FMA -- But Not Buried This Time, Chapter 8

[tierfal]

Title: But Not Buried This Time
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed (though mostly just Ed vs. snow)
Rating: R
Word Count: 95,000 (9,950 in this bit)
Warnings: language; gore; violence; snow; suffering; AU from end of Brotherhood; eventual explicit smut
Summary: Once Ed decides that he is categorically not going to rot on the Drachman tundra, dragging his ass out of the jaws of death is actually pretty easy.  ...except when it's not.  At all.  Which is most of the time.
Author's Note: LONG NOTE!! [here it be]You'll notice - if you haven't already - that I wrote this like I was setting up for a sequel, because that is how it wanted to be written, and no amount of dragging my feet would shut Ed up about it. XD

But here's the thing: I started this fic in mid-May of last year, which means that it took over ten months to write, edit, and post it in its entirety. And I really, really don't know have another ten months of this thing in me. :'D On top of that, the sequel it set itself up for is one that would take me way out of my comfort zone, so I'm not sure I'd manage to write anything worth reading even if I tried.

tl;dr summary: I know it sounds like sequel time, but I am probably off the bridge and into the water before that actually happens. XD I'm sorry to everyone who was looking forward to that! If it helps at all, the upshot is that I'm back to work on Loud and Clear, and there's another 100K or so of that sucker that should hopefully be ready to share relatively soon.

So, uh……… *jazz hands*

In all seriousness, though, thank you guys. ♥ I know I'm the actual WORST at responding to comments, but to everyone who left one, or reblogged on Tumblr, or left kudos or likes - that is the reason I do this. You are the reason I do this. Thank you, so much, from the bottom of my icy little heart. ♥



BUT NOT BURIED THIS TIME
CHAPTER 8
“Hold on,” Roy murmurs, and Ed pauses with his arm drawn halfway back, trying to convince his eyes to see straight enough to figure out what the fuck Roy’s feeling; did he do something wrong, or-?

He must fucking have, because Roy’s got one arm under Ed’s shoulders and the other hand splayed on his sternum, laying him back down on the rug and then-

Catching up one of the pillows to set it under Ed’s head-and following it with the second, which winds up wedged beneath his hips.

And his heart starts pounding twice as hard, just like that-fucking instinct is a trip.

There’s a little silver foil packet in Roy’s clever hands next, and the bastard raises it to his mouth and gets the corner in his teeth to tear it open, and-

Shit, that shouldn’t be anywhere near as hot as it turns out it is.

“If I don’t do this now,” Roy says, like somebody’s going to ask him to explain himself when he’s that fucking hot, “I’m afraid I might forget.”

Ed’s almost oxygen-deprived enough to ask “Do what?”, but he figures it out in a fucking hurry when Roy holds a disc of latex up in front of his mouth and blows into it with a delicacy that would be hilarious if Ed had any energy to spare for amusement after the fucking flood of heat.

It’s funny, too-distantly; a ripple of a laugh in his dragged-in, trembling breath-that he’s heard the guys whine and fucking moan about condoms and shit, but the way Roy holds the edge of it between his lips to free both hands for calmly unbuttoning his pants again is just about the hottest fucking thing that Ed has ever seen.

Maybe that’s just Roy.  God, maybe that’s just what he does to people; maybe it’s just the trademark Mustang suaveness felling another fucking casualty.  Maybe Ed’s just weak for this-for him, for the way his gorgeous hands move, for the focus of his incredible eyes.

The latter slip mostly shut as Roy lifts his dick out of his pants and smoothes one hand along the underside.  He tilts his head back; snatches the condom out of his mouth with the other hand; and softly, so softly, starts to moan-

This isn’t fucking fair.

Do other people have to deal with this shit?  The beat of Ed’s blood between his hips is shaking him so hard he thinks he’s going to shatter; it’s gone from vicious to fucking violent, and his dick aches, and his guts are liquid-

“Roy,” he gets out, and the rough catch of his own voice is almost startling.  Words belong to other people; words are for feelings small enough to fit into capsulated syllables; this is so much more.  “Roy-I need-I need you to fuck me; I-”

That pulls a sharp gasp off of Roy’s lips, and it cuts right through him and burrows into his bone marrow, and it’s all he can do to cling to consciousness as Roy abandons every last pretense of collectedness and fumbles to roll the condom onto himself-

And fuck, Ed’s never really stopped to think that a particular dick could be appealing, exactly; they’re just sort of-they’re there, right; they’re a nerve center, evolution, whatever shit-but fuck if Roy’s isn’t goddamn gorgeous just like all of him; fucking thick and straight and straining, and Ed’s mouth waters and goes dry in the same instant somehow-

“You know,” Roy says, and the faintness of it-the breathlessness, the hoarse note, the tightness-stops Ed’s throat and twists his spine; “I’ve been telling people for years that you were going to be the death of me.”

“Mustang,” Ed grinds out despite the banging of his heart against the walls of his esophagus.  “Is there some part of ‘fuck me’ that’s fucking unclear?”

Roy laughs-raggedly, which Ed guesses is a start, but-

And then leans down, all pure fucking heat and silken hair and far too persuasive mouth; all brain-obliterating kiss and gentle hands on Ed’s knee, his thighs, his hips; one curls around his dick and then slips down to cup his balls and then glides lower, and the surge of blood to Ed’s groin legitimately fucking leaves him reeling.

“Bear with me,” Roy says, and the sensation of his fingertip sliding in is-indescribably fucking weird, but not bad-weird, just… “I promise you it gets better.”

“Like I fucking care right now?” Ed gasp-says.  He just wants-he just wants to be close, closer, as close as it’s possible to fucking get; wants to be full and fucking overflowing; wants to be melting at the edges and running down Roy’s fucking skin; wants to taste every part of him-

“I don’t want to surprise you,” Roy says, so low Ed feels it resonating against his throat almost more than he hears it; “except with the good parts.”

“All your fucking parts are good parts,” Ed manages.  “Stop talking and fucking do someth-” Roy’s finger delves in deeper, and the feeling is so fucking bizarre Ed just-squirms, and lets the breath leave him in a completely different configuration than he’d intended.  “Ahh-”

Roy’s mouth moves up under Ed’s ear, then across the shell-hot-wet breath and a whisper of warmth as Roy’s lips part, and then he nips the curve of Ed’s ear gently, and somehow he’s fucking multitasking enough to be fussing around with both hands at the same time.

His fingertip presses back in-slick this time, and cooler, drenched in something, and the slide of it against the tingling nerves is transcendent and fucking torturous, and Ed wants so much more.

Since words seem to have lost the slightest semblance of meaning in his brain, he tries to communicate that by rocking his hips down hard against Roy’s hand-and gets himself a fucking choked-off noise from Roy’s mouth, and the finger buried up to the bottom knuckle, and God, that’s good-weird-good, but good-

Language returns triumphantly, and several words pop like tiny little pearlescent bubbles in his brain: Roy Mustang is finger-fucking him.  That’s what this is.  That’s what it’s called.

Shit.  Just acknowledging the simple fact of that shouldn’t be hot either, but it damn well fucking is.

“Lord,” Roy says, almost under his breath, and he leans his forehead against Ed’s and opens his eyes just a sliver, and he’s biting his lip so hard it’s going white.

Ed swallows again in an ultimately doomed attempt to get his throat to clear-it’s hard to do much of anything with even a remote level of fucking competence with Roy’s finger up his ass, shifting slowly, dragging all these unprecedented fucking flares and tingles out of his unsuspecting nerves.

And the thing is-

He just fucking craves-

“More,” he says.

His voice sounds fucking strangled to his own ears, but Roy’s next breath catches so hard that he must be doing something really, really right regardless.

Maybe it’s just something about the humidity of the room or some shit, because it takes Roy three tries to swallow before he can get out a sentence: “Are you sure?”

Ed grits his teeth and rolls his hips against Roy’s hand-which, on the upside, gets his point across; and which, on the downside, almost fucking kills them both.

“Yes,” he says, “I am fucking sure, Roy; would-you just-”

Roy’s hand withdraws, and Ed hears his traitor of a voice fucking whimper at the loss of the heat and the fullness and the friction.

Roy distracts him with a long trail of wet kisses back and forth across his ribs, which sustains the frenetic rhythm of his breath and the arc of his ever-tightening spine; and then-

Two of those fucking fingers, pressed in slow, and it burns, and God, Ed can’t fucking get enough-

“Yeah,” he gets out on a dry-mouthed rasp of an exhale.  “Roy-fuck me, come on-”

Roy’s answering breath has a hell of a lot more laugh in it than he’d like.  “In good fucking time, dear heart.”

He sounds good-swearing.  He swears well.  Why is that hot?

God, Ed’s so fucking doomed.

“You,” he says, “are the biggest procrastinator on the planet.”

Roy’s mouth curves against his hip, right near the edge of the newest well of scars.  “I have stamina,” he says.

“What you have,” Ed says, fighting the urge to squirm when Roy’s tongue flicks against his skin, “is a death wish.”

Roy pulls his fingers almost free and pushes them back in agonizingly fucking slow.

“Only a little death,” he says.

Ed knew that was coming.  Or he would have, if there was a single fucking operable brain cell left in his skull.

Roy apparently takes the silence as encouragement better than he took the actual encouragement, which is pretty fucking typical Roy, actually, all told-but he’s still moving so slowly that Ed thinks his heart’s going to burst into cardiac dreck and confetti, fuck-

Roy drives in just a fraction harder the next time, and Ed can hear him panting softly, which is also so fucking hot that Ed’s head spins like a dervish, whipping the rest of him into the frenzy-he hooks his one arm around the back of Roy’s neck and tries to haul him in, tries to drag him nearer, tries to get closer than the impossible closeness of this-

“All right,” Roy says, so softly it barely registers over the machine-gun rhythm of Ed’s own heart and the choking smoke-seethe of his breath.  “Hold on.”

“I am,” Ed says, tugging with his arm for good measure.  It’s not even close to conscious-it’s just the mindless, knee-jerk, automatic argument.  He really is just that fucking contrary.

And Roy buries that perfect face in Ed’s neck and laughs again, like Ed’s shitty-ass personality is the best damn thing he’s ever seen.

There wouldn’t be much time to mull over how dumb Ed is even if he wanted to, though, because on the next inward thrust Roy slides a third finger in with the first two, and Ed’s going to die, but it’ll be so fucking great; it’ll be a death of gasping, groaning, overwhelming pleasure drowning him in shuddering waves, and does it get much fucking better than that?

Every other conversation in the fucking cafeteria was about this shit-which is why Ed eventually started ranging out across the street to quiet little sandwich shops where he could diagram arrays and chug some distinctly non-radioactive definitely-coffee-and-not-sludge and clear his mind.  So how is it that nobody ever mentioned how fucking weird it is?

But it’s weird in a-not-weird way.  Weird when you try to get the whirling cogs of your mind to catch and stick; weird when you think about it instead of just setting your fucking body free.  Weird because it isn’t weird when you let go, and the instincts float your brain so high and so fast that you’re dizzy with it, and your nerves just fucking sing-like struck metal, like plucked strings, like joyful fucking birds first thing in the goddamn morning, when the sun summons them awake.

Nobody ever mentioned how wet it is-lube and shit aside; the sweat and the spit and the myriad other fucking fluids; his hairline’s drenched; his forehead’s dripping; there are tiny fucking sauna-pools clinging to the insides of his elbow and the small of his back and the back of his knee.  And that should be gross, shouldn’t it?  That should be disgusting.  But it’s not; it just feels-validating.  Grounding.  Like he’s really fucking here; like this is undeniable, and his skittering heartbeat will keep a transcript of Morse code bruises on the inside of his skin-

Nobody ever mentioned how fucking honest it is-how absolutely fucking bare you are no matter who’s still got his stupid, now-extremely-damp slacks still half-on around his knees.  Because it’s not the speaking kind of honesty, or the skin-shown kind of naked.

It’s that you can’t lie to somebody this close.  It’s that it’s past seeing, or learning, or any kind of sensorily-processed intuition.  It’s that you can feel the fucking truth of somebody this close.  You can feel what they are, who they are, what it means.  And you can’t bullshit with your hips and your shoulders and your ribs and your fingertips the way you can when it’s the words alone.

Not even Roy could fucking fool somebody here.

So there’s no point even trying not to fucking scream when the next push of Roy’s fingers grazes something that jolts Ed’s spine with straight-up fucking magic kinds of sparks that shimmer to the end of every single fucking neuron.

“God,” Roy whispers, and he’s smiling; you can hear it.  “Ed-”

“Shut up,” Ed says, because the physical sensations alone are going to shred him, and if Roy goes back to the rumbly-seduction voice thing, he may not fucking survive.

“No,” Roy says.  The bastard.  He kisses under Ed’s chin, then down his chest; his hand withdraws- “You are so, so, so damn beautiful.”

He’s not.  He’s not, and he wants to say it, but it can’t be a fucking lie.  Not here.  Not like this.  Which means that Roy, at least, legitimately believes it, and-

That’s not fair.

It’s the dumbest fucking phrase in the language, but that’s not fair-

“Relax,” Roy says, softly, coaxing again; and the fucked up part is that Ed wants to give him all of it-especially the shit he hasn’t even asked for; all of it, for as long as he’ll keep taking.  “Can you?  Just-release the tension, just-”

“Easy for you to say,” Ed manages.

The worst part is, his fragmented brain just figured out why Roy’s asking that of him, and-shit.  Shit, this is for real; it’s not like there’s been any going back for about an hour now, but-still-

“I know,” Roy says.  “I’ve been there.”

That’s a fucking thought-and one that deepens the eternally-burgeoning heat in Ed’s guts instead of relieving it; he has to curl his fucking toes to divert some fucking fraction of it outward.

“No kidding,” he manages.

“Long story,” Roy says, in the gentle voice.  His fingertips keep gliding up and down Ed’s side-stroking, some kind of soothing thing, and the worst part is it’s working.  “I can tell you all the gory details one of these days, if you like.”

He’s trying to give Ed something else to pay attention to.  It’d be an asshole move not even to try to accept that generosity, so Ed does his fucking damnedest to fixate on the words and convince his tensed-up muscles to un-squeeze.

“How gory are we talking?” he says.  “If there wasn’t some hugely humiliating shit on your part, I dunno if I’m interested.”

“Absolutely mortifying,” Roy says.  “I promise.”

Ed’d follow that up with about eight more questions involving the specific levels and varieties of embarrassment endured by the apocryphal (and possibly mythical) younger Roy, except that the current model just started pouring lube on his dick and smoothing it down the shaft with one cupped hand, and droplets of coherent thought keep evaporating before Ed can reach them.

It’s bizarre, though, imagining Roy not being a fucking control freak about everything in the vast universe that falls under the remotest semblance of his little kingdom.  Then again, if the raunchy cafeteria conversation is to be believed-which, so far, experience indicates it’s not, but maybe there are some grains of truth-like material in amongst the chaff-apparently you can control the fuck out of this shit from the receiving end if you go about it right.

…he’s not expected to control the fuck out of this, is he?

Nah.  That’s not Roy’s style.  And that’s not Roy’s intention, which is sort of the whole fucking point-the whole fucking reason he’s still here, sprawled out on the goddamn carpet, down an arm and up an aching fucking erection and an uncontrollably hot throbbing desire centered right around his ass.

This is something Roy’s sharing with him-bestowing, to a certain fucking extent.  Which isn’t to say he’s not getting his fucking exchange and then some; just that Roy’s obviously in the driver’s seat here, which is probably exactly how he likes it.

Ed’s done a fuckton too much driving in his own damn life lately, and he’s pretty sure this is exactly how he likes it, too.

Hard to complain regardless when Roy’s sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and hissing through them at the intensity of his own fucking hand as he finishes with the fucking lube.  The pulse in Ed’s body keeps deepening-like his blood’s turned to paint; like his skin’s just a fucking palette for Roy’s hands, his mouth, sensation-

Ed half-sits up and reaches out to curl his hand around the back of Roy’s neck-an advantageous position for yanking the bastard back down halfway on top of him, which is the best way to get him close enough to try to lick his tonsils.  He’s just too fucking-him.  He’s just too fucking Roy, and Ed can’t ignore it, and he can’t leave it alone.  If somebody’s going to go around-or kneel around his own living room, currently, but whatever-looking like that, it’d take a stronger fucking will than Ed’s to resist the urge to get that gorgeous mouth on his own damn skin at any cost.

“Come on,” he says into the kiss.  “Come on, come on-”

Roy draws back for breath; his eyelashes are a fucking marvel as they flick up.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Ed says.

Depending on how you look at it, that’s simultaneously a big fat fucking lie and absolutely true.

It’d be a pity Roy’s so goddamn smart if it wasn’t half of what Ed loves him for.  You can see it all in his eyes sometimes-the oldness that comes from it.  The exhaustion.  How tired you get from having to know what people really are.

Except he doesn’t look tired right now.

He looks happy.

He looks warm.

The flicker of comprehension gets replaced, though, by a darker gleam of something-hungry.

“Mm,” Roy says, leaning in to graze his teeth up Ed’s neck.  “Good point.  I can think of a few ways we might both enjoy.”

Ed’s brain burns out.  It was only a matter of fucking time.

“Oh,” he says.

“I think you mean-” Roy’s tongue caresses the individual ridges of his throat.  “‘Ohh-h-’”

Ed’s throat aches with the impulse to answer that with an equally pornographic noise.  “Uh-yeah.  Yeah, that’s-sure.”

He’d say more-he’s on a streak, here, after all, of painfully articulate fucking wit-except that Roy’s fingertips graze his asshole, and the spark of contact sears up his nerves again, jolting his spine all fucking over again.

“Relax,” Roy says.

“I fucking heard you the fucking first time,” Ed grinds out, trying to force his body to stop tensing in anticipation-which, come to think of it, is probably not helping at all.

“I know you did,” Roy says in a voice Al would call doting-not that Ed ever wants to think about Al in a situation like this ever again for as long as he fucking lives.  “And if I expected you to follow my instructions without questioning them, I would deserve what I got.”

“Which would be a swift kick in the ass,” Ed says.

“At the very least,” Roy says.

They look at each other for another second, and Ed swallows, listening to the bang of his own heartbeat.

“Sorry,” he says.

Roy blinks.  “What in the world are you sorry for?”

“This is taking fucking forever,” Ed says, pretending hard that he doesn’t feel the hot rush of the blood flooding his face, “because I’m such a fucking amateur.”

Roy’s eyes narrow slightly, and then he arches an eyebrow.

And then he plants one hand on Ed’s collarbones, pinning him to the floor, and starts kissing down his chest slowly.

“You,” he says, “are fucking wonderful.”

Something jumps in the base of Ed’s stomach at the F-bomb flicking off of those lips.  It’s gorgeous.  This is a disaster.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he says.

“I know I am,” Roy says, and then he starts kissing up the side of Ed’s dick, which is totally fucking cheating, because Ed instantaneously forgets how to argue.  He’ll be the first to admit that that’s really fucking saying something.

Ed lets his head fall back and tries to drag breath all the way into the bottoms of his lungs-tries to think about capillaries and alveoli; tries to imagine molecules of oxygen dissolving in his veins.  He tries to focus on the swell of that peculiar pleasure-good; on the tickle of Roy’s silken hair against his skin; on the gentle slide of Roy’s free hand’s fingertips up and down his thigh, flirting with the angry band of scar tissue snarling upward from the edge of the automail port.

Feels-nice.  All of it feels nice.  And the fire’s nice; and he’s so fucking safe here; he’ll never get tired of not having to watch his fucking back every goddamn second.  It’s beautiful.  He wants this.  This is all he wants.  To be safe; to be wanted; to be loved-

“There you go,” Roy breathes, dream-soft against his skin; a damp kiss on his inner thigh; one more gently-probing press of fingers, then-

Roy sits up, shifts back, clasps one hand around each of his hips-

Ed can’t help the urge to tip his hips higher up, even though he has no fucking clue whether that’ll help as far as the relative angles are concerned.  Roy’s right hand shifts, smoothes down Ed’s thigh again, and then grasps his own dick and guides it towards-

OhfuckohGodoh-

The fit is too fucking tight-isn’t it?  Can’t be fucking possible; can’t-

The way Roy’s face scrunches up is the cutest fucking thing Ed’s ever seen, which actually distracts him from the too-hot push and the first sting of the stretch, and-fuck-

The pain fucking sears right through him, straight up his spine, and he clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fixate on the thrillingly harsh note underscoring Roy’s breathing-the slow, gratified groan that the pleasure wrings out of him, long and loud and slow-

And Ed wants it-wants the pain and the too-much and the sweltering heat of Roy’s body crammed in against his, pressing hard, overwhelmingly fucking invasive and so good-

The last gasp of space between them vanishes as Roy’s fucking dick slides deeper in his ass, and even more fucking impossible than that is the way the slap of Roy’s flesh on his makes him tremble.

He thinks he’s probably spent most of the last hour with his back arced like a fucking bridge.  Whether or not he’s gonna feel that tomorrow probably depends on whether he survives tonight.

And that depends on whether Roy lets him, at the rate they’re going.

Roy spreads his hand under the small of Ed’s back-fingertips still damp with lube and shit, ever so slightly sticky, and the cool prickle where they meet Ed’s sweat makes him shiver.

Roy’s forehead knocks gently against his again, and there’s more sweat mixing all over the fucking place here, and that should be nasty, shouldn’t it?  But it’s not.

“This,” Roy says, eyes pressed shut, cords of muscle standing out in his neck-they’re so fucking gorgeous Ed’s fingers settle over them without his permission; “may be rather sh…” He opens his eyes and blinks them twice.  “…brief.”

The curl in Ed’s stomach is pure fucking magma; it yearns to manifest as either a groan or a slow laugh.  By sheer force of will, he twists it into a feeble impression of a growl.

“Thin ice, Mustang,” he manages.  “I would fuckin’ know.”

“You would fucking snow, you mean,” Roy says calmly.

The really weird thing is that laughing ever-so-slightly hysterically while you’re clutching on to another person who’s currently in the process of fucking you makes all of the sensations even more intense.

Is sex supposed to be this damn funny?

At least it finally fucking took his mind off of the background pulse of the low-scale pain.

He twists up enough to kiss the very smugly-grinning bastard over him again, biting down hard on Roy’s lip for good measure.  He garners a soft gasp and a less-soft shift of Roy’s hips against his, which-

Fucking purgatory; it’s so damn big and so damn good-

Roy was probably right, too, although a team of wild horses-of Mustangs, ha-couldn’t drag saying so out of Ed, right now or ever.  This isn’t going to take long.  They’ve both been so fucking fired-up for the last, what, hour?  Waves shot through with electricity keep cresting in the core of Ed’s body, breaking hard and hissing outward to every last extremity, and they’re only getting taller as time ticks on, and Roy hasn’t had any damn relief since they started-

Roy’s right hand slides down to cup Ed’s ass, and the left wraps itself underneath his right thigh, drawing slowly down until the dapple of fingertips against the back of his knee starts to tickle.  Just as he tenses to pull away, Roy starts guiding the bend of his leg-folding it up against his chest, then smoothing that way-too-fucking-talented hand all the way up the back of his thigh to his calf, extending it so that all of the muscles stretch right as Roy rolls his hips, and… Fuck.

It’s no longer any wonder that everybody talks about this like they do.  Ed would talk about it like that right this fucking second if he hadn’t just about given up on breathing.

“Is that all right?” Roy murmurs, mouth on his chest, fingers chasing goosebumps up and down his skin.  The left hand curls around his ankle, and the fingertips of the right start digging gently into the flesh of his ass, which simultaneously tingles like a motherfucker and feels great.

Presumably he’s asking about the angle Ed’s leg is at; Ed’s pretty sure the ass-grab thing fulfills an extremely longstanding fantasy, and he’d have to pry that hand off of his cheek if he didn’t like it.

Which he does.  A lot.

“Yeah,” he gets out.  Everyone always talks about ‘communication’ in relationships, right?  That probably applies to this part, too.

Plus it’s true.  The whole thing feels fucking nice, bizarrely enough; he hasn’t stretched properly in a long time, and the cold mostly made him cramp up everywhere-but his joints might as well have melted into jelly by this point, so by and large Roy’s basically doing him a favor, limbering him up like this.  It doesn’t even pull on any of the new scar tissue too bad.

Roy-in the apparently typical, schmoopy-as-shit Roy fashion-dots feather-light kisses slowly all the way up the inside of Ed’s leg.  In the equally typical, too-smart-bastard fashion, he starts rocking his hips against Ed’s in such a gorgeously smooth fucking rhythm that Ed can’t give voice to any complaints about the stupid part.

“Good so far?” Roy asks, speaking into the side of Ed’s neck this time.

“Yes,” Ed says, because it’s important to make sure he fucking knows that before launching into: “Do you ever shut up?”

“You wouldn’t recognize me if I did,” Roy says.

He’s probably right.

“Besides,” Roy says, which he doesn’t seem to notice further proves the point, “I intend to keep telling you how exquisitely delicious you are until you finally cave and believe me.”

Ed writhes, but that only makes the impact of Roy’s flesh on his even better.  “Not a f-fucking dessert, Mustang.”

“We could change that,” Roy says, and the tongue is out again, and tracking up his jugular.  “Add some whipped cream, some chocolate sauce-”

“Sticky,” Ed says.

“It’s sticky anyway,” Roy says.

The painstakingly slow press of Roy’s hips against his is boiling his blood, and the steam bathing his brain makes it fucking impossible to think.  “If you’re so damn hungry, go eat something.”

“I am hungry,” Roy says, “for one thing, and one thing only.”

Ed swallows, and Roy’s tongue chases the movement of his throat.  “Gonna guess you don’t mean steak.”

“Not quite.”

He summons some sad little portion of something like a laugh.  “So why the fuck are you talking about it, then?”

“To make it last longer,” Roy says.

Ed lets his head drop back-which he has to admit is easier with the pillow there, supporting his neck and shit-as Roy keeps shifting in… and back.

“I’m gonna make you dead in a minute,” he says.

“Mm,” Roy says, and then there’s a hand tangling itself into his hair, and a mouth hovering just over his.  “May I turn you over?”

Breathing is getting to be a fucking challenge again.  Something about Roy’s lips; something about the unfathomable depth and immeasurable intensity of those fucking eyes.  “You’re the one who knows what you’re doing.”

“I’m doing you,” Roy says, lips grazing his as the words move them, “last time I checked.”

Ed tries to growl, and Roy starts to laugh, but then the hand in his hair starts to shift just as Roy’s free one pulls on his hip, and it’s the work of a gasp and an instinctual twist to flip his body, and then-

Roy starts kissing down his back, so fucking slow-

Until he gets to Ed’s ass and kisses even slower.

And this is kind of the fucking ultimate in fucking trust, isn’t it?  He’s willingly given up his right arm and his best weapon; he’s laid himself out barer than he’s ever been; and now he can’t even watch what Roy’s doing.

But God, if that mouth on his skin doesn’t feel like fucking absolution.

Both of Roy’s hands shift underneath his chest, lifting gently until he’s up on his knees, and he automatically sweeps his left arm in and props his weight on his elbow.  Roy’s voice washes over him from the base of his spine, pouring up towards his ears again, and how is it that the low purr under every syllable still isn’t getting old?  “Is that okay?”

Doesn’t mean he has to say anything about it, though.  “Stop fucking asking.”

“I will keep fucking asking,” Roy says, punctuating every damn sound of it with another deliberate kiss, “until I am satisfied that this is as staggeringly wonderful for you as it is f-”

“Fuck me,” Ed says.

The slightly strangled noise that chokes off into a long pause is pretty damn vindicating.

“Ah,” Roy says.  “Yes.  I will.  Yes.”

At least it’s Ed’s turn to laugh in the middle of more important fucking business for once.  He lets it metamorphose into a groan partway over the rise of his tongue as Roy strokes both hands along the outsides of his thighs and then grips his hips and shifts forward and-

Fuck-there it is-

And this time-

No fucking around with the fucking; no damn bones about the boning; no… Ed’ll work on that list later.  Point is, this time around, Roy gets right to the point.

He sinks in all the way to the fucking hilt and bends forward, aligning his torso with Ed’s back-and the weight on him, over him, all over him-that feeling of being surrounded-is so dizzyingly good that Ed’s breath sticks, and catches, and won’t shiver free even as he twists his hips back and upward to rub them against Roy’s, which earns him a long, throaty moan breathed hot against the back of his neck.

Yeah, this isn’t gonna take too long.

“God,” Roy says, and it’s fucking extraordinary-all the muscles in his stomach and his thighs are tensing where they’re pressed against Ed’s skin; sweat gathers slickly between their bodies, and there’s nothing quite like this, is there?  This particular fucking nasty-weird-gorgeous closeness; this merging of flesh-

Roy’s right hand slips underneath him and curls around his dick.

And then Roy’s hips retreat just far enough for the cold air to flicker through the space between them, and then he drives in again, and-

The core of Ed’s body ignites so fucking bright that it sears straight through every last cell-tidal wave and pouring rain and gale-force winds and sheer fucking explosive force; a cavalcade of cataclysms all at once-

He’d scream if he could breathe; if he wasn’t just stark blue flame straight through-

He’s never fucking come like this, and he’s not sure he ever will again, and that’s probably good, ’cause he might not live through a second round of this shit.

He blinks sparks and haze and whatever other shit out of his eyes after a couple seconds of focusing on breathing.  When the miscellaneous obstructive shit clears, he finds himself half-cradled in Roy’s arms, and half-still sprawled out on the carpet, generously splattered in cum.

That’d be real fucking embarrassing if he had any energy left for that kind of shit.

“Shit,” he says, and even though he seems to have rediscovered his breath in the interim, his voice sounds pretty faint.

Roy strokes his hair back off of his forehead-fuck how goddamn soothing that is; fuck how intoxicatingly comforting it feels.

“I hope that was a good ‘shit’,” Roy says.

“Shut up,” Ed says.  He should’ve been keeping a tally for how many times he spoke those words tonight.

Roy leans down and kisses the bridge of his nose, which is disgusting, so Ed makes a noise of protest and tries to wriggle away, which-

Hits his tortured spine right in the agony zone.

“Okay,” he manages when the spear of pain through the center of his chest mostly subsides, and the bubbles bursting in his vision dissipate.  “I need-a shower, and some painkillers, and some sleep.”

“All of that can be arranged,” Roy says, and by the softness of it, he didn’t miss any of the raucous fucking party half of Ed’s nerves just threw.  “Hang on.”

The warmth supporting Ed’s head and shoulders shifts around a lot, and then Roy’s clever hands are using paper tissues to mop up the worst of the spilt fluids, and if there’s an iota more surreality in store, Ed’s not sure he’s gonna make it.

“Can you stand?” Roy asks, although he doesn’t really wait for an answer before he tugs the red blanket between them and bunches one edge around Ed’s shoulders.  “Or shall I carry you?”

“Nobody fucking carries the Fullmetal Alchemist,” Ed says, which is categorically untrue but still sort of necessary to invoke.  After a brief struggle, he gets his left arm underneath himself and props himself up enough to try his knees.  They fucking wobble, because they’re a pair of bastard asshole traitors that he hates.

Also, his ass hurts.  And it’s dripping.  And this whole thing should be way more gross than it is, instead of weirdly kind of hot because of how the very grossness of it makes it sort of-intimate, and that’s-

Shit.  Shower and mild opioids and sleep first; he can tackle the rest later.

He glares at his knees until they cooperate, which fortunately only takes a second or two, since that’d start to look real stupid if he had to sit there any longer.  Maybe it’s a good thing he got so much practice dragging himself upright from the very fucking precipice of death over the last couple weeks; it sure is coming in handy.

Roy hovers at Ed’s left shoulder, but since he pretends he’s just adjusting the blanket to keep it from falling, Ed lets him live.

“I’m afraid the shower is upstairs,” Roy says, fussing with the blanket, so Ed just grabs the end to stop it from slipping off.  “The offer to carry you is still o-”

“I should call Al first anyway,” Ed says, starting into the hall again.  Roy trails him.  Again with the puppy thing.  “Just so nobody can accuse him of hallucinating or something.”

“I’ll start the water for you,” Roy says.  “And should I select a regular dose of the painkillers, or would you like me to leave you the bottle?”

“Bottle,” Ed says.  He turns enough to look the bastard in the eyes, so Roy’ll know he means it.  Maybe Roy’ll even get an inkling of how much bigger it is than just: “Thanks.”

Roy smiles, and then he touches his knuckles to Ed’s cheek, which is gross-awful and horrifically sweet.  “You’re very welcome.”  He pauses.  “First, how about if I put on some pants?”

A grin sabotages Ed’s attempt towards solemnity in a fucking instant.  “Eh.  Overrated.”

Roy’s roguish grin returns to bolster his.  “You are absolutely right.”

If Ed lets himself get distracted by Roy’s current state of pantslessness, there’s no telling what could happen to Al’s psyche, so he doggedly averts his eyes and fixes them on the phone.  “I usually am.  Not my fault if you don’t know it.”

“I’ve been told I’m…” Roy pauses for dramatic effect, and Ed chances a glance-shit-eating grin confirmed.  “…shortsighted.”

Ed relinquishes his grip on the precious blanket in order to give the bastard the finger.

Roy fakes offended.  “I happen to think I’m hilarious.”

“I noticed,” Ed says.

Roy sighs like he’s been gravely wounded.  “No one appreciates art in its own time.”

“‘Art’,” Ed says slowly.  “Yeah.  ‘Art’.”

Roy shakes his head mournfully and trudges back towards the living room.

Ed picks up the phone on the hall table and dials.

The phone only rings once before the line catches.  “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Ed says.

“You should stay the night,” Al says.  “It’s rude not to.  Or-well-did you-?”

“Jeez, Al,” Ed hisses, trying to cover the receiver just in case Mustang starts eavesdropping.  It’d be just like him.  “I just-are you sure you’re okay over there?  It’d be no big deal to come back; I could get a cab and shit.  I don’t wanna leave you by y-”

“I’m sure,” Al says.  “Really, Brother.  I want you to stay and have a nice time and get some closure and all of that stuff.”

“What?” Ed manages.

“Stuff,” Al says.  “The stuff is important.  I’m fine.  Okay?  I mean it.  I’m fine as long as you’re alive, Ed.”

The unfairest exchange the universe has ever allowed was giving someone like Al to the likes of him.  “Okay, okay, okay.”

“Just do one thing for me,” Al says.

“Anything,” Ed says.

“If he takes you out for breakfast,” Al says, “will you bring me a waffle?”

Too bad Ed doesn’t have a spare hand to use to cover up his giant dumbass grin.  “Fuck, yeah, I will.”

His body is not fucking pleased about the trek up the stairs-he can’t tell whether the bullet hole or the one he just used for sex is hurting worse right now, but the bottom line is that if Roy’s going to keep going around fucking wounded soldiers, he needs to get a goddamn elevator.

After a few really obnoxious steps, Ed figures out a sort of upward-shuffle maneuver that doesn’t exacerbate anything overmuch.  When he tops the staircase in triumph, however, Roy does not miraculously appear in order to fete him graciously for his monumental feat.  Ed follows the sound of running water, though, and nudges the bathroom door open with his port-shoulder.

Roy is… fluffing the towels.

Do people actually do that?

…well, apparently they do.

That, or he’s been stalling while Ed’s been on the phone, and it seemed like the sort of thing people ought to do, so he took it up in desperation when he heard Ed’s footsteps in the hall.

Winry may or may not have had a point that one time she told Ed that he’s gotten significantly more invested in creating conspiracy theories since he started working for Roy.

“Everything all right?” Roy asks upon fake-noticing him in the doorway.

“Yeah,” Ed says.  He steps in and pushes the door shut behind him to try to conserve the heat from the shower steam.  “Al says I should stick around for the Stuff.”

Roy blinks, though he doesn’t stop adjusting the edges of the towel on the rack.  “I… see.  Did he specify what that… entails?”

“I dunno,” Ed says.  “He said I should stay the night and-” It’s really hard to do air quotes and hold a blanket at the same time with only one hand.  “-‘get closure’.”

One of Roy’s eyebrows arches.  He has damn nice eyebrows.  Pity Ed’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about that before tonight.

“Ah,” Roy says.  “I’ll… see what I can do.”

The glint of a golden opportunity is not lost on Edward Elric.  “He said you should take me to breakfast.”

Roy appears to be fighting a grin.  “Did he?  That’s a fine suggestion.”  He steps forward, then past Ed, gently touching his shoulders while shifting around him.  “Why don’t I leave you to your shower, and then we can work on what kind of breakfast is ideally suited for closure acquisition?”

Ed makes a face at him.  “I think I probably agree with whatever the hell you just said.”

Roy beams at him, says “Excellent,” and slips out the door.

Bastard.

Seems like Roy’s trying to be as minimally bastardly as possible, though, in his own way-he left both a super-fuzzy bathrobe and a pair of worn blue flannel pajamas.  On the bastardly side, the pants legs are so long that Ed has to weigh the question of whether it’s a serious dick move to use alchemy for resizing borrowed clothes.

In the end, he struggles stupidly to roll them up three times with his solitary hand, the only upshot of which is that there’s no one watching him fumbling like a fucking moron.

Stupid Roy.

Even stupider is the suspicious immediacy with which stupid Roy emerges from the bedroom the instant that Ed pads out into the hall, and then puts his stupid arm around Ed’s shoulders and draws them back into said bedroom together.

To be fair, Ed’s also getting to the pretty-stupid stage of the night, which is why he opens his mouth and blurts out: “Al says I snore.”

Roy pauses.  “Alphonse says a lot of things.”

“No,” Ed says.  “I mean that you probably want to put me up in another room.  ’Cause I’ll fuck up your sleep.”

The corners of Roy’s eyes crinkle up as he smiles, but there’s something a little bit sad underneath.  “I think I’m just as likely to fuck up yours.  If you’re game to try it anyway, so am I.”

Ed tries to pick out any of the other telltales.  He’s gotten about a billion times better at reading the cues, but sometimes Roy’s basic emotions are so multifaceted that it’s impossible to tell them apart.  It just figures that the man can’t pick one fucking feeling and run with it.  “Is that supposed to be part of the Stuff?”

“The Stuff is whatever you want it to be,” Roy says.  He tries to run his fingers through Ed’s wet hair-which probably still has rivers of suds in it, because washing it with one hand is fucking difficult, okay-and gets his hand trapped in a tangle.  “I found you a toothbrush.”

“Oh,” Ed says.  Roy is still tugging trying to get his hand free.  Ed can’t really see what’s going on in the rat’s nest, and he suspects that adding his own fingers to the mix would just make it worse, so it’s better to leave it alone.  “Cool.”

There’s a last little jerk, and then Roy’s hand smoothes down his back like the whole thing was intentional.

“Right,” Mr. Fucking Suave-as-Shit says calmly, shepherding them over towards the master bath.  He even manages to keep most of the giddy delight out of his voice as he adds, “May I brush your hair?”

Ed’s feeling generous.  Or post-orgasm content.  Or tired and warm and clean.

Something.

“I guess,” he says.

Roy’s grin is practically blinding.

Ed’s eyelids snap shut like his lashes are made of lead the instant his face touches a pillowcase.

“Is your bed really made outta fuckin’ clouds and cotton balls and lamb-wool dreams?” he asks, and if he slurs it a little-well-whatever.  “Or does it just feel like it right now ’cause it’s the first real bed in fuckin’ ages?”

“‘Lamb-wool dreams’?” Roy says, sounding both too awake and too amused.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ed mumbles.

“But I haven’t answered your question,” Roy says, stroking at his hair again.

“Changed my mind,” Ed says.  “Don’t fuckin’ care about the reason.”

“Goodnight,” Roy says.

“Mmngh,” Ed says.

And he’s out.

There are too many of them.

There are too many, and they’re coming too fast-a wool-gray wave pouring down the mountainside; rows upon rows of humanity blurring into a single mass, rifle barrels like black spines jutting towards the sky-

And the rock faces here are treacherous-maybe he could bring it down again; maybe he could topple the topography to his own benefit one more time, but-

The automail’s gone, and his left arm’s-

Broken?

He can’t-

They can’t; they won’t win this; and he turns to Jon to tell him to stage the retreat, to fucking book it, to run-

But it’s not Jon.  It’s Al.

It’s Al looking smart as hell in the snow-gear uniform-impeccable down to the white spats; down to the last breeze-buffeted curl of wheat-gold hair.

Al could do it.

Al could wreck this place and bury those thousand gunmen in the work of a fucking instant.

Al wouldn’t even break a sweat.

But Ed can’t ask it of him.

Even to save their fucking lives, Ed can’t-

Can’t make him like this.

Can’t let him choose it; can’t let it happen; just-

Can’t.

“Al,” he says, and his throat tries to stop up and hold the words, but he won’t fucking let it; not now.  “Al-get out, c’mon, fuckin’-” He tries to grab for Al’s shoulder, but his fucking arm won’t move; it’s just a limp line of simmering pain.  “-let’s go-”

“Brother-” Al says.

“Come on,” Ed says, ramming his shoulder against Al’s chest to make the fucking point, and Al blinks but then turns to follow him as he starts running-slow at first to make sure that Al’s gonna follow-

And the snow’s so goddamn heavy, thick and wet and cloying around his feet, dragging at his ankles; his lungs feel too big for his chest, and how the hell could he expect his swollen heart to fit between them?

He can hear the rasp of Al’s breath behind him, but what if-well, shit-

He still can’t help twisting around to look-can’t help checking over his shoulder to make sure Al’s still there.

Thank… fucking whate-

His foot snags, and his balance swings, and he goes tumbling face-first into the snow.

“Brother!” Al says, and the snow won’t fucking clear from Ed’s face, and he can’t raise his arm to wipe it out of his eyes.  Al’s hands pull at his coat.  “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Ed says, which is actually pretty stupid, given the circumstances, but too late now.  “Wh-”

He realizes that the painful thing digging into his back is the edge of a long strip of iron.

They’re on the railroad tracks.

It’s then that he hears the screeching whistle and the growing roar.

He manages to blink through the frigid flakes and bring Al’s face into focus, but he still can’t get his fucking arm to move enough to let him reach up and hold on.

“Al,” he says, and his voice barely functions; Al hovers over him, clutching his collar; why doesn’t he get it?  “We gotta mo-”

The first bullet punches through the side of Al’s face right underneath the cheekbone-a tiny red-rimmed divot for the entry; a broader hole like a mashed-up crimson flower where it tore out on the other side.

Ed breathes-once, twice.

Al’s eyes stay locked on his.  The lashes tremble.  His bottom lip starts to wobble, and then he coughs, and his whole body convulses, and there’s a narrow trail of blood winding downward from the corner of his mouth.

“No,” Ed hears his voice say.  “No, no, no, no, no-”

The second bullet travels directly from one temple to the other.

The light in Al’s eyes goes out-in an instant, they glaze over, like windowpanes under fast-moving frost.

He crumples forward onto Ed.

The blood’s hot, and the train whistle’s deafening, and he can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t cry, can’t move-

He wrangles in a desperate streak of oxygen and screams and screams and-

“Ed,” the low-soft voice says, and hands press at the edges of the hurricane, but Ed can’t see, can’t-

“No,” jumps out of his contracting throat again.  “No, no, no-”

“Ed,” Roy-it’s Roy, it’s-

Breathe, breathe, breathe; everything’s red; everything’s red and dark, and the fingertips brushing at his face feel too much like the splattering of blood, and he flinches away- “Where’s Al?”

Fragments of his surroundings filter back in-it’s not a snowbank; it’s a tangle of blankets twisted around his legs.  He’s sitting halfway-upright, hunched over with his left hand lifted to cover his eyes.

“He’s at home,” Roy’s voice says, and the hands stop fluttering near his face-one settles on his forearm, light but solid.  Unobtrusive but fucking real, and that’s-something, right?  “You talked to him a few hours ago.  We could call him again.  Do you want to call him?”

Ed wants to check the clock.  There must be one in here, but he’d probably have to look at Roy before he found it.  “…time s’it?”

“A little after two,” Roy says, softly.  “But I know he’d rather that you called.  It’s no trouble for anyone.  Do you want to call him?”

“No,” Ed says.  He swallows, and then he releases the word slithering up in his throat: “Yes.”

“Then let’s call him,” Roy says.  He touches the back of Ed’s hand.  “Do you want me to go down and get him on the line?”

“I don’t want you knowin’ his number,” Ed says, trying to convince his hand to lower itself out of the way.  It takes a couple breaths, but he coaxes it down far enough to make out the shadowy contours of the room.  He’s definitely here, at least-in Roy Mustang’s fucking bedroom.  Not on any damn mountain; not on any damn battlefield.

Or at least not on one where he’s alone.  Not anymore.

“Ah,” Roy says.  “Well, that’s awkward.”

Ed musters the energy to eye him.  “’Cause you already know fuckin’ everything.”

“Not everything,” Roy says.  “But perhaps a bit more about you than you’d like.”

“I like how you say fuckin’ ‘perhaps’,” Ed mutters.  “Like there’s any damn doubt.”

Another breath, then another.  He can do this.  The edge of the bed isn’t that far away, and he’s here, and Al’s fine.  He’s fine; he’s probably gonna be pissed Ed woke him up.  Goddamn, Ed’s missed Al getting pissed at him.  He’s missed everything.

He scoots his ass over to the side of the mattress and carefully puts his feet down.  As he stands, a swell of vertigo swings his skull back and forth and back again-maybe it’s just psychosomatic or something; he ate a shit-ton of real calories and whatnot yesterday, didn’t he?  Maybe it’s just the relief.  Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s finally fucking safe for his body to quit firing on all cylinders at once.

“Do you need a hand?” Roy asks, quiet-gentle, from close by.

“Har har,” Ed says.

“I meant figuratively,” Roy says, “although I’m happy to take credit for the pun.”

Ed tilts his head back and draws in another lungful of oxygen.  “Nah.  I got it.”

“All right,” Roy says.

Bastard follows Ed like an oversized fucking puppy all the way down the stairs into the hall-but he does sit down on the bottom step of the staircase instead of hanging right by Ed’s shoulder to eavesdrop, so that’s something.

Ed’s stomach is doing a funny sort of flippy thing now, too, since apparently his stupid brain needed some company in the jacked-up department.  There’s a remote possibility that stuffing himself with rich food the instant he could get his hands on it wasn’t the single brightest idea he’s ever had.

Whatever.  He needs to talk to Al; he needs to hear Al’s voice and know, because otherwise he’s never going to shake the fucking crystal-clear remembrance of the little tracks of blood cutting down that expression of surprise-

He dials.

The line rings once, which is fine, because obviously it’s two in the fucking morning, and Al’s asleep and shit-probably dreaming about kittens with bows around their necks, bounding around batting at little pink balls of yarn or some shit.  That’s an Al kind of dream.  That’s the kind he should keep having.

The line rings again, which is still fine, because all of the previous is still true, and the phone’s in the kitchen, and Al’s bedroom’s down the hall.

The line rings again, and it’s not-possible.  Ed knows it’s not possible.  He knows his sick, tormented fucking mind cooked this shit up; he knows nothing like that has ever happened, and it’d never happen here, and here’s where he is, after all; he isn’t there anymore; the fear doesn’t fucking own him this far south-

The line rings again, and he hears his own breath quickening, and thickening, and getting sort of jagged at the edges; and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roy cautiously standing up.

It’s gonna go to the message machine in a second; where is that kid?  Surely he can hear it from the bedroom; surely-what if-?

“H’lo?” Al says.

If Ed sounds weak-

Well, he fucking is.  For Al he is.  For Al, he always has been.

“Hey,” he says.  “Sorry I woke you up.”

“S’okay,” Al says-sounding like Ed didn’t, in fact, wake him up at all, because he’s still seventy-five percent asleep.

“Just wanted to… y’know,” Ed says.  He tries really hard to sound calm, but it’s a hell of a fucking challenge when his heart’s beating this fast.  “Make sure you weren’t… out… partying with some bad-influence friends or… something.”

“Nah,” Al says.  “Tonight’s the night I stay in and do opium, remember?”

“You are such a shit,” Ed says.

“Learned from the best,” Al says.

“And don’t you forget it,” Ed says.

If there was one thing that was good about the armor-and it’s kind of a stretch to think it-it’s that Ed can still kind of hear it when Al smiles.

“Are you okay, Brother?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ed says.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You need me to come get you?”

“You don’t have a car.”

“I could steal one.”

“I’m quitting the military,” Ed says.  “Can’t get you out of misdemeanors for free anymore.”

“Darn,” Al says.  “You’re okay, though?”

“Yeah,” Ed says again.  Funny how he hasn’t resented a single iteration of it.  “You?”

“Am now,” Al says.

“All right,” Ed says.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, okay?”

“Yup,” Al says.  “Don’t forget my waffle.”

Ed’s going to cash in some of those savings to buy the best fucking waffle iron Central has to offer.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Where’d this sudden waffle fetish come from?  Actually, don’t answer that.  G’night, Al.”

“Goodnight, Brother,” Al says.  “Love you.”

“You, too,” he says, and hangs up before he drags it out all over Roy’s phone bill any worse.

Roy’s got his arms folded on the banister and one ankle kicked back behind the other, head tilted slightly-which means that he’s somehow managed to turn an ordinary tired-of-standing position into a figure worthy of a fucking portrait.  He’d be dashing as fuck if he wasn’t wearing such dorky-ass flannel pajamas.

“Do you want to try for a little more sleep?” Roy asks.

It’s sort of fucking uncanny, isn’t it?

How nice he can get.

How much he fucking understands.

And a part of Ed-a big, solid, cogent fucking part-is absolutely certain that if he said I’m way too fucking wired; can we just stay up?, Roy would put the coffee on and find him a book he hasn’t read yet.

But “Worth a shot” is what he says instead.

The instant he puts his right foot on the first stair, however, he remembers two things:

Firstly, that going up was agonizing as shit last time; secondly, that somehow, miraculously, he was so distracted just now that he didn’t notice if the descent was anywhere near as painful.

Apparently his attempts to keep the dread out of his expression are wholly fucking unsuccessful.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Roy asks.  “I swear to you I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“I will die first,” Ed says, making an abrupt about-face by turning on his heel-which also hurts, but not as much.  “In the meantime, I’m gonna sleep on your couch.”

“May I join you?” Roy asks.

“If you bring blankets,” Ed says.

“Done,” Roy says.

Ed drags his lousy fucking body over into the living room again, where the fire’s burnt itself down to embers.  For an impressively stupid half-second, he considers crouching; fortunately his better judgment intervenes fast enough to remind him to set his ass down gently on the end of the couch.

The dog tags have disappeared from the tabletop.  Probably that schmoopy fucking bastard is wearing them again.  Ed’s going to kill him.

…later.  Ed’s going to kill him later.  Right now he’s gonna sleep.

Settling on the couch brought him close enough to touch his left hand to his shoulder port to complete the circle, at which point he starts to purify little trails of oxygen inside the fireplace grate.  He crafts a few into little spirals as Roy’s footsteps pad into the room and pause beside him.

“I’m going to need your help,” Ed says, without looking away from the flickering orange coils.

“Then you’ll have it,” Roy says-like it’s that fucking simple.

Ed glances up at him, then back down at the smoldering wood inside the grate.  “This shit was never supposed to happen again.”

“No,” Roy says softly.  “It wasn’t.”

“Somebody’s gotta do something,” Ed says.  “Might as well be us.”

Roy drops a pile of blankets onto the couch cushions in order to touch his palms together, and a new twirl of flame joins Ed’s latest little spring.  They twist around each other for a fraction of a second before the fuel’s gone, and they both wink out.

“I don’t think we’re such a bad choice,” Roy says.

Ed grabs one of the blankets.  It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze fitting both their asses on this couch, but that sounds like the good kind of challenge.

“Me neither,” he says.