Armstrong descends, weeping freely, and wraps Roy and Ed together up into a suffocating and extremely sticky hug.
“Alex-” Roy wheezes. “Thank-you-that’s-enough-”
And that’s when, over the disconcertingly faint noises of his own futile struggling, Ed hears the shutter snap.
He looks down.
Apparently Elysia takes after her dad as far as the obsession with awkward photos.
Just as Ed is starting to see white spots in his vision, the incredible pressure lets up, and he and Roy are tumbling to the floor as Armstrong releases them in favor of some more vigorous sobbing.
Roy grasps Ed’s shoulders to steady him. “Are you all ri-”
“I’m dying,” Ed says. “The only cure is cake. But not that cake.”
“I found it!” Havoc cries from the doorway. “The real cake! It just got moved out of the way! Please don’t kill me over the rings?”
“My hero,” Ed says. He glances over at Roy. “Don’t pout; I didn’t mean it. Havoc? Really?” Roy’s trying not to grin and mostly failing. For good measure, Ed drags a hand down the front of his uniform and arches an eyebrow. “I only want him for his cake. Whereas I want you for a hell of a lot more later tonight, sir.”
The ‘sir’ is a silver bullet. Always has been. Ed has no complaints.
Roy lifts his fancy hat off, fluffs his hair, and settles the hat on Ed’s head instead.
“Let’s use him for his cake, then,” he says. “After that you’re all mine.”
“That’s the deal,” Ed says, settling his palm against the side of Roy’s neck and pressing in enough that Roy will feel the ring. “Isn’t it?”
Roy kisses him again, and a couple people go “Awww,” which probably means they can’t see what Roy’s doing with his tongue.
So there’s cake.
And Al wasn’t kidding; it’s the best cake.
Ed manages to decimate two full pieces before Roy lays a hand on his arm.
Honestly, it’s more than he expected he’d get before the we both know what happens when you’re hopped up on sugar and it isn’t pretty speech, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make Roy earn it.
“You,” he says, “are a despot of dessert.”
Roy leans in to kiss the tip of his nose. “And your lawfully-wedded husband, who sincerely carries your best interests as close as possible to his heart.”
Ed wrinkles his nose as much as he can without compelling Roy to move away, since he would like for that to happen… never. Yeah, an uninterrupted eternity of Roy’s dumb little affectionate gestures sounds pretty damn good. “I still dunno how I feel about ‘husband’. It’s kind of… stuffy.”
“It’s a bit more polite than ‘legally-sanctioned life companion with the bonus of lots of sex’,” Roy says.
“Lots and lots,” Ed says.
“Or ‘designated collector of your used bath towels’,” Roy says. “Or ‘high priest of the religion of your hair’.”
“I guess that makes me the ‘primary putter-upper with your shit’,” Ed says.
Roy beams at him, and goddamn, that grin still makes his whole chest tighten like his ribcage is shrinking, and the heat inside him has nowhere to escape. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“This is crap,” Ed says. “I can’t tell you to stop being sappy at your own wedding.”
“Oh, this is my chance,” Roy says, and there is a wild and terrible light in his eyes. Before Ed can run, Roy’s hands are at his waist, and he’s being swung gently around and around and then towards the dance floor, and- “Edward, my darling, my treasure, my reason for being, my beautiful golden light-”
“Barf,” Ed says, and he could stabilize himself perfectly adequately by gripping Roy’s shoulders, but… why not humor him and knit both hands behind his neck, just this once?
“Look at this,” Roy’s going on; “look at all these people who came here to celebrate how hopelessly devoted I am to your every breath; we have chosen an entire day to dedicate to our dedication-”
“You probably shouldn’t spin me around and over-schmoop me at the same time,” Ed says. “I really am going to throw up on your shoes.”
“I even love your vomit,” Roy says, though he almost cracks this time. “Look at this huge, wonderful room and all of these wonderful people-and really, the whole thing is unnecessary, because all I want is you, to touch you and hold you and look at you, and you have granted me the right to do that every day for the rest of our lives.”
“Yeah,” Ed says, and if he’s clinging a little now, it’s clearly a coincidence. “I guess we can pitch the wedding presents, since I’ve got everything I want.”
Roy grins that goddamn grin, leans down, and kisses him, and kisses him, and drags one of those marvelous hands slowly up his spine until it can reach to tug his hair.
“Then again,” the Führer of Amestris says as he draws back, cheeks flushed, mouth deliciously swollen, “why not have unmitigated domestic bliss and a new toaster?”
Ed wonders how many of the people in this room realize-how many really understand-that he’s the luckiest person alive.
“Good point,” he says.
“And every time we make toast with it,” Roy says, “we can remember our beautiful wedding. And every single time we finish with breakfast, we can consummate our marriage again.”
“Just in case,” Ed says.
“Can’t be too careful with these things,” Roy says.
Ed grins, perhaps a bit lasciviously, and Roy leans down to kiss him, and several observers coo again, which is hilarious-although Ed supposes it’s probably a good thing that they’re taking it out of context, given that anyone who eavesdropped on his and Roy’s sex life would deserve the taste of cardiac arrest that they’d probably get.
“Okay,” Ed says. “Hold that thought. I’m gonna go find Al and make sure his brain hasn’t exploded, and he hasn’t strangled anyone, and he doesn’t need anything. I’d say the same for Captain Hawkeye, but I don’t think she does stress.”
“Not in the conventional sense,” Roy says, “though the firing range targets might disagree.” He pushes the hat back to kiss Ed’s forehead. “I’ll try to say hello to all of the people you wouldn’t want to meet.”
Ed can’t stop smiling. It kind of hurts.
“Jeez,” he says. “I love you. Like, I really love you.”
It sounds sort of stupid like that, but he’s never had the too-easy facility for words that Roy does.
By the marvelous warmness of his eyes, though, it looks like Roy gets the point.
“And you,” he says, and Ed hugs him tightly and then runs off in search of a certain wayward Elric brother.
His search for a slender figure topped with perfect honey-wheat-brown-gold-gorgeous hair takes him past one of the dinner tables, where a familiar face is flanked by two he’s never seen before.
It was very generous of Colonel Miles to come all the way out on behalf of the Briggs crew, and it doesn’t look like he’s being rewarded particularly well for his kindness-the dude who was carrying Armstrong’s coat is seated slightly too close on his left, and a very drunk girl with smudged eyeliner is starting to slump in against his right arm.
“But how do you feel,” the coat-carrying dude says, raising both hands and gesturing outward, “about blonds.”
“With accents,” the drunk girl says, prodding Miles’s bicep repeatedly with a finger. “And sweaters.”
further reasons that Phindus is the best: originally posted here
Ed is considering intervening until he remembers that Miles could-and has-faced down a tank, and two weird alchies that Ed doesn’t remember inviting probably aren’t even a blip on the radar for an officer of Briggs. He also spots Al sitting at the bar with Roy’s mother, which is a little disconcerting to say the least.
When he sidles up, however, they seem to be talking about cats, rather than world domination, so that’s a plus.
Madame Christmas grins her maybe-you’re-fucked-maybe-you’re-not grin at Ed, which is the best cure he’s yet found for ever sleeping again. “Hey, there, sport. Still time to back out, y’know. I can arrange for a getaway car if you want.”
“I think I’m all right,” Ed says, “but thanks. Al, are you drinking? You don’t drink. You swore off ‘deliberate debilitating body poison’ after that time with the body paint and the-”
“Yes, I remember,” Al says, swilling his drink. “And, for your information, this is a virgin cocktail.”
Madame Christmas sighs happily. “I will never get tired of that combination of words.”
Sometimes you can see the relation between her and Roy a little too well.
“Okay, fine,” Ed says. “But you don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“I am,” Al says calmly. “Well, I was. I’m taking a break. I like watching you and Roy, though; you’re positively sickening. It almost makes me want to fall in love, but I’m concerned I’d get cavities.”
“Al,” Ed says slowly, “are you okay?”
“I’m far more than simply okay,” Al says, but his eyes dart to the left-just once, so fast that Ed almost misses it, but once is enough. “I’m magnificent. It’s just that I was up half the night getting those silly centerpieces to be perfect, and then I had to get up again at the crack of dawn to go chase down the baker for a cake that almost disappeared, and-”
“Al,” Ed says, “nothing’s going to change.”
Al blinks, blinks some more, and swallows. “What… do you mean?”
“Us,” Ed says. “I mean, this whole marriage… thing… is really just sort of a formality. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to be, like, draped over Roy’s feet writing fucking paeans to his boots now just because we signed a piece of paper and jury-rigged some jewelry. I’m still me, and I’m still your big brother, and… well, jeez, Al, I could get married to a million people, and you’d still be my flesh and my blood and my soul, okay?”
Without any warning except a welling of his eyes, Al flings both arms around Ed’s neck and starts sobbing into his shoulder.
It takes Ed a few seconds to process this turn of events before he has the presence of mind to hug back.
He catches Christmas’s eye and mouths: “Are you sure he’s not drunk?”
Christmas shrugs.
Al accompanies Ed doing the rounds of the room trying to say hi and thanks and did you get enough cake to everybody. He’s still carrying his clipboard, which seems to have some stray foliage trailing from it now. When they’ve done a pretty good circuit of the whole room, Ed releases a rather pent-up sigh and starts looking around for Roy.
“Brother,” Al says. Ed turns just in time to see him making some sort of hand motion towards the dance floor, which…? “Don’t mind that. I was just thinking-wouldn’t it be a lovely keepsake if you kept one of the flower arrangements?”
“Uh,” Ed says. Crap, Al at least picked out all the flowers; knowing him, he might have made every single one of the arrangements himself because the florist wasn’t good enough. “They’re really nice and all, but…”
“Here,” Al says, snatching a bouquet out of one of the pots and pushing it at him. “You can take it home and dry it; it’ll be lovely. Or you could press it. Or-”
“Al, it’s really okay,” Ed says, trying not to let the stems wind up in his hand, but Al is damned good at this. “Al-”
“Come on,” Al says, “just one. You’ve got such a terrible memory for things like this; won’t you want it later?”
“No,” Ed says. It’s in his hands, but- “I won’t need it, Al, jeez, you don’t think I’m going to remember this? It’s my own goddamn wedding, for fuck’s sake.”
“You’ve been into the champagne already,” Al says. “I saw you. You’ll forget the details, and then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
“I will not,” Ed says. “I don’t need it, Al.”
“Fine,” Al says, sniffing. “If that’s what you want, then you might as well just toss it over your shoulder and be done with the whole thing.”
Ed glowers at him for a second before realizing that actually following through will probably break the ice-good slapstick is one of Al’s secret weaknesses.
“I will, then,” he says, and he waits until Al glares before he hurls it backwards blindly.
A few things occur to him in rapid succession: first, that throwing objects in a crowded room without looking is not an especially fine idea; second, that, in light of the first, Al’s accusation about the champagne may be just; third, upon the onset of the screaming, that he just walked into the most obvious trap ever set by an Elric.
“Oh, you fucker,” he says to his beautiful baby brother.
Al is grinning ear-to-ear as Rebecca Catalina howls her triumph at ear-splitting volume, clutching her prize.
“Lighten up, Ed,” Al says. “Throwing the bouquet is traditional, and everyone always loves it. It was obvious that you’d never agree to do it, so I just… helped you along a little bit. That’s all.”
“You traitor,” Ed says. “I’m not the wife.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Al says. “And neither did anybody else. And neither will anybody else, or I will personally deprive them of a vital organ.”
There are so many reasons it’s really hard to stay mad at Al.
Ed makes a valiant effort to keep at it this time, though, and holds onto his scowl. “How much of your little routine was totally fake?”
Al pauses to chew on his lip as he considers. “Everything except the crying,” he decides. “That was genuinely one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me, and I love you all the more for it.”
“Shut up,” Ed says.
Al just beams at him.
“Shut up,” Ed says.
“Think about it this way,” Al says. “Lieutenant Havoc is reasonably superstitious, so we’ll probably get to torment him at his wedding very soon.”
“You’re so evil,” Ed says, dragging him into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re on my side most of the time.”
They chill out at the bar with Madame Christmas, who makes Ed the most colorful drink he has ever seen in his life. Winry comes over, and this time Al’s deft hand signal to Ed and Christmas is a pretty universal gesture for cut her off.
Ed finds out why when Winry stumbles on her high heels and then drapes herself all over him, arms slung around his neck.
“I can’t believe you got married first,” she says. “You’re so obnoxious.”
“Thank you,” Ed says, patting her back gingerly.
“But it’s, like, traditional,” Winry says. “The older sibling has to get hitched before the younger one can, right? So now we gotta find someone for Al.”
“Why don’t we worry about that tomorrow, Winry?” Al asks in a very soothing voice. “After you’ve had a nice, long rest and several dozen painkillers.”
“Gotta hook him up,” Winry mutters into Ed’s shoulder.
Ed and Al look at each other for a long moment, and Ed can tell that neither of them is surprised that they’re thinking the same thing.
“I’ll go call the cab,” Al says. “Can you hang onto her for a few minutes afterward while I say my goodnights?”
“’Course,” Ed says. “You have enough change?”
“I’m fine,” Al says, grinning. “Although that reminds me-did you ever give Roy’s money back?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ed says, as innocently as he can manage.
As Al darts off to the pay phone in the hall, Ed uses a clever combination of physical strength and plain old physics to lever Winry up onto the barstool next to him, where she sits relatively stably, all things considered.
“Did you ever think this’s where we’d be?” Winry asks after a moment.
Ed watches Roy sweeping back and forth across the dance floor as he teaches Elysia how to waltz. Gracia is trying to take pictures, but she keeps having to stop to wipe her eyes.
“Nope,” he says. “Sheer dumb fucking luck, from the very start.”
Roy twirls Elysia for good measure and then cranks the charm up to unbearable levels; it stands to Elysia’s credit that she’s only blushing furiously, not just passing out on the spot.
“But are you happy?” Winry asks suddenly, seizing Ed’s sleeve. “That’s the important thing; that’s the only thing-are you?”
“Yeah,” Ed says, unfastening her fingers from his sleeve and clasping her hand in his instead. “I am. More than I figured was possible, actually. When I slow down and think about it, it kinda scares me a little bit.”
Winry blinks. “Because… equivalent exchange?”
“Because equivalent exchange,” Ed says.
Winry looks over at Roy, who’s kissing Elysia’s hand and pulling out a chair for her-at which point he turns and immediately draws Gracia out onto the dance floor instead.
There’s something horrible sticking in Ed’s throat. He knows, now-he knows how it feels to find someone so fucking wonderful that you want to include them in every single moment of your whole fucking life. He knows now what it feels like to have someone promise you that they’ll be there, that they’ll stay there, that you’ll never have to be alone and adrift ever again, because they’ll always have your back, and they’ll always build with you. They’ll always build you back up.
Now he can conceptualize what Gracia Hughes has lost.
Now he understands how strong she really is.
“I dunno,” Winry says. “I think you’ve earned it.” Ed starts to grin. “…you big dork. Well, you little dork, I guess.”
“Come on,” Ed says, swallowing the sigh. “Let’s go see if Al’s got you a cab yet.”
The night winds down faster than Ed expected, really, and he keeps getting caught up in farewells to people heading for the door as he tries to make his way back to Roy.
Teacher drags him into a rib-cracking hug, during which Sig pats him on the head just once, though his hand is so huge that the gesture might very well make Ed noticeably shorter.
Teacher steps back and puts both of her hands on his shoulders. She’s smiling at him, and her eyes are really warm, and Ed is definitely, definitely not going to tear up.
“One piece of advice,” she says, “and one only. Take nothing for granted. I know you know that. Just promise me you’ll never forget.”
“I promise,” Ed says.
Teacher squeezes his shoulders, smiling just a little wider still. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.
And then they’re whisking out the door, and Ed is obviously not balanced precariously on the verge of crying his eyes out, and it’s just a coincidence that Roy appears from nowhere and gently touches his arm and very subtly passes him a handkerchief and smiles at him like he hung the fucking constellations one-by-one.
“So,” Roy says. “Would you like to know?”
“Know what?” Ed asks, twisting the shit out of the handkerchief and doing his damnedest not to need it.
“What it feels like to be married to the most wonderful person alive,” Roy says. “I can describe it to you now.”
“Shut up,” Ed says.
“Anything for you, dear,” Roy says.
“You’re such a fucking pushover,” Ed says. “I can’t believe all those people voted for you.”
Roy’s arm slips around his waist; their sides have always fit together so naturally that it’s really kind of strange. “You really didn’t?”
“Of course I did,” Ed says, frowning up at him now. “Because I knew it was what you wanted, even if it meant you’d have less time for me and our shit, and it’d be bad for you in the long run because of all the stress, and you’d make a crap-ass politician because you’re so un-rotten on the inside.”
Roy is gazing at him, and the worst part is that Ed’s gazing back, and it doesn’t even feel all soppy and lame.
“I love you,” Roy says.
“You better,” Ed says.
“I am better,” Roy says, “because of it.”
And now Ed’s tear ducts are malfunctioning, and Roy’s handkerchief is getting a workout, and this whole thing is so stupid and great. “Oh, fuck you.”
“I’m hoping for some of that, too,” Roy says, and he very gently tugs the handkerchief away, tilts the stupid hat back, and dries Ed’s eyes himself.
Hawkeye is the last person to leave. She makes sure of it by shoving them out the door in front of her.
“Goodnight, sir,” she says. “Goodnight, Ed. I hope everything was to your satisfaction.”
“It was perfect, Captain,” Roy says. “There isn’t enough gratitude in a thousand ‘thank you’s for everything you’ve done.”
“That’s very poetic, sir,” Hawkeye says, straight-up deadpan, but Ed can see the faintest hint of her well-guarded smile. “You two should probably be going if you want to get any sleep tonight.”
“Yes, Captain,” Roy says.
Hawkeye smiles just a fraction more and shuts the door.
Ed looks at Roy. “Did your second-in-command just tell us to go have a ton of riotous wedding-night sex?”
Roy takes his hand and leads the way to the car, grinning broadly. “Some people don’t believe me when I say I have the best team anyone could ask for.”
Ed makes sure to dart forward to the car door so that Roy won’t get it for him. “What dumbasses.”
“What dumbasses indeed,” Roy says.
The second they get into the house, Ed grabs Roy’s uniform by the braiding and pushes him up against the door and kisses him. Roy delves both hands into his hair, and he can feel the little hard line of the silver ring against his skull, and it feels amazing.
“So, Führer Mustang,” Ed says when he has no choice but to draw back to catch his breath. “How many hours until we have to leave for our little honeymoon thing?”
Roy’s hands migrate very rapidly down to his ass. “My dearest love,” he says, “not nearly enough.”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 12,400
Warnings: language, nauseating quantities of schmoop, lots and lots of sexytalk, AU but with major spoilers for Brotherhood
Prompt: Roy/Ed wedding. And everything is fluffy and everyone lives happily ever after *___*
Summary: Ed and Roy are going to get married. At least theoretically speaking…
Author's Note: It is unadvised to proceed without having read Part I. XD
SAPPILY EVER AFTER (PART II)
They’ve just barely succeeded in rearranging the chairs into something like two segments with an aisle when some unspecified summons makes the guests start pouring in.
After that, Ed’s got his arms full-of people. Winry almost knocks him to the ground, and then Sig Curtis lifts him about four feet off of it, and Teacher pats his ankle in greeting, because it’s the only thing she can reach right this second.
People keep appearing in the doorway and then rushing forward to wrap him into a hug or shake his hand so hard his elbow feels like jelly-Sheska has a pencil in her pocket that almost punctures his lung when she squeezes the breath out of him; Lieutenant-Colonel Ross and Lieutenant Brosh both try to hug him at once and end up with one arm each; Rebecca gives him a giant, sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, winks, and murmurs “You think maybe Jean’ll get a clue?”; Granny stares him down for an incredibly long, unnerving moment before she cracks a wide grin and says “I have never seen you look so handsome, Ed.”
Roy is greeting people, too, with that sort of graceful cordiality that he can make look easy. He must feel Ed’s gaze on him, because he turns, and smiles, and Ed’s heart goes all messy-gloopy-soft. Then he comes over and settles the palm of one hand against the side of Ed’s neck, thumb stroking gently at Ed’s jaw.
“We have a tremendous amount of friends,” he says.
“I was thinking that,” Ed says. “I hope Al remembered that some of ’em are chimeras when he planned the menu.”
Roy grins, and then he glances at the door, and he grins a little more.
It’s Gracia and Elysia, dressed to the nines, looking like a pair of visions, and jeez, what Ed wouldn’t give for Hughes to be here, too.
Roy’s all over it and oozing charm, of course.
“Good afternoon,” he says, taking Elysia’s hand first and bowing low to kiss it and look up at her through his eyelashes. Elysia goes bright red, and Ed fights hard to swallow a laugh-she’s twelve now, which is about the age he first started crushing on Roy freakin’ Mustang. The girl’s got good taste on top of everything else. “I knew we’d invited a princess from Xing, but I hadn’t realized we’d found one from Amestris, too.”
“You’re terrible,” Ed says. The pink in Elysia’s cheeks has deepened a little, but she manages to shake the stars from her eyes long enough to catapult onto Ed with a hug. “Hey, kid!” he says, trying not to mess up her hair. “How’s school?”
Roy’s hugging Gracia in the meantime while Elysia starts going on about how they don’t teach nearly enough alchemy and maybe one of her surrogate big brothers could help her…?, and then Roy touches Gracia’s elbow and turns to clasp another woman’s hand in both of his. She’s kinda nice-looking-about Roy’s age, short brown hair in a bob cut, dressed all in black, seems vaguely nervous.
“Edward,” Roy says, beckoning him over, “this is Beverly Masenca-the justice I was telling you about.”
“Uh,” Ed says, “hi.”
Exactly what are you supposed to say in this situation? Hey, I hear you’re pretty cool; thanks for agreeing to show up and declare that we’re legally married in front of a bunch of people you don’t know.
“Good afternoon,” Beverly Masenca says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Ed says helplessly.
“Oh, good,” Al says, coming up on Ed’s other side and checking something off on a clipboard. Ever the great multitasker, is Al: he’s also gnawing on his lip, scanning the room, and tapping his foot a lot. “I think we’re just about ready to start-Captain Hawkeye went to change, and almost everybody’s here-” He flips back to the first page, frowns around the room, and knocks the end of his pencil against the clipboard in a slightly frantic tattoo. “I swear I saw… How can someone so big be hard to find-?”
Before Ed can even ask who they’re talking about, he gets a viciously sharp elbow in the ribs that would probably double him over if he wasn’t used to that sort of shit.
“Hey, shorty!” Paninya says brightly. Apparently her idea of getting dressed up for a wedding is putting on some slacks instead of her camo pants and tying a bow in her hair. Ed has to admit, though-he probably would’ve done about the same if it wasn’t for Al. “Hurry up and get the sappy stuff over with so we can eat!”
“You’re a menace to society,” Ed says, returning the way-too-tight hug. “Thanks for coming.”
Roy looks delighted as Ed draws back, winces, and rubs at his permanently dented ribcage, because Roy is a sadist. “I suppose perhaps we should get started, if only so that none of our dear friends starve to death in the meantime.”
Paninya jabs her thumb at Roy, grinning. “See? That’s why I voted for this guy.”
“I didn’t,” Ed says.
Roy sighs, rather loudly. “The things we do for love… apparently do not extend to the ballot.”
“Captain!” Al says, and then Al says, “Oh-um-Captain.”
Ed turns pretty fast at that reaction, only to find that it’s completely merited, because Hawkeye looks fucking stunning in a red dress and a black tuxedo jacket. Roy’s groomsmen, who are all wearing red silk waistcoats with their matching jackets, all go very, very still, as if they’re seeing something they shouldn’t be.
Hawkeye claps Al on the shoulder briskly on her way over to the trellis-thing, where she takes up what must be the Best Woman position next to the lectern and raises an eyebrow.
Al shoves his clipboard into a flower arrangement, hastily buttons his yellow waistcoat, and darts over to stand opposite her.
Roy’s team snaps to pretty speedily after that, and Winry (who looks pretty darn great in her yellow dress, it can’t be denied) goes over to join Al, and then there’s a whole line of people Ed loves half to death standing up there on either side of the trellis, and Beverly Masenca gets up there and opens a book on the lectern, and Roy turns to Ed and offers him a hand.
And that’s where they started, isn’t it? And that’s never going to change.
So they go up there, linked together, and Roy takes both of Ed’s hands in his, and the room goes remarkably quiet, and Beverly Masenca says, “We’re all here today to bear witness to the union of two people. As one of them happens to be the ruling authority of this country-”
Awkward laughter from a few people who don’t recognize Roy’s sense of humor is, as it turns out, pretty much the best wedding present Ed could ask for.
“-and has asked me to, and I quote, ‘Keep the boring part brief so that there’s time for Ed to have a second slice of cake’, I’m going to do my best to make this quick. I have worked with Führer Mustang for a while now, although I doubt I’ve known him anywhere near as long as most of you have known one of these two gentlemen. It’s very likely that many of you saw the very beginning of the love that has brought us all here on this not-especially-sunny afternoon. I didn’t. The Roy Mustang that I know has always had Edward. The Roy Mustang that I know has always talked about him in a slightly different voice than any other topic of conversation. The Roy Mustang I know relies on him, depends on him, and absolutely cherishes him.”
Ed is going to die of happiness and embarrassment at the same time. Will that be a first? Roy’s grinning, the bastard.
“I have only known Edward for about five minutes,” Beverly Masenca says, “but about five seconds was enough to confirm my suspicion that the feeling-or the wealth of feelings; a fortune’s worth of feelings-is entirely mutual. So as far as I know…” Ed dares to glance over, and Beverly Masenca smiles. “The love right here before us is and always has been an inviolable fact. They might as well already be married-marriage, as I hope many of you happily know, is about the trust, devotion, dedication, and support that are founded in a love like this one. But while we’re all here in any case, we might as well make it official, don’t you think?”
Ed’s changed his mind. He’s not going to die; he’s just going to kill Roy for doing this to him.
It really is a shame; the bastard his heart beats for looks so good in that stupid hat.
“Führer Mustang,” Beverly Masenca says, “is there anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, thank you,” Roy says, although he hasn’t looked away from Ed’s eyes in… about since they got up here, actually. “Ed,” he says, “there is nothing in the vast world that I would rather do than wake up next to you-and be a martyr about fishing your hair out of the shower drain-every day for the rest of my life.”
Ed is trying to figure out the best order in which to kill Roy and also cry. It’ll be hard to kill Roy effectively if he’s crying; it’ll mess up his aim.
“Edward?” Beverly Masenca says.
“You are a bastard,” Ed says to the love of his life in front of all of his friends. “And you are damned lucky I like it that way. And you are really damned lucky that I love every single stupid day with you, even the bad ones, more than I’ve got words for, and the whole idea of forever is kind of beyond describing.”
“I know,” Roy says, beaming at him. “Jean, would you be so kind?”
There’s some fumbling in Ed’s peripheral vision past Roy’s hat, and then there’s silence, and then there’s a very faint noise of great distress.
“Jean,” Roy says in an extremely calm voice, “please tell me you did not lose the rings.”
“Lose-” Havoc’s voice has never sounded so high and terrified in as long as Ed has known him. “-‘lose’ is such a strong word, sir; maybe something like-‘misplace’-?”
For the first time since the night at the restaurant-which makes for the second time in a hell of a long while-Roy looks… scared.
His grip on Ed’s hands tightens, and a disconcerted murmur ripples around the room, and Havoc sounds like he’s gulping in air that he’s going to use to start sobbing in a second.
“Oh, come on,” Ed says. “Really?”
Roy blinks at him, and Ed grins and squeezes his hands, and then there’s a little ray of hope breaking through the fear, and Ed just… always wants to be that. That’s the thing.
“Hey, Winry,” he says. “You got any silver on you? Platinum, maybe?”
“I can’t believe you,” Winry says. “Why would you assume I’d have my pockets full or scrap metal at a wedding?”
Ed turns to look at her.
She holds up the pout for three more seconds before rolling her eyes and digging into a pocket, from which she turns up a pretty good selection of assorted little metal things.
“I love you, Win,” Ed says.
“Shut up and get married already,” Winry says, picking two little shiny pieces from the small collection in the palm of her hand.
Ed takes them, trying not to grin so hard he breaks his face. “All right, all right. What’s the composition here?”
“It’s your lucky day, stupid,” Winry says contentedly. “Sterling silver. That’s a classic. Didn’t you read Modern Wedding?”
“Funny story about that,” Ed says, curling his left hand around the metal for a moment, feeling his pulse beat. “I’ll tell you later.”
Beverly Masenca obligingly moves her book-which, as far as he can tell, is just for show anyway-clear of the lectern so that Ed can set the metal down, take one last gauging glance at Roy’s extremely familiar fingers in their gloves, and clap and touch his hands to the first little scrap of silver.
It’s easy, too, because alchemy is all about the full circle, the infinite curve, the completion, the self-contained configuration-that is, the ring.
“Okay,” he says, wrapping his prize into his left hand again to warm it while he waits. “Your turn.”
“Oh, good,” Roy says. “I have always so wanted to follow the world’s premiere alchemist in an act of improvisation in front of a crowd.”
“You could always start a fire and, like, forge it,” Ed says.
Roy gives him a withering look, which lasts for about a second and a half before they both start laughing.
It’s kind of funny, too, that there might be people in this room who have never seen Roy Mustang get the giggles over a stupid joke. A lot of the time, that’s a privilege reserved for Ed and Ed alone.
Roy shakes his head, peels off his gloves, pockets them, and draws a deep breath.
“It’s simple,” Ed says, very quietly, nudging Roy’s elbow with his right hand. “This is a purer distribution of molecules than you usually deal with. Don’t think about it too much.”
“If I muck it up colossally,” Roy says, “will you fix it?”
“No,” Ed says. “I’ll wear it, and I’ll be fucking proud.”
Roy smiles at him-the realest, warmest, brightest, eye-crinkliest of the billion smiles in the smile arsenal-and then touches his palms together and presses his fingertips to the silver.
For all of the bitching and moaning, in Ed’s fairly practiced opinion, the ring is pretty close to perfect.
“Well, then,” Beverly Masenca says. “Führer Mustang, do you take Edward Elric to be your lawfully-wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
“I most certainly do,” Roy says.
“Edward-”
“You’re damn right I do,” Ed says.
“Excellent,” Beverly Masenca says. “It’s done.” She gestures, and Roy takes Ed’s hand, and maybe it’s shaking a little, but that’s just because there’s an audience; it has nothing to do with the Holy shit, this is mine, forever, forever, forever, spiraling endlessly in Ed’s brain.
Roy slips the cold little ring onto his finger, and it fits like-well, like it was made for him. And Ed has a moment of entirely irrational panic that the one he made won’t, but the only thing he knows better than Roy’s hands is Roy’s heart, and damn if Roy’s finger wasn’t designed specifically to wear Ed’s claim to him; it looks good there. It looks right.
“You may-” Beverly Masenca says, but Ed doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s flinging his arms around Roy’s neck, and Roy has one hand buried in his hair and the other arm around the back of his waist, and Ed’s sort of anti-exhibitionist most of the time, but he has to admit that the cheer that goes up in the whole fucking room gives him one hell of a rush.
When he draws back, he can barely hear himself think over the roar of his blood in his ears and the banging of his heart in his chest, but who needs thinking anyway?
“Do we get cake now?” he asks.
“Yes,” Roy says. “Yes, we do.”
“Well,” Al says, “you would if we could find the cake.”
Ed whirls to look at him, and Al is grimacing in a way that makes it pretty clear he’s not joking.
“The cake is gone,” Al says, and there’s a flash of deep and genuine distress across his face that makes Ed’s heart crumple a little bit; it’s not Al’s fault; Al’s perfect; he- “I was waiting to tell you. I’m not sure what happened, since it was right there, but when I checked in the back a few minutes ago, it… wasn’t right there anymore.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Roy says. “Who in the world would steal a wedding cake?”
Al is apparently in agreement, since he appears to have murder in his eyes, and Ed’s about to grab his shoulder and find some way to convince him that it’s okay when there’s a giant shadow in the doorway, and somebody gasps.
In the doorway, on a trolley, shuddering slowly into the room, is the biggest fucking cake Ed has ever seen.
It is at least six feet tall, with a dozen tiered layers blanketed in little white piped flowers; it’s being pushed along with no small amount of difficulty by some dude wearing a wrist cuff, with a huge military jacket slung over his shoulder; and it’s slightly… lopsided?
“What,” Ed says, “the shit, Al?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Al says. “That isn’t the cake that Captain Hawkeye and I-”
Roy’s hand clenches too tight around Ed’s arm, and he’s being yanked backwards, and Roy’s in front of him, and the nearest side of the cake is crumbling-
And Armstrong bursts out.
Bits of cake fly everywhere, raining down on the floor and splattering the closest guests, and Ed’s insatiable morbid curiosity makes him lean around Roy’s protectively outstretched arm to watch in mortified fascination as Armstrong, who is covered in frosting, strikes a pose.
The dude who was pushing the trolley has both arms raised in an unmistakable gesture of absolute triumph and seems to be doing a small victory dance. Who invited that guy?
“What a truly momentous occasion!” Armstrong booms before Ed can think about it too much. “The sanctified, loving union of two noble souls, commemorated this day, sealed with undying affection, witnessed by so many who care for, follow, adore, and respect one or both of these magnificent men-it’s enough to bring a longtime friend-” His voice quavers mightily. “-to the brink-of tears-!”
“Alex,” Roy says, gripping Ed’s arm again and propelling them slowly backwards, “let’s remember that you just came out of a ca-”
It’s too late.
Like a striking cobra Armstrong descends, weeping freely, and wraps Roy and Ed together up into a suffocating and extremely sticky hug.
“Alex-” Roy wheezes. “Thank-you-that’s-enough-”
And that’s when, over the disconcertingly faint noises of his own futile struggling, Ed hears the shutter snap.
He looks down.
Apparently Elysia takes after her dad as far as the obsession with awkward photos.
Just as Ed is starting to see white spots in his vision, the incredible pressure lets up, and he and Roy are tumbling to the floor as Armstrong releases them in favor of some more vigorous sobbing.
Roy grasps Ed’s shoulders to steady him. “Are you all ri-”
“I’m dying,” Ed says. “The only cure is cake. But not that cake.”
“I found it!” Havoc cries from the doorway. “The real cake! It just got moved out of the way! Please don’t kill me over the rings?”
“My hero,” Ed says. He glances over at Roy. “Don’t pout; I didn’t mean it. Havoc? Really?” Roy’s trying not to grin and mostly failing. For good measure, Ed drags a hand down the front of his uniform and arches an eyebrow. “I only want him for his cake. Whereas I want you for a hell of a lot more later tonight, sir.”
The ‘sir’ is a silver bullet. Always has been. Ed has no complaints.
Roy lifts his fancy hat off, fluffs his hair, and settles the hat on Ed’s head instead.
“Let’s use him for his cake, then,” he says. “After that you’re all mine.”
“That’s the deal,” Ed says, settling his palm against the side of Roy’s neck and pressing in enough that Roy will feel the ring. “Isn’t it?”
Roy kisses him again, and a couple people go “Awww,” which probably means they can’t see what Roy’s doing with his tongue.
So there’s cake.
And Al wasn’t kidding; it’s the best cake.
Ed manages to decimate two full pieces before Roy lays a hand on his arm.
Honestly, it’s more than he expected he’d get before the we both know what happens when you’re hopped up on sugar and it isn’t pretty speech, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make Roy earn it.
“You,” he says, “are a despot of dessert.”
Roy leans in to kiss the tip of his nose. “And your lawfully-wedded husband, who sincerely carries your best interests as close as possible to his heart.”
Ed wrinkles his nose as much as he can without compelling Roy to move away, since he would like for that to happen… never. Yeah, an uninterrupted eternity of Roy’s dumb little affectionate gestures sounds pretty damn good. “I still dunno how I feel about ‘husband’. It’s kind of… stuffy.”
“It’s a bit more polite than ‘legally-sanctioned life companion with the bonus of lots of sex’,” Roy says.
“Lots and lots,” Ed says.
“Or ‘designated collector of your used bath towels’,” Roy says. “Or ‘high priest of the religion of your hair’.”
“I guess that makes me the ‘primary putter-upper with your shit’,” Ed says.
Roy beams at him, and goddamn, that grin still makes his whole chest tighten like his ribcage is shrinking, and the heat inside him has nowhere to escape. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“This is crap,” Ed says. “I can’t tell you to stop being sappy at your own wedding.”
“Oh, this is my chance,” Roy says, and there is a wild and terrible light in his eyes. Before Ed can run, Roy’s hands are at his waist, and he’s being swung gently around and around and then towards the dance floor, and- “Edward, my darling, my treasure, my reason for being, my beautiful golden light-”
“Barf,” Ed says, and he could stabilize himself perfectly adequately by gripping Roy’s shoulders, but… why not humor him and knit both hands behind his neck, just this once?
“Look at this,” Roy’s going on; “look at all these people who came here to celebrate how hopelessly devoted I am to your every breath; we have chosen an entire day to dedicate to our dedication-”
“You probably shouldn’t spin me around and over-schmoop me at the same time,” Ed says. “I really am going to throw up on your shoes.”
“I even love your vomit,” Roy says, though he almost cracks this time. “Look at this huge, wonderful room and all of these wonderful people-and really, the whole thing is unnecessary, because all I want is you, to touch you and hold you and look at you, and you have granted me the right to do that every day for the rest of our lives.”
“Yeah,” Ed says, and if he’s clinging a little now, it’s clearly a coincidence. “I guess we can pitch the wedding presents, since I’ve got everything I want.”
Roy grins that goddamn grin, leans down, and kisses him, and kisses him, and drags one of those marvelous hands slowly up his spine until it can reach to tug his hair.
“Then again,” the Führer of Amestris says as he draws back, cheeks flushed, mouth deliciously swollen, “why not have unmitigated domestic bliss and a new toaster?”
Ed wonders how many of the people in this room realize-how many really understand-that he’s the luckiest person alive.
“Good point,” he says.
“And every time we make toast with it,” Roy says, “we can remember our beautiful wedding. And every single time we finish with breakfast, we can consummate our marriage again.”
“Just in case,” Ed says.
“Can’t be too careful with these things,” Roy says.
Ed grins, perhaps a bit lasciviously, and Roy leans down to kiss him, and several observers coo again, which is hilarious-although Ed supposes it’s probably a good thing that they’re taking it out of context, given that anyone who eavesdropped on his and Roy’s sex life would deserve the taste of cardiac arrest that they’d probably get.
“Okay,” Ed says. “Hold that thought. I’m gonna go find Al and make sure his brain hasn’t exploded, and he hasn’t strangled anyone, and he doesn’t need anything. I’d say the same for Captain Hawkeye, but I don’t think she does stress.”
“Not in the conventional sense,” Roy says, “though the firing range targets might disagree.” He pushes the hat back to kiss Ed’s forehead. “I’ll try to say hello to all of the people you wouldn’t want to meet.”
Ed can’t stop smiling. It kind of hurts.
“Jeez,” he says. “I love you. Like, I really love you.”
It sounds sort of stupid like that, but he’s never had the too-easy facility for words that Roy does.
By the marvelous warmness of his eyes, though, it looks like Roy gets the point.
“And you,” he says, and Ed hugs him tightly and then runs off in search of a certain wayward Elric brother.
His search for a slender figure topped with perfect honey-wheat-brown-gold-gorgeous hair takes him past one of the dinner tables, where a familiar face is flanked by two he’s never seen before.
It was very generous of Colonel Miles to come all the way out on behalf of the Briggs crew, and it doesn’t look like he’s being rewarded particularly well for his kindness-the dude who was carrying Armstrong’s coat is seated slightly too close on his left, and a very drunk girl with smudged eyeliner is starting to slump in against his right arm.
“But how do you feel,” the coat-carrying dude says, raising both hands and gesturing outward, “about blonds.”
“With accents,” the drunk girl says, prodding Miles’s bicep repeatedly with a finger. “And sweaters.”
further reasons that Phindus is the best: originally posted here
Ed is considering intervening until he remembers that Miles could-and has-faced down a tank, and two weird alchies that Ed doesn’t remember inviting probably aren’t even a blip on the radar for an officer of Briggs. He also spots Al sitting at the bar with Roy’s mother, which is a little disconcerting to say the least.
When he sidles up, however, they seem to be talking about cats, rather than world domination, so that’s a plus.
Madame Christmas grins her maybe-you’re-fucked-maybe-you’re-not grin at Ed, which is the best cure he’s yet found for ever sleeping again. “Hey, there, sport. Still time to back out, y’know. I can arrange for a getaway car if you want.”
“I think I’m all right,” Ed says, “but thanks. Al, are you drinking? You don’t drink. You swore off ‘deliberate debilitating body poison’ after that time with the body paint and the-”
“Yes, I remember,” Al says, swilling his drink. “And, for your information, this is a virgin cocktail.”
Madame Christmas sighs happily. “I will never get tired of that combination of words.”
Sometimes you can see the relation between her and Roy a little too well.
“Okay, fine,” Ed says. “But you don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“I am,” Al says calmly. “Well, I was. I’m taking a break. I like watching you and Roy, though; you’re positively sickening. It almost makes me want to fall in love, but I’m concerned I’d get cavities.”
“Al,” Ed says slowly, “are you okay?”
“I’m far more than simply okay,” Al says, but his eyes dart to the left-just once, so fast that Ed almost misses it, but once is enough. “I’m magnificent. It’s just that I was up half the night getting those silly centerpieces to be perfect, and then I had to get up again at the crack of dawn to go chase down the baker for a cake that almost disappeared, and-”
“Al,” Ed says, “nothing’s going to change.”
Al blinks, blinks some more, and swallows. “What… do you mean?”
“Us,” Ed says. “I mean, this whole marriage… thing… is really just sort of a formality. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to be, like, draped over Roy’s feet writing fucking paeans to his boots now just because we signed a piece of paper and jury-rigged some jewelry. I’m still me, and I’m still your big brother, and… well, jeez, Al, I could get married to a million people, and you’d still be my flesh and my blood and my soul, okay?”
Without any warning except a welling of his eyes, Al flings both arms around Ed’s neck and starts sobbing into his shoulder.
It takes Ed a few seconds to process this turn of events before he has the presence of mind to hug back.
He catches Christmas’s eye and mouths: “Are you sure he’s not drunk?”
Christmas shrugs.
Al accompanies Ed doing the rounds of the room trying to say hi and thanks and did you get enough cake to everybody. He’s still carrying his clipboard, which seems to have some stray foliage trailing from it now. When they’ve done a pretty good circuit of the whole room, Ed releases a rather pent-up sigh and starts looking around for Roy.
“Brother,” Al says. Ed turns just in time to see him making some sort of hand motion towards the dance floor, which…? “Don’t mind that. I was just thinking-wouldn’t it be a lovely keepsake if you kept one of the flower arrangements?”
“Uh,” Ed says. Crap, Al at least picked out all the flowers; knowing him, he might have made every single one of the arrangements himself because the florist wasn’t good enough. “They’re really nice and all, but…”
“Here,” Al says, snatching a bouquet out of one of the pots and pushing it at him. “You can take it home and dry it; it’ll be lovely. Or you could press it. Or-”
“Al, it’s really okay,” Ed says, trying not to let the stems wind up in his hand, but Al is damned good at this. “Al-”
“Come on,” Al says, “just one. You’ve got such a terrible memory for things like this; won’t you want it later?”
“No,” Ed says. It’s in his hands, but- “I won’t need it, Al, jeez, you don’t think I’m going to remember this? It’s my own goddamn wedding, for fuck’s sake.”
“You’ve been into the champagne already,” Al says. “I saw you. You’ll forget the details, and then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
“I will not,” Ed says. “I don’t need it, Al.”
“Fine,” Al says, sniffing. “If that’s what you want, then you might as well just toss it over your shoulder and be done with the whole thing.”
Ed glowers at him for a second before realizing that actually following through will probably break the ice-good slapstick is one of Al’s secret weaknesses.
“I will, then,” he says, and he waits until Al glares before he hurls it backwards blindly.
A few things occur to him in rapid succession: first, that throwing objects in a crowded room without looking is not an especially fine idea; second, that, in light of the first, Al’s accusation about the champagne may be just; third, upon the onset of the screaming, that he just walked into the most obvious trap ever set by an Elric.
“Oh, you fucker,” he says to his beautiful baby brother.
Al is grinning ear-to-ear as Rebecca Catalina howls her triumph at ear-splitting volume, clutching her prize.
“Lighten up, Ed,” Al says. “Throwing the bouquet is traditional, and everyone always loves it. It was obvious that you’d never agree to do it, so I just… helped you along a little bit. That’s all.”
“You traitor,” Ed says. “I’m not the wife.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Al says. “And neither did anybody else. And neither will anybody else, or I will personally deprive them of a vital organ.”
There are so many reasons it’s really hard to stay mad at Al.
Ed makes a valiant effort to keep at it this time, though, and holds onto his scowl. “How much of your little routine was totally fake?”
Al pauses to chew on his lip as he considers. “Everything except the crying,” he decides. “That was genuinely one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me, and I love you all the more for it.”
“Shut up,” Ed says.
Al just beams at him.
“Shut up,” Ed says.
“Think about it this way,” Al says. “Lieutenant Havoc is reasonably superstitious, so we’ll probably get to torment him at his wedding very soon.”
“You’re so evil,” Ed says, dragging him into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re on my side most of the time.”
They chill out at the bar with Madame Christmas, who makes Ed the most colorful drink he has ever seen in his life. Winry comes over, and this time Al’s deft hand signal to Ed and Christmas is a pretty universal gesture for cut her off.
Ed finds out why when Winry stumbles on her high heels and then drapes herself all over him, arms slung around his neck.
“I can’t believe you got married first,” she says. “You’re so obnoxious.”
“Thank you,” Ed says, patting her back gingerly.
“But it’s, like, traditional,” Winry says. “The older sibling has to get hitched before the younger one can, right? So now we gotta find someone for Al.”
“Why don’t we worry about that tomorrow, Winry?” Al asks in a very soothing voice. “After you’ve had a nice, long rest and several dozen painkillers.”
“Gotta hook him up,” Winry mutters into Ed’s shoulder.
Ed and Al look at each other for a long moment, and Ed can tell that neither of them is surprised that they’re thinking the same thing.
“I’ll go call the cab,” Al says. “Can you hang onto her for a few minutes afterward while I say my goodnights?”
“’Course,” Ed says. “You have enough change?”
“I’m fine,” Al says, grinning. “Although that reminds me-did you ever give Roy’s money back?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ed says, as innocently as he can manage.
As Al darts off to the pay phone in the hall, Ed uses a clever combination of physical strength and plain old physics to lever Winry up onto the barstool next to him, where she sits relatively stably, all things considered.
“Did you ever think this’s where we’d be?” Winry asks after a moment.
Ed watches Roy sweeping back and forth across the dance floor as he teaches Elysia how to waltz. Gracia is trying to take pictures, but she keeps having to stop to wipe her eyes.
“Nope,” he says. “Sheer dumb fucking luck, from the very start.”
Roy twirls Elysia for good measure and then cranks the charm up to unbearable levels; it stands to Elysia’s credit that she’s only blushing furiously, not just passing out on the spot.
“But are you happy?” Winry asks suddenly, seizing Ed’s sleeve. “That’s the important thing; that’s the only thing-are you?”
“Yeah,” Ed says, unfastening her fingers from his sleeve and clasping her hand in his instead. “I am. More than I figured was possible, actually. When I slow down and think about it, it kinda scares me a little bit.”
Winry blinks. “Because… equivalent exchange?”
“Because equivalent exchange,” Ed says.
Winry looks over at Roy, who’s kissing Elysia’s hand and pulling out a chair for her-at which point he turns and immediately draws Gracia out onto the dance floor instead.
There’s something horrible sticking in Ed’s throat. He knows, now-he knows how it feels to find someone so fucking wonderful that you want to include them in every single moment of your whole fucking life. He knows now what it feels like to have someone promise you that they’ll be there, that they’ll stay there, that you’ll never have to be alone and adrift ever again, because they’ll always have your back, and they’ll always build with you. They’ll always build you back up.
Now he can conceptualize what Gracia Hughes has lost.
Now he understands how strong she really is.
“I dunno,” Winry says. “I think you’ve earned it.” Ed starts to grin. “…you big dork. Well, you little dork, I guess.”
“Come on,” Ed says, swallowing the sigh. “Let’s go see if Al’s got you a cab yet.”
The night winds down faster than Ed expected, really, and he keeps getting caught up in farewells to people heading for the door as he tries to make his way back to Roy.
Teacher drags him into a rib-cracking hug, during which Sig pats him on the head just once, though his hand is so huge that the gesture might very well make Ed noticeably shorter.
Teacher steps back and puts both of her hands on his shoulders. She’s smiling at him, and her eyes are really warm, and Ed is definitely, definitely not going to tear up.
“One piece of advice,” she says, “and one only. Take nothing for granted. I know you know that. Just promise me you’ll never forget.”
“I promise,” Ed says.
Teacher squeezes his shoulders, smiling just a little wider still. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.
And then they’re whisking out the door, and Ed is obviously not balanced precariously on the verge of crying his eyes out, and it’s just a coincidence that Roy appears from nowhere and gently touches his arm and very subtly passes him a handkerchief and smiles at him like he hung the fucking constellations one-by-one.
“So,” Roy says. “Would you like to know?”
“Know what?” Ed asks, twisting the shit out of the handkerchief and doing his damnedest not to need it.
“What it feels like to be married to the most wonderful person alive,” Roy says. “I can describe it to you now.”
“Shut up,” Ed says.
“Anything for you, dear,” Roy says.
“You’re such a fucking pushover,” Ed says. “I can’t believe all those people voted for you.”
Roy’s arm slips around his waist; their sides have always fit together so naturally that it’s really kind of strange. “You really didn’t?”
“Of course I did,” Ed says, frowning up at him now. “Because I knew it was what you wanted, even if it meant you’d have less time for me and our shit, and it’d be bad for you in the long run because of all the stress, and you’d make a crap-ass politician because you’re so un-rotten on the inside.”
Roy is gazing at him, and the worst part is that Ed’s gazing back, and it doesn’t even feel all soppy and lame.
“I love you,” Roy says.
“You better,” Ed says.
“I am better,” Roy says, “because of it.”
And now Ed’s tear ducts are malfunctioning, and Roy’s handkerchief is getting a workout, and this whole thing is so stupid and great. “Oh, fuck you.”
“I’m hoping for some of that, too,” Roy says, and he very gently tugs the handkerchief away, tilts the stupid hat back, and dries Ed’s eyes himself.
Hawkeye is the last person to leave. She makes sure of it by shoving them out the door in front of her.
“Goodnight, sir,” she says. “Goodnight, Ed. I hope everything was to your satisfaction.”
“It was perfect, Captain,” Roy says. “There isn’t enough gratitude in a thousand ‘thank you’s for everything you’ve done.”
“That’s very poetic, sir,” Hawkeye says, straight-up deadpan, but Ed can see the faintest hint of her well-guarded smile. “You two should probably be going if you want to get any sleep tonight.”
“Yes, Captain,” Roy says.
Hawkeye smiles just a fraction more and shuts the door.
Ed looks at Roy. “Did your second-in-command just tell us to go have a ton of riotous wedding-night sex?”
Roy takes his hand and leads the way to the car, grinning broadly. “Some people don’t believe me when I say I have the best team anyone could ask for.”
Ed makes sure to dart forward to the car door so that Roy won’t get it for him. “What dumbasses.”
“What dumbasses indeed,” Roy says.
The second they get into the house, Ed grabs Roy’s uniform by the braiding and pushes him up against the door and kisses him. Roy delves both hands into his hair, and he can feel the little hard line of the silver ring against his skull, and it feels amazing.
“So, Führer Mustang,” Ed says when he has no choice but to draw back to catch his breath. “How many hours until we have to leave for our little honeymoon thing?”
Roy’s hands migrate very rapidly down to his ass. “My dearest love,” he says, “not nearly enough.”