Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Have you and Ling been doing well lately?” Al asks mildly, eyes sharp, tap-tap-tapping his nails on the side of his glass.

Ed fucking hates it when Al asks about Ling. It never used to happen that often, but now that they’ve been together for longer, it seems like Al brings it up every other week. Most of the reason Ed’s bothered is because he barely gets to see Al as it is; between Ed’s doctorate thesis and Al’s job teaching at one of the local high schools, they barely manage to see each other once a week. Ed doesn’t want to talk about Ling with Al, he wants to talk about science, and experiments, and fun stuff.

The worst part is, Al always sounds perfectly fucking cordial whenever he asks if they’ve been doing well, but what he’s actually saying is your boyfriend is awful, and Ed’s pretty fucking tired of dancing around the subject every week.

With that in mind, Ed’s tone is probably sharper than it should be. “We’re fine, thanks.”

“Mhm. That’s nice, I suppose.” Al keeps tap-tap-tapping on that glass, and he’s fucking lucky Ed loves him so much or Ed would be taking his hand off at the wrist.

“You know Al, I’m starting to get the idea that you don’t particularly like Ling.”

Al blushes a little, knowing he’s been caught out, and refuses to meet Ed’s eyes. He chooses instead to stare off into the middle distance, like if he pretends Ed isn’t glaring a fucking hole into the side of his head, it isn’t actually happening.

“I may admit to some less-than-enthusiastic feelings about your boyfriend,” is Al’s prim fucking response.

“Fucking finally,” Ed breathes. He’s been trying to get Al to own up to this for years. “What’s so wrong with Ling that you, the person who likes everyone, don’t like him?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Al begins, breaking off to give Ed a pointed glare when Ed snorts into his drink. “Really! I’m sure he has many redeeming qualities. You seem to like him, and while you’re not the best judge of character, you usually don’t spend time with people who don’t deserve it. I just…”

“Just what.”

“I just don’t like how he treats you! He’s so-”

“Smart? Successful?”

“Inattentive.”

Ed wrinkles his nose into his coffee. He’s heard this argument before - not from Al, from others - and he honestly doesn’t think it’s an issue. Sure, he and Ling don’t really get to spend any time together, but they’re also both trying to pursue high-profile careers. Ling’s a fifth year resident trying to become a cardiothoracic surgeon, Ed’s deep in research during the final year of his PhD program, and they both have shitty schedules. That’s just the way it is.

It’s not like they’d be spending their every waking moment together even if they had more free time. Ed doesn’t need a lot of attention - he’s never been a needy boyfriend, and he doesn’t expect Ling to need much attention either.

Ed tells Al as much. Al just purses his lips, displeased, and takes a dainty sip of his drink. “I know you don’t need attention, brother, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to want it. A relationship needs to be built on something more substantial than stolen minutes in on-call rooms.”

“They’re not stolen - holy shit, that’s not the point. Ling’s ambitious, just like I am,” Ed argues. Al’s not listening, and it’s pissing him off a little bit. “He’s not going to learn how to cut open hearts by taking me on dates, and my organic chemistry doctorate isn’t going to happen all by it’s fucking lonesome.” Ed’s not petulant, you’re petulant. 

Al rolls his eyes, still not looking directly at Ed. “You’re hopeless, brother. You need someone who knows how to romance you and break you out of your uptight, academic shell. Winry and I can’t keep being the only ones dragging you back into the real world. You need roses, and passion, and something to take your mind off your work. We’ve talked about this!”

“I distinctly remember you talking about it, while I ignored you,” Ed mutters. 

“What was that?” Al returns, dangerously, and Ed just mumbles obscenities into his drink. He knows when to push his luck, and now is not the time.

They sit like that for a while, both too proud to suck it up and apologize. The bar - named the Knight Club, which is ridiculous - bustles and swirls around them, matching the pace of a Saturday night in Vancouver. Every table is full of people glittering and drinking and laughing, and where there’s no seats there are groups standing, just waiting to be served by one of the devastatingly attractive bartenders. Waiters are flitting around the space carrying trays laden down with drinks that always come just this close to sloshing over the rim and painting the sleek concrete floors in shades of iridescent and ombre liquor. It’s not really Ed’s scene - this is a very fancy bar, and Ed doesn’t do fancy well - but Al has been asking to eat here since they opened last year. It definitely lives up to its reputation - they’ve been here since four, when the place was relatively quiet and the kitchens were still open.

Suddenly, Al lurches forward, eyes wide and bright like he’s just discovered a secret that’s too good to keep to himself.

It rankles that Ed can’t resist leaning in close, no matter how irritated he might be with his annoying little brother.

“See, I think you should ask that guy about romance,” Al smirks, tipping his drink pointedly behind Ed. “I don’t think he’s stopped making bedroom eyes at you since he got here. He’s the one with the dark hair in the fuck-me tight pants, over by the bar. If you can tell me the last time Ling looked at you like that, I’ll never say another bad thing about him. Cross my heart.”

As surreptitiously as he’s able, which is to say not at all, Ed looks over his shoulder to where Al’s gesturing. It should be hard to spot him - there are like a hundred people in this bar, they have to be violating some kind of fire code - but it’s not. He’s the first person Ed notices. 

The Guy is staring directly and unapologetically at Ed, looking absolutely fuckable in the low lighting of the bar. His jaw and cheekbones are sharp enough to cut glass, and Ed can’t help but gape as the guy pushes his hair up and out of his face, only for it to fall perfectly back into place across his forehead and into his eyes. His legs are long, so long, in an impeccably tailored pair of pants, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and stretches enticingly over his chest.

When Ed is done shamelessly ogling this strange man, he makes the rookie mistake of locking eyes with him. When he does, The Guy smirks and rises slowly from his stool to make his way over to where Ed and Al are sitting in the middle of the room. He’s all casual grace and long limbs as he makes his way across the bar, placing gentle hands on shoulders and lower backs as he slips behind and around the group and tables standing in his way.

Most importantly - and this is very important, to Ed at least - The Guy holds eye contact as he moves across the room, the smirk on his face slowly but surely turning into a full-blown grin the closer he gets.

It’s like The Guy knows exactly what he and Al were talking about. He probably does know exactly what he and Al were talking about. Is Ed being paranoid? Is it paranoia when they’re actually out to get you?

With no inconsiderable amount of panic, face so flushed and hot it might as well be melting off, Ed turns back to look Al straight in his smug fucking face. 

“Um,” Ed says, eloquently.

“I won’t say I told you so, but I want you to know that I’m thinking it. Ling is nice enough, and pretty enough, but that guy is in a whole other league. He’s your type, too. Tall, lean, and too gorgeous for words.” Al props his chin on one of his hands, and stares past Ed’s shoulder with a dreamy expression that makes Ed want to both punch him and sink into the floor.

“I think you have a little drool on your chin, Al. And, hey, totally unrelated subject, how’s Winry? You know, your wife? Our oldest friend? The woman with the wrench?”

Al just beams at Ed and takes another dainty, infuriating sip of his drink. “She’s wonderful. And wonderfully attractive. Much like our handsome friend, over there.”

“Professor Bradley is hotter,” Ed mutters under his breath like a lying liar who lies.

“What about Professor Bradley?” asks a silky-smooth voice on Ed’s left. The voice startles Al into such a spectacular flinch that he almost coats his knee in cocktail - which is exactly what he deserves - before he’s able to regain his dignity and plaster his best smile on his face. He’s pulling out the big guns; Al flashes the smile with the dimples, the one that takes even straight men out at the knees and makes ageing mothers swoon.

(Ed will never admit that he’s jealous of the power of Al’s dimples.)

A smile, even one significantly less impressive than Al’s, is much more than Ed can manage at the moment. He’s too busy gawking at the exceedingly handsome man that’s suddenly invading his personal space and perching on the arm of his chair.

“My brother thinks Professor Bradley - the Dean of Science at UBC - is hot,” Al informs The Guy, nose wrinkled delicately, dimples still out to play.

“I - oh, I will get you for that, you little shit,” Ed hisses.

The Guy flashes a dimple of his own as he laughs. He throws his head back slightly, which shows off a previously unexplored angle of his jaw - one that’s goddamn fantastic - and Ed knows with sudden clarity that if he’d been standing he would’ve gone weak at the knees, like a little bitch. Both knees, even the one that’s fucking robotic.

“You know, that’s an intriguing coincidence,” The Guy says, “because I know Professor Bradley quite well, and you’re just his type.”

Ed’s jaw drops to the fucking floor.

“You - I - you didn’t just say that,” Ed sputters.

The guy gives a bashful little grin, and ducks his head. “Of course, you’re beautiful enough to be anyone’s type. I’ll admit that’s exactly why I’ve spent the last half an hour unable to take my eyes off of you.”

This sort of thing doesn’t happen to Ed. At least, it doesn’t happen anymore, and hasn’t happened since he was somewhere near nineteen and in the middle of his undergraduate degree. Even Ling has never hit on him this brazenly; their relationship started as study sessions turned mutually beneficial, and just kind of spiralled from there. They’ve never done the hot-and-heavy romance thing that other couples seem to think is standard, and that had never bothered Ed before this exact moment. Something in Ed - something that is betraying him - is getting a spectacular case of FOMO from just the way The Guy is looking at Ed from under his eyelashes. 

Ling never looks at Ed like this. To be fair, Ed spends ninety-five percent of his time either holed up in the library or in his apartment binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy, looking like a feral degenerate and trying to pretend that watching TV doctors isn't the closest he’s been to Ling in weeks. Months, if he’s honest with himself, which he’s not in the habit of doing.

It’s not a problem, though. Ed doesn’t need the attention. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Of course, Al would say that someone who’s fine wouldn’t feel like he’d been punched in the face by the singular dimple The Guy aims in Ed’s direction. It’s the kind of punch that Ed likes, at least, which mostly means that Ed is left feeling dazed, confused, and barely capable of coherent thought.

“I can say it again, if you’d like.”

Ed sends a panicked, wide-eyed look at Al, but Al’s too busy dimpling cutely at The Guy to notice. 

“Uh, no, that’s unnecessary.” Ed manages, after being quiet for way too long.

The Guy leans down to smolder at him (and wow, Ed can literally feel this guy’s body heat that’s how close he is ), and murmurs, “Well, if you’d rather I not talk about how attractive I find you, maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink instead?”

Ed tears his eyes away from The Guy to look at - at - frankly, to look anywhere fucking else. 

“No. Um, thank you, no. I have - uh - coffee,” Ed stutters, making an aborted motion with his mug that almost sloshes coffee everywhere, because Ed is a smooth motherfucker who has complete control over his body at all times.

Al giggles, and Ed dreams up at least four ways to dismember his terrible, traitor brother. Winry would be mad about her husband getting killed, but Ed thinks she would probably forgive him if he just explained the situation clearly.

The Guy ignores Ed's internal struggle and grins like he’s trying not to laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. It stays artfully tousled, just like it did before. What an absolute fucker. “I’m going to buy you a drink,” he says, rising from where he’s set his weight on the edge of Ed’ chair.

“Shit - no, don’t do that,” Ed repeats, grabbing at The Guy’s arm before he can get too far. 

The Guy pauses, glancing quickly between Ed’s hand and face, an unreadable look in his eyes, and Ed releases the guy’s arm like it’s burning him. Fuck, you’d think after this many years Ed would learn how to stop grabbing people with his metal fucking hand, even when he has gloves on. It always freaks them out, and then they react badly, and then he wants to punch them. He really, really doesn’t want to punch anyone tonight; that’s what he does boxing for, on Thursdays.

“I just, I can’t,” Ed stammers. “I don’t drink! Often. I’m not drinking at all tonight, I have to drive my little brother home. Alphonse. This is Alphonse, my little brother.”

Ed motions towards Al, and Al waggles his fingers in a little wave. “It’s my turn to get drunk,” he says, still dimpling flirtatiously towards The Guy, “I had to drive last week, when my wife was here.”

“Hmm. Isn’t that responsible,” The Guy says to no one in particular, still leveling a considering look at Ed’s hand, where he now has it tucked tightly against his body.

“The only time my brother is ever particularly responsible is when it concerns me,” Al adds conspiratorially.

That makes a dangerous little twinkle appear in The Guy’s eyes. “Irresponsible, except for situations that concern your brother? A family man, then. That’s incredibly attractive,” he murmurs, and Ed shouldn’t be able to hear him over the din of the bar, but he can, and it makes him want to die.

“You know, there are many attractive people at this bar, including your absolutely stunning brother,” The Guy continues conversationally, seating himself on the arm of Ed’s chair again without ever taking his eyes away from Ed’s, as Al looks on and giggles, “and yet I have found myself unable to take my eyes off you - only you - for the past two hours. I find you incredibly striking. Which makes me wonder: do you find me attractive, as well?”

“No.” Ed’s response is automatic and obviously false, his mouth moving before his brain can catch up.

The Guy smirks, that stupid dimple making a fleeting appearance. “I think you do,” he says.

“He definitely does,” is Al’s super fucking helpful addition. 

“Thanks for the backup, brother,” Ed hisses over his coffee. Is half an inch of lukewarm caffeine enough to drown in, if he tries hard enough?

The Guy’s self-satisfied expression is infuriating, but it’s getting more and more difficult to feel anything other than flattered. He’s not even really doing anything other than being tall, dark, and handsome in Ed’s personal space, but Ed still can’t help but feel lavished with attention. The Guy isn’t even really taking the time to look over at Al, where he sits only three feet away, even while they talk to each other, and it’s… intense. It makes Ed feel uncomfortable, and sweaty, and hot all over. And also really pleased, if he stops to think about it.

The Guy tosses his hair out of his eyes, then leans down until he’s all but nose to nose with Ed. The Guy’s face is tilted down, Ed’s face is tilted up, and if one of them moves even three inches forward their lips will touch. Ed can feel The Guy’s hair against his forehead, his breath puffing gently against Ed’s cheeks. He reaches out and Ed freezes, only for his breath to leave him in a rush as The Guy’s fingers brush against his collarbone to pick up the very end of Ed’s braid. He rolls the loose ends gently between his fingers, like all he wanted was to feel the texture against his skin.

Ed finds his world narrowing down to those three gentle sensations. An earthquake could hit and all Ed would know is the way this man is just barely touching him, and how he’s looking at him so, so sweetly.

“If we’ve agreed about our mutual attraction, I’d like to ask you something?” The Guy murmurs.

“Okay,” Ed agrees breathlessly.

The Guy smiles, slow and sharp, like he’s finally got Ed right where he wants him. ”I’d like to invite you to come home with me. Tonight. Now, if you’re amenable.”

Ed might, maybe, actually lose the ability to breathe. Just temporarily. A little.

The (surprise lust astonishment) shock must show on Ed’s face, because The Guy’s smile immediately turns sweet, and he presses his lips together as if he’s trying not to laugh. It’s the first time he’s shown anything but flirtatious bravado all night. It doesn’t last long, of course, before The Guy is heavy-lidded and seductive once more.

“If you come home with me tonight,” he murmurs, and Ed tries his best to concentrate on his words and not the way his voice feels like it’s reverberating through his chest even over the din of the bar, “I promise that when you leave - which might be tomorrow, or the next day, whenever you prefer -  you will leave satisfied.”

As if through a tunnel Ed hears himself say, high and breathy, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidd-”

The Guy’s smile just grows as he speaks right over Ed, never once raising his voice. If anything, his voice gets lower. “I’ll make it my mission to satisfy you as many times as you want. Afterwards - or during, maybe, I’m not picky - you’ll say I never do this kind of thing. Then, we’ll do it again.” 

The Guy breaks eye contact here to look down at where he’s got the end of Ed’s braid between his fingers. His eyes flicker back up, meeting Ed’s from under his lashes, and he wraps the loose ends of Ed’s braid slowly around his index finger.

Ed swallows, throat clicking.

“I’ll make you breakfast - and dinner if you want -” he murmurs, almost as if it’s an afterthought, “and if I’m lucky I’ll have been good enough for you to deserve it when you give me your number. If you never want to see me again that’s entirely fine, but I can already say that I’d be willing to have you in my bed as many times as you’ll let me. You look like a man who deserves to be pampered, and that’s something I’m more than happy to do.”

“I do?” Ed manages.

“You do.” The guy has drifted close enough that, if Ed were to so much as twitch, their lips would brush. He still has Ed’s braid wrapped around a finger, but his other hand comes up to brush the  loose hair framing his face behind his ear. “If you were drinking tonight, I would ask again if I could buy you a drink. Just one drink, though. Enough to soften the edges of any embarrassment, of our more restrictive inhibitions. Not enough to become sloppy, mind you, or to compromise your enthusiastic consent. I did promise to satisfy you.”

“Multiple times,” Ed says, trying to be snarky. It doesn’t work - it sounds like he’s making sure The Guy will make good on his promise.

The Guy nods, quite serious. “That’s right. So, I’ll ask you just one more time. Will you come home with me tonight, please?”

“What do you expect me to say to that?” Ed asks after a breathless moment, genuinely curious.

The Guy blinks slowly, mono-lidded eyes hot and hungry, bringing the finger that’s wrapped in Ed’s hair gently to his lips . “I wouldn’t presume to expect anything from you. I do, however, hope you’ll consider saying yes.”

“Wow,” Ed breathes. For a moment he’s stuck there, staring into The Guy’s dark eyes, and the only option he can fathom considering is saying yes and getting wrecked by this glorious, gorgeous man.

Ling, insists a voice somewhere deep in the recesses of Ed’s brain, Ling, Ling, Ling, my boyfriend! I have a boyfriend!

The thought hits Ed like a bucket of cold water. He can see the moment the guy recognizes that he’s not going to say yes, and both of them back out of each others’ space. Tall Drink already has a rueful smirk on his face.

“Listen, uh -” Ed pauses and waits for The Guy to give his actual name.

“Mustang.”

“Seriously? Your name is Mustang?” Ed just can’t help himself. “That has to be a pseudonym. Do you do porn? Is that your porn pseudonym? Or, no, you write harlequin romances and that’s your pen name. Tell me you write Wild West fantasies, please, I’m begging you.”

The Guy laughs, genuine and surprised, and ducks his head to the way his cheeks flush. The tips of his ears go very, very red, and he looks entirely caught off guard and a little embarrassed. It’s fucking adorable.  

“Well,” he says, scratching at his nose like that’ll distract from the way his face is steadily turning pinker and pinker, “My first name is Roy, though that doesn’t necessarily help my case. I’ve always rather thought the name Roy Mustang makes me sound like the protagonist in a Lone Star movie, which is - well. It is what it is. My mother’s name is Christmas, so I still think it could have been worse.”

Ed takes a second to be truly, duly impressed at the sheer bad luck of having to choose between being named Roy Mustang or something involving Christmas, then slaps his hands on his knees. “Well, while I do feel bad that you have a terrible name, I think it’s time for me to get this guy home to his wife. Al, come on, we’re leaving.”

Ed stands abruptly, nearly avoiding accidentally headbutting The Guy - Roy Mustang - in his perfect fucking face. It’s probably a good thing that Al doesn’t move immediately, because Ed’s stupid fucking robot knee chooses that exact moment to lock up, like it always does when he tries to move too fast, which he would’ve remembered if he wasn’t so absolutely fucking flustered.

“Ed, Edward, brother, if I wasn’t so sure Winry would kill me for not sharing, I would go home with this man right now,” Al declares, looking between Roy and Ed with a dazed expression on his face. He sucks down the rest of his drink like he’s dying of dehydration in the middle of the desert, and chokes a little when Roy winks in his direction.

“Oh for fuck’s - we’re going now.” Ed all but snarls, smacking his metal knee with his hand until the gears grind themselves into working order, then grabbing Al by the hands and yanking him out of his chair.

Al half-protests as Ed drags them through the bar and out the door - especially when Ed almost bowls over a waiter carrying a tray of rainbow-coloured drinks - but Ed is too fucking busy trying to get out of the bar to watch where he’s going or care about his brother’s whining. He’s not going to look back at that stupid, sexy bastard with the stupid, sexy face - 

When they get to the door he glances back (even though a voice in his head hisses no, don’t) and -

Roy is still staring after him, and it looks like he’s mouthing the word Edward over the rim of his glass.

Chapter Text

“Hey, brother?” Al asks, leaning close to Ed, drink up near his face as if to obscure his mouth from malicious lip-readers.

“Yeah?” Ed returns, wary. 

“I don’t want to, you know, ruin the vibe but…”

“Spit it out, Al.”

“We’re at The Cheesecake Factory.”

Ed looks around, feigning surprise. “Wait - what? The Cheescake Factory? Holy shit, how did we get here?!”

Al aims an unimpressed look Ed’s way, giving him a gentle smack upside the head for good measure. “Jerk. I’m just saying, we’re supposed to be celebrating you passing your PhD defence. We could be literally anywhere - like, I don’t know, maybe the Knight Club - having actually good liquor and eating actually good food. I can think of so many other places I would rather be than right here, in this Cheesecake Factory. We could be somewhere with decent gin, definitely.” Al wrinkles his nose delicately, as if the sub-par alcohol has personally offended him. It probably has.

“You’re just mad they don’t have decent gin,” Ed snarks, and Al grins, unrepentant.

“I am so mad they don’t have decent gin. I’m also mad you’re missing another opportunity to see Roy Mustang in his natural environment.” he says.

Ed rolls his eyes, crosses his arms and leans back in his chair to prop it up on its back legs. “Ling took time out of his schedule to plan this, Al, and it’s not often that we get together like this to do shit. He and his friends like the Cheesecake Factory, they come here a lot.”

“They like it?” Winry says from where she’s sitting on Al’s other side, looking fully confused. “Here? At the Cheesecake Factory? Why?”

Al pats her knee commiseratingly. “The hot guy from the Knight Club would have never brought us to the Cheesecake Factory. He’s a man of taste.”

“Fucking - would you shut up about Roy Mustang, oh my god,” Ed mutters, “it’s been months.”

“I will never shut up about the hottest man I’ve ever seen,” Al says, scandalized.

“I’m still mad you flirted with him on the one night I didn’t go out with you,” Winry mutters. “And yet, I still agree with Al that our Roy Mustang would have done much better than the Cheesecake Factory.”

“Ling said he had something to tell me,” Ed confesses, using the non-sequitur to change the subject. He brings his water up to his face like he can drown the words before they come out of his mouth, “He wanted to do it in front of his friends. I think he’s finally going to bite the bullet and ask me to move in with him, or something.”

Ed doesn’t miss the panicked, wide-eyed look that Winry and Al share. It’s nothing new - they’ve been quietly disapproving of his relationship with Ling for years, and he’s at the point where he doesn’t particularly care if they think the whole thing is a bad idea. Ling and Ed have been together for five years; it’s time for something to change. Now, at the opening of a new chapter in his life, is a perfect opportunity for that change to happen. Moving in together would be a perfectly reasonable progression of his and Ling’s relationship: he’s allowed to want it.

“Well, if this is a celebration of you,” Al hedges, obviously avoiding commenting on Ed and Ling’s relationship in any way, “why aren’t any of your friends here? As far as I can tell it’s just us and Ling’s weird doctor friends.” 

Winry eyes one of the men at the end of the table suspiciously over her beer. “If that one tells me he’s a neurosurgeon, I’m running. He’s trying way too hard to be Derek Shepherd.”

Ed makes a face, but doesn’t argue the point about the Patrick-Dempsey-wannabe. “Because, as you both like to point out, I don’t have any friends that aren’t you or Al. Or Paninya, maybe? Though I’m not sure if Paninya and I are actually friends, or if we just like blowing things up enough to tolerate each others’ miserable company.”

“Robotic legs and rage issues do tend to bond people,” Winry muses. She’s the one who built the prosthetics for both him and Paninya, so she would know, but Ed still flips her the finger and leans his chair further back in protest.

They wait in silence for a few minutes more. Well, relative silence. Ling is standing over on the other side of the table socializing with his friends, all of them looking like they’ve just stepped out of a stylist’s trailer on a TV set. There are charismatic hair flips, flashes of too-white teeth, and slightly tense laughter - it’s all a little uncanny valley, if Ed’s being honest about it.

“Okay, I think I’ve had about enough of this,” Winry says suddenly, brushing imaginary crumbs off her knees and rising to her feet, “I’m bored, you’re bored, and I want to go somewhere that has good alcohol so we can actually celebrate your very impressive academic achievements.”

“Finally,” Al whispers, “I thought we were just going to sit here forever.”

“Well, Ling,” Winry projects her voice like a master, and their table immediately quiets. “Thank you for inviting me to celebrate my brother-in-law’s indoctrination into the ivory tower at this… wonderful establishment. This whole experience has been riveting, truly, like stepping into an episode of daytime television. I keep expecting to find McDreamy and McSteamy sitting at the other end of the table, desperately trying to seduce Ellen Pompeo!”

Winry pauses for a moment to let Ling’s friends titter uncomfortably before she’s smiling beatifically and raising her glass into the air. She turns to Ed and says, “To Ed: my brother, my best friend. This has been a long time coming, and you deserve this. To the first - but hopefully not the last - Doctor Elric!”

Everyone cheers, raising their glasses, and Winry slams her drink, grimacing a little at the end. Ed blushes hard and sinks deep into his chair. This is so fucking embarrassing. He should have never agreed to this. He hates attention, and people, and living. 

Once the cheering dies down a little Ling stands up, holding his own glass aloft. Seeing him like this, charismatic and striking even in the harsh fluorescent lights of the Cheesecake Factory, Ed can very clearly remember why they shacked up together. They’ve never really had many common interests, but, well… they definitely make quite the pair, aesthetically. 

Thinking someone is pretty is not a healthy basis for a long-term committed relationship, a little voice that sounds like Al says in Ed’s head. Ed steadfastly ignores it, as he has been for the last five years.

Ed, contrary to popular belief, knows exactly how he looks. He wasn’t always in a long-term, committed relationship, and he got pretty good at the club scene before he and Ling hit it off. Getting people’s attention has always been easy, especially after he grew out of the worst of his temper and started using his looks to his advantage. All he needs to do is let his hair loose and bat his eyelashes, and men and women come flocking from all sides of the bar to talk to him. It made the early years of his undergraduate degree really, really fun.

Ling, though. Ling is drop-to-your-knees hot. Ling is the epitome of sexualized ambition, self-possessed and motivated in a way that men their age so rarely are. He’s beautiful, and competent, and like nothing Ed has ever seen before. Ling is - and has always been - utterly unapproachable. He’s made of long, sharp edges, and a colorful beauty that’s more inclined to poison you than anything else. Ed loves to catalogue which edges are touchable and which aren’t, hoarding the information away like he would something precious and fragile. 

Ed thinks, sometimes, that when he touches Ling he should come away with sharp, stinging cuts, like touching glass or a beautifully sharp knife. It doesn’t make sense that something so beautiful doesn’t physically hurt to touch. 

Ling should come with warnings: look, don’t touch, or admire from a distance, like you see in museums. Ed loves the feeling of being the exception.

“If I could call our guest of honour up here beside me? You know, I forget what he looks like, does anyone remember? I haven’t seen him in a while,” Ling jokes, smiling magnanimously at everyone around their table. 

It’s not a lie like everyone thinks it is. This is the first time Ed has seen Ling in at least a month.

Ed stands from his chair. The plastic screeches over the hard vinyl flooring of the restaurant and makes Ed’s neck and face go hot with embarrassment. He ambles over to Ling, giving Al a gentle cuff on the back of the head when he murmurs indignantly at Ling’s admittedly poorly-thought-out joke.

Once Ed reaches Ling, Ling smiles broadly and takes his hand. Ed can’t help but soften at the gesture, just a little bit. Ling’s just - he’s so pretty. 

See - it’s like - when they’re apart, Ed knows there are all these problems that he should really be examining with a critical eye. He feels shitty about their relationship in a hundred different ways, each one more reasonable than the last. It’s just that when they’re together like this, when Ed has to literally stare into Ling’s eyes, it’s really fucking hard to remember those reasons.

“Baby,” Ling begins, looking right at Ed, “I’m so proud of you. We had our doubts that you could really pull it off - well, you know, we’ve talked about it - but look at you now!” 

Ling’s friends laugh, and Ed stifles a sigh behind a polite smile. 

They had talked about it before, on one of the many days where Ed’s self-deprecating nature had gotten the better of him. Al and Winry had been out of town, Ling had been surprisingly available, and Ed had needed to get some shit off his chest. Ed confided in Ling, telling him about how felt like he wasn’t smart enough, that he didn’t deserve to be in his program, that studying his biochemistry on the same level as those he admires makes him feel like a stranger in his own life. 

Al had told him, later, that those feelings are called imposter syndrome and that it’s just his brain manifesting his anxiety in a self-destructive way. Ling, upon hearing Ed’s distress, had said maybe you’re just not suited for academia?

“I told you that the night you got your PhD would be a special one, baby,” Ling continues, “And look at this! Everyone who loves you in one room, celebrating you! It’s a night to remember, for sure.”

Everyone? Winry mouths at Al, and Al shakes his head commiseratingly and mouths Baby back.

“So, Edward, I’d like to formally ask you, in front of all our friends…”

Ed can’t help but hold his breath, a little. He’s desperately embarrassed by Ling’s speech, and the attention, and he definitely didn’t want to be having this conversation about their relationship in a public place. But Ed knows that if he’d made a fuss it would never have happened, and Ed has been waiting for this. After five years of uncertainty, Ling’s finally acknowledging that his and Ed’s relationship is more than just casual in a way he can’t take back.

“... if you would like a research position at Vancouver General Hospital!” Ling finishes with a flourish.

Or not.

The table erupts into raucous cheers. Ling has this great big smile on his face, like he’s just given Ed the fucking moon, and Ed can’t do anything but raise his eyebrows and try to stop his heart from twisting in his chest. He takes a step back, involuntarily - probably would have taken more, but his fucking metal knee locks up again.

Ling, to his credit, notices Ed’s distress immediately. “Do you already have a better offer?” he asks.

“No - well I do, actually, much better, but that’s not - it’s a nice thought, but -” Ed uses his grasp on Ling’s hand to pull him a little closer and say, as quietly as he can, “I thought you were going to ask me to move in with you.”

The honest surprise and discomfort on Ling’s face hurts, a bit. 

Well. A lot.

“Nevermind, it’s fine, I guess,” Ed rushes to say, dropping Ling’s hand to prod anxiously at his knee with his fingers, “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking - it’s not like we’ve ever talked about this before.”

“Oh baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that’s what you were expecting -” Ling begins, but Ed rushes to cut him off, desperately wanting to stop talking about this right now. 

“It’s fine, Ling, don’t worry about it,” Ed says. Finally, Ed finds the sticky mechanism underneath where his patella should be - he gives it a sharp poke and it grinds back into motion, his knee clicking out of its locked position.

And that would have been it. If Ling had been able to keep his sorry mouth shut for even five minutes, Ed probably would have sat down next to his brother and suffered through the rest of the night. He probably would have suffered through the next week, and the next month, and through what Ed is slowly realizing is a desperately lonely, unhappy, and unfulfilling relationship. He would have stayed in this miserable casual-serious limbo for at least another two years, then married Ling after another two. They would have had 2.5 shitty kids, lived in the fucking suburbs, and Ed would have gone through the motions of the life he was never able to have as a child, the one doesn’t want as an adult, until he literally died of boredom.

In retrospect, it’s good thing Ling opens his dumb fucking mouth to say: “I think it definitely could be a possibility in the future. I just need a little more time to figure out how I feel about us, you know?”

Ed’s mouth moves, and it says “No, I know,” before his brain is able to catch up.

But then it does catch up, and something inside Ed snaps. It sounds a little like breaking a pencil, or letting a straw clatter onto a straining camel’s back. Either way, Ed’s fight response kicks the fuck in, and Ed rounds on Ling with murder in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s finally getting good,” Winry says to Al, patting him excitedly on the arm. “I’ve been waiting years for this.” 

“Can we get another round of drinks, please? We’re all going to want to be drunk for this,” Al tells the waitress.

Ed opens his mouth to yell, but all that comes out is a loud, barking laugh. He suddenly feels like this is the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened in his twenty-five years of life. He lost two limbs, and this is the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him. Ed buries his face in his hands, then laughs again, louder this time. It sounds a little manic even to him.

“Baby?” Ling asks, inching gingerly backwards.

“Are you telling me,” Ed manages, so absolutely taken aback that he’s circled right around to pissed the fuck off, “that it’s been five years. Five years. And you still don’t know how you feel about me?”

Ling looks at his friends with an expression in his eyes that says help, get me out of here, and that’s all the answer Ed needs.

“What the fuck. What the fuck! It’s been five years. I wasted five years of my life! On you? You’re such a piece of shit!” Ed snags Al’s new drink off the waitress’ tray as she sneaks by and downs it all in one go, chugging it like water. It’s a huge fucking miscalculation - he’s sputtering and grimacing and gasping at the end, but not willing to let that ruin his tirade.

“Is that gin?” he asks Al around a cough, and Al nods, grinning like he’s just gotten a pony for Christmas. “Oh, that’s awful, I’m so glad I don’t usually drink, fuck.”

Fortunately, the burn of the alcohol does exactly what Ed wants it to: it gives him a moment of distraction that allows him to direct his rage at Ling in a way that will let him yell without his typical, looming fear of embarrassment.

“A research position?” Ed hisses, “You want to offer me a research position at your hospital?”

Ling shifts slightly on his feet, and starts to look a little uncomfortable. He tangles a hand in his ponytail and says, “Well - I can’t actually formally offer you the position because I’m still a resident, so you’re going to have to go through the normal application process. But there’s an interview reserved just for you! And I should clarify that it’s not technically a research position, it’s a research assistant position. It would be in the hospital, though, so we could see each other more often!”

“Holy fuck!” Ed all but shrieks. “You are awful! Al was right! You’re the worst!”

The waitress chooses that moment to walk by again with a replacement drink for Al on her tray, and Ed doesn’t hesitate to snag it again. He doesn’t drink it immediately this time, instead choosing to brandish it in Ling’s face. He’s this close to dumping it over Ling’s head and storming out, but he also kind of wants to drink it, so he just continues to brandish it menacingly in Ling’s direction.

“Do you know what the best part about this whole fucking situation is?” Ed asks. He’s maybe a little manic still. “I would have kept doing this! I stood here while you were talking just now, and literally thinking about how shitty you are as a boyfriend, and I still would have moved in with you if you’d asked! In two or three years, I would have married you! What the fuck was I thinking?”

Ed chooses this moment to down the new drink, and comes up sputtering yet again. “Oh god, that’s worse, that’s so much worse than the first one. What the fuck, Al?”

“It’s ‘cause it’s Cheesecake Factory vodka,” Winry offers, snickering.

“It’s cause it’s shitty fucking Cheesecake Factory vodka!” Ed yells, vindicated, slamming his glass down on the table with a clatter. “Who takes their boyfriend to a Cheesecake Factory to celebrate his successful PhD defense?!”

“Baby, I -” 

“No, holy shit, do not call me that anymore. What did I do to deserve this? What did I do to deserve you? You don’t pay attention to me, you barely look at me even when I’m right here in front of you, and you don’t even seem to care about me past fulfilling some sort of unattainable power-couple fantasy. I’ve been having a relationship with your answering machine for a year! I don’t think you even like me that much as a person! You sure as shit don’t think of me as a partner, and I’m not sure you ever have.”

Ling’s eyes dart away in a way that’s entirely incriminating, and Ed feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs. “Oh. You haven’t. You actually haven’t. I was just an easy lay for you. Someone willing and waiting, whenever you wanted to get your rocks off.”

Ed looks away for a long moment, unable to bear the sight of Ling in front of him. It feels like the whole restaurant is holding his breath, waiting for Ed to make his final move.

When he thought about this moment in the past, he was sure that if he left he would walk away with a sense of victory. Like he’d won the breakup, or at least the fight leading up to it. But standing here, right now, he just feels... relieved. 

Sad, sure. Embarrassed, definitely. But mostly relief.

When he finally looks back up, Ling’s not crying. Not that Ed thought he would be, but, well - a guy can hope. Ling looks surprised, but not devastated. His eyes are entirely clear of tears, his hands aren’t shaking; honestly, Ling looks like Ed’s reaction to his whole fucked up situation has been nothing more than an embarrassing inconvenience, rather than the dramatic end to a five year relationship.

It hurts, a lot, but it makes Ed’s next decision a lot easier.

“Get fucked, Ling,” he proclaims, and stalks out of the restaurant.

Ed doesn’t consciously make the decision, but twenty minutes later he finds himself outside the door to the Knight Club, the same bar where Ed and Al met Roy Mustang all those months ago. It might be the alcohol talking, but Ed doesn’t really want to do anything but go inside and see what - who - he finds.

Ed is maybe, possibly, riding an anger-induced, alcohol-sustained high that he really doesn’t want to come down from. It took him about fifteen minutes after leaving the Cheesecake Factory to work himself into a truly spectacular rage, and he’s so angry at the injustices he suffered at Ling’s hands that he thinks he might actually be sparking at the edges. Not to mention that he’s buzzed for the first time in years, and it feels fucking fantastic. The combination of the rage and the alcohol makes him want to do something reckless - like kiss an unbelievably hot man - and damn the consequences.

And, you know, so what if it started raining while he was on his way over? So what if he lost his hair tie, and he’s absolutely fucking drenched, and he looks like a drowned fucking rat? So what if he’s not even sure if the bouncer will let him through the door looking like this? Roy might be in there, and Ed is on a mission.

Ed steps gingerly past the bouncer, relieved when the guy doesn’t even look in his direction, and hovers just inside the door. He takes a moment to survey the room, feeling a little like he’s the protagonist in a video game, laser-focusing until he finds his target, who is - there!

Roy is artfully draped against the bar, long legs crossed at the ankle as he leans in close to some girl’s ear. Presumably, they’re in the middle of flirting; they’re standing way too close for polite company, and their bodies are tilted towards each other in a way that suggests Roy is this close from kissing her into next week. Ed takes a moment to wonder if Roy is whispering the same sweet nothings to her as he did to Ed. 

I’ll make it my mission to satisfy you, the Roy in Ed’s head insists, and Ed has to swallow against the way it makes his stomach swoop.

Gathering his courage, Ed sweeps his hair out of his face with a shaking hand and yells, “Roy!”

His voice cuts easily through the din of the bar, and a sudden quiet falls as everyone looks towards Ed. Roy snaps his head in Ed’s direction and meets his eyes with an eager, surprised look on his face. 

Roy stands immediately, buttoning his suit jacket with an absent motion, looking absolutely fuckable in the low light of the bar. 

Ed’s slightly hazy memories of the guy are nothing compared to the Roy that is here, now: he’s all high cheekbones, intense eyes, and long, long legs. He makes Ed suddenly and unfortunately aware of the fact that he’s soaked and wearing a squeaky, beat up red leather jacket.

The last dredges of Ed’s buzz helps him push aside his own discomfort and insecurity, focusing instead on the half-remembered feeling of the few short minutes he and Roy shared together, months ago, where Roy made Ed feel like he was at the center of the world.

Ed lets his feet march him over to the bar, where Roy is letting one hand trail against the counter and curl around the stem of his martini glass with an utterly bemused look on his face. Ed watches the condensation on the glass drip down onto Roy’s fingers and, without breaking eye contact, Roy raises his fingers to his mouth to lick it off.

Fuck, Ed thinks absently, before he grabs Mustang by the collar, crowding him up against the counter. Ed gives Roy a moment to pull away, counts to three in his head just to make sure, and then he’s tugging Roy down (down, down, fuck he’s tall) into a kiss.

It’s… well. It’s hot. 

The kiss turns filthy as Roy gets on board, winding one hand into the loose hair at the nape of Ed’s neck, fingers locking in and giving a little tug that makes Ed gasp into Roy’s mouth. Roy’s other hand wraps firmly around Ed’s back, pulling them flush together from sternum to knee, and he leans forward to bend Ed ever-so-slightly back. He licks into Ed’s mouth with intent, fighting for control over the pace of the kiss, and Ed’s knees go a little weak at the way Roy makes a noise at the back of his throat, like he’s stifling the impulse to moan. Ed pushes the kiss into something just this side of frenzied, with a hint of teeth that makes Roy’s hands clutch desperately at Ed’s hair and back.

It’s the best kiss Ed’s ever been a part of. His body lights up in every spot he has pressed against Roy, nerves tingling and firing until Ed is all but incoherent with how good it feels. He doesn’t even complain when Roy slows the kiss, turning it into something hotter, slicker, and Ed becomes momentarily lost in the slide of their tongues and the heavy weight of Mustang pressed against him.

Too soon, Roy pulls back. Their noses are still almost touching, and Ed’s flesh hand has found a home against the beautiful curve of Mustang’s jaw, while his gloved metal hand rests gently in Mustang’s hair.

“Do you remember me?” Ed asks. His voice is rough; he sounds wrecked already.

“Yes.” Roy’s gaze is heavy, his pupils so dilated that Ed can barely see his irises.

“Do you still think I’m attractive?”

“Yes.” Roy’s lips are swollen and spit-slick. Ed can’t stop looking at them.

“Do you still want to take me home?”

“Yes.” Roy’s arm tightens around Ed’s waist, and Ed’s hand reflexively tightens in Mustang’s hair. The rakish little grin Mustang gives makes Ed go a little weak at the knees (both of them, even the robotic one, just like last time) and that grin only gets bigger when Mustang effortlessly compensates to support Ed’s weight.

After a moment, Ed carefully steps away. He’s unable to resist trailing his flesh hand down Roy’s neck and chest and arm to take his hand. Roy’s eyes never leave his.

Ed nods, once, trying to stop the blush from overtaking his face. “Good. Let’s go.

“I’m not even mad about it,” the abandoned girl says to her friend as they watch Roy and Ed hastily exit the Knight Club, “That was... ridiculously hot. I’m a little jealous, but like, mostly I think I need a cold shower.”

Chapter Text

It’s not until Ed is sitting in Roy’s living room, drink in hand, listening to the smooth-listening sounds of The Zone on 99.3, that he becomes brave enough to speak.

“This place looks like something off a TV set,” Ed manages. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, and ragged around the edges. Is he drunk? Is he nervous? Fuck, he can’t tell.

Roy raises an eyebrow as he settles on the couch near Ed. There’s a whole cushion’s-worth of luscious green velvet space between them, and Ed can’t decide whether it’s too much or too little. Does he want to be close enough to touch Roy? If the goal of the night is hot, raucous, loud sex, then Ed’ll probably need to touch him at some point. 

Is it hot in here? Fuck, it’s hot in here.

Roy looks entirely cool and collected, sipping from his drink and never once taking his eyes off of Ed, like usual. “Is that a bad thing?”

Ed scowls. “I don’t know. I can’t decide.”

The barest hint of dimple shows before it’s concealed again by the rim of Roy’s glass.

“Is this how it usually works?” Ed croaks out after a desperately uncomfortable silence and a fortifying gulp of whatever disgusting concoction Roy pressed into his hand upon getting into the apartment. “Fuck, how much alcohol is in this?”

Roy huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s a martini, so… quite a bit.”

Ed scowls and places his own drink on the coffee table, then reaches across and plucks Roy’s from his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he pinches his nose so he can’t smell anything, then takes a large gulp.

A loss of smell is supposed to dampen taste, but Ed can say for certain that that’s a load of fucking crap, because Roy’s drink tasted awful too.

“Fuck, that’s just as bad,” Ed manages, wishing desperately that wiping his tongue with his sleeve wouldn’t exponentially damage his chances of getting laid.

“You really don’t drink much, do you?” Roy asks, leaning forward, dark eyes keen and full of laughter. He’s close enough to touch, now, but Ed still can’t decide if he’s brave enough to reach out. 

“You never answered my question,” Ed demands instead, pretending to inspect his hair for split ends to avoid looking into those stupid, pretty eyes.

Roy’s eyebrows rise and he bites his lip, just a little. It’s so hot. It’s the worst. “What was your question, again?”

“Is this how it usually works?”

“Is this how what usually works?”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Is this what you do? You bring your conquests home, pop on some smooth jazz, and make them a drink? Are they usually so impressed by your skills with a martini shaker that they can’t keep their hands off you? Am I going to lose my chances with you because I think your drinks taste like shit?”

Roy nods, a little too quickly, a little too earnestly. His eyes - when Ed dredges up the courage to make himself look directly into them - are still laughing. 

“You know what? You’re right, that’s exactly how it works,” he says, and Ed stifles a snort. Roy flashes a bright, happy grin in return. “I think the same thing could work for you, if you’re interested in casual sex. Though, quite frankly, you could kick me in the teeth and I would still thank you and take you to bed afterwards.”

Ed blushes hard, and very abruptly puts Roy’s drink down on the coffee table and scooches it as far away as possible. It knocks into his own drink a bit, and both martinis slosh dangerously.

“And then you sleep with them?” Ed deflects.

Roy raises an eyebrow that says obviously, but all he actually says is, “Sleep with who?”

Ed tuts sharply, glaring at Roy in a way that makes the other man lean back against the back of the couch and cover his mouth to ineffectively cover the way he shakes with laughter. 

“The metaphorical sex-people you bring back here,” Ed snaps, impatient. “You bring them here, shake alcohol in a fancy shaker, and then have sex?”

“Well… yes,” Roy answers, after a moment.

“So that’s the ballgame then? We have sex? That’s the goal?”

Roy looks kinda confused, now. If he’s honest with himself, Ed is kinda confused too. He’s not really sure where he’s going with this line of questioning. Usually he just talks until he says what he means to say, but tonight he’s getting the distinct feeling that he’s holding a shovel and digging his own grave.

“I was under the impression that sex with me was your goal tonight,” Roy starts carefully, shifting a little in his seat, “and if that’s still the case I’m happy to participate. More than happy, actually; you can consider this my enthusiastic consent. If you’ve changed your mind, though, that’s entirely fine. We can keep each other company for a while, and I have the number for a cab service on the fridge. I also have a spare room if you’d rather not travel in the rain.” Roy actually looks quite concerned. It’s cute. It’s the worst.

Ed takes a deep breath to say something cutting and witty, but all that comes out is: “I’m really fucking nervous.”

Roy’s eyebrows shoot up, and he scoots backwards out of Ed’s space. It leaves Ed feeling… a little bereft, if he’s honest with himself. Grateful, but bereft.

Ed scowls murderously, and his robotic hand sneaks up to his braid, to tug the ends that are still loose and unravelling. His hair tie is long gone, somewhere on the floor by the bar of the Knight Club. "I know I seemed confident at the bar, but I was mostly just drenched, and cold, and a little buzzed. And really trying to be dramatic. The drama was important to me, at the time.”

The confession makes Roy laugh. An actual, if surprised, honest-to-god belly-laugh that lights up his face and makes him tilt his head forward so his hair hides the way his eyes scrunch almost shut from the force of his smile. “You’re adorable,” he manages after a moment.

“No!” Ed demands, surprising himself a little with the force of it. “I’m hot. I’m sexy. I’m R-rated, Pornhub - quality shit! I know what happens in the PG-13 version of tonight, and it’s a really fucking boring fade-to-black after I fall asleep on the couch, and you cover me with a blanket! I want to get dicked down, Mustang. I want to get dicked down by the hot guy at the bar who hit on me, and made me remember that I’m not just smart, I’m hot!.”

Roy tries to cover his mouth to muffle his laugh - it doesn't work. The sound makes Ed indignant, but also relieves some of the tightly coiled anxiety he was holding in his gut.

"That's right," Ed preens good-naturedly, "laugh it up! Tonight you're going to dick the hottest and smartest person you've ever let through that door."

"I'm begging you," Roy manages after a moment of desperate laughter, "please, stop referring to it as dicking. I'll be laughing too hard to be able to sleep with you if you continue like this."

Ed tries to pout, but it comes out more like a smile. It feels a little weird on his face, pulling at muscles he hasn’t used in a while. "Fine, I’ll stop. But you have to tell me what your Move is in exchange.”

"My... move?"

Ed sighs dramatically, reaching for a martini. “You’re one of the hottest guys I think I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he begins, and stifles a pleased grin when Roy blushes prettily, “but there’s still no way that all you do to get people to sleep with you is be hot and make drinks. You have to be doing something else too, something weird and impressive. If good looks and alcohol were all it took, Dean Bradley -” Ed cuts himself off so quickly his teeth snap.

"Oh, absolutely not,” Roy leans forward again, grinning rakishly, “you’re not getting out of this so easily. This is the second time you’ve brought him up since we met. Dean Bradley, what?”

“I’ve only met you twice,” Ed protests, and Roy just shakes his head and insists that doesn’t matter, the story has been teased and now it needs to be told.

“Nope,” Ed says, “I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m having hallucinations induced by the absinthe in your drinks.”

Roy raises one perfect eyebrow. “The fact that absinthe gives you hallucinations is pro-Prohibition propaganda, I know you know that. I also don’t own absinthe; I don’t like the way it tastes. What happened with Dean Bradley? Did he try to seduce you?”

The way Roy says seduce is - is - it should be illegal. It’s like honey and wine, like butter on fresh, warm bread, like he’s murmuring right into Ed’s ear, breath whispering across his skin.

It leaves Ed feeling a little too warm, and quite breathless.

“Um,” Ed says eloquently.

Roy grins again, slow and predatory, his one dimple coming out in full force. “You don't need to tell me about it,” he murmurs, fully aware of the effect he's having on Ed, “but I feel as though it’ll be a very good story.”

Ed is flustered. “I don’t - no - okay - nothing happened! Nothing actually happened. No, really,” he insists when Roy makes a disbelieving noise, “I can promise you that I have never slept with Dean Bradley, no matter how much I fucking wanted to. Or - how much he might have wanted me to? That one’s a little less clear,” Ed admits, tugging at his braid again, filled with a fluttering embarrassment that sits uncomfortably in his gut. “I find it really hard to read social cues like that, which is why I didn’t actually sleep with the guy. It’s just - there was champagne, and a very cozy, dimly lit office, and he was pretty fucking friendly? And he kept looking at me?”

“That’s… well, it doesn’t not sound like he was hitting on you,” Roy murmurs. “I don’t usually pull out champagne unless I’m really trying to woo someone, and the Dean has excellent and expensive taste. In both liquor and men, apparently.”

He’s obviously joking at least a little, trying to lighten the nervous and uncertain mood that Ed has created - again - but Ed ignores him in favor of changing the subject entirely. “So, my point is, you have to be doing more than just being hot and charming and enigmatic. If that alone were enough to keep someone around past the drinks and candle-lit atmosphere, I wouldn’t have run out of Dean Bradley’s office like my ass was on fire.”

“I don’t have candles lit,” Roy scoffs. Ed looks pointedly to their right, where a trio of taper candles are flickering gently away on top of a very nice fireplace. “Fuck.”

“Come on,” Ed wheedles, tired of this beating around the bush shit, “you’ve gotta tell me what your Move is.”

“Why?” Mustang whines, “Why do you need to know?”

“Because I’m not going to see it! As soon as we’re done our drinks I’m going to sex you up, so there’s not going to be time to witness your deal-sealer!"

“My what -”

“Actually,” Ed continues, on a bit of a roll now, “I think it would be a disservice to your Move to not at least tell me about it. You’ve worked so hard to perfect it that it would be a fundamental betrayal of -” 

“Fine, fine! You win! I’ll tell you!” Roy interrupts, but he’s laughing, so Ed doesn’t feel too bad about heckling the guy.

Of course, they then proceed to sit there for another few minutes while Roy opens and closes his mouth like a blowfish. It’s not like Ed has seen Roy at all outside the particularly explicit context of the Knight Club, but he’s definitely never seen Roy act like this before. He looks genuinely nervous and quite a bit flustered; he’s flushed everywhere Ed can see, from the tips of his ears to the delicate turn of his wrist. 

It makes Ed want to lick him, a little.

“You’re really struggling, huh?” Ed says, after a while. He’s finished his own martini and moved onto Roy’s. Or - he’s finished Roy’s and moved onto his own? One of the martinis is gone now, that’s all that matters.

“You’re insufferable,” Roy mutters, before visibly screwing up his courage and saying, a little too quickly, “I do the thing from Dirty Dancing.”

Ed… was not expecting that.

At Ed’s confused expression, Roy sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I do the move from Dirty Dancing,” he says again, a little louder, like he believes that’ll make it easier to say. “I do the lift from the end of the movie, after they do the whole no one puts Baby in the corner thing.”

It takes Ed a moment to figure out what Roy’s talking about, but when he finally does he can’t stop himself from gaping. “The one where he lifts that girl all the way over his head?” 

“Yeah.”

“Fuck off, no way.”

“Yeah.”

Roy says it with such certainty that Ed actually has to stop to consider it for a moment. “Do... d’you think you could lift me?”

“Yeah.”

“I have two metal limbs,” Ed reminds him, not ungently. “They’re steel, and pretty heavy. Whatever it is you think I weigh, add another fifty pounds.”

Roy looks him up and down once, lingering and appraising. It makes Ed shiver, nerves lighting up and tingling, making him hot all over.

“Yeah, I can do it,” Roy murmurs, voice husky.

“I regret this,” Ed says, loudly.

“I’m aware,” Roy grins.

They’re standing in the entrance to Roy’s house, a long hallway that seems to have been made for precisely the purpose of people running at Roy so he can lift them into the air. The floor is some kind of dark, sleek wood. There’s just enough light from the wall sconces for Ed to see the way Roy is holding himself, easy and at the ready.

Ed bounces from foot to foot, bends his knees a little, and - spins in a circle, crying, “This is ridiculous! This is ridiculous. You’re not going to be able to lift me!”

Roy is still grinning. “I’ll catch you,” he promises.

“You’re - this is - this is so ridiculous.” Ed can’t actually think of a reason he should be so nervous, except for the fact that Roy’s hands are going to be on his body, their faces are going to be close together, and this is probably the most intimate thing he’ll have done with another man in at least six months.

Well. Except for all that kissing he did with Roy, in front of a bar full of people, an hour and a half ago. But that probably doesn't count. Right?

“Edward,” Roy says, and Ed’s heart nearly stops at the sound of his name in Roy’s mouth. “You just have to trust me.”

“I’m nervous,” Ed finds himself quietly admitting, for the second time that night.

“We don’t have to do this,” Roy says, a little too eagerly, taking two quick steps forwards like he’s the one who’s ready to leap into Ed’s arms.

“No! No, you stay right the fuck there,” Ed laughs, pointing an accusing finger at Roy’s pouting face, “You’re not getting out of this!”

“I have to admit, this is not usually how this goes,” Roy muses, “Usually this specific part is a little tough, because people are scared that I’m not going to catch them, but at least I know they’re going to be impressed afterwards. I’m almost certain you’re just going to laugh at me.”

“Probably,” Ed shrugs, unable to stifle a grin, “Is that such a bad thing?”

Roy makes an aborted motion like he wants to scratch bashfully at the back of his neck, but changes his mind at the last possible second. “I suppose not.”

Ed sighs, resigned to his fate. The good-gut-churning feeling he felt while he was sitting on the couch with Roy is long gone, replaced with a gentle kind of dread that’s eating away at the frayed edges of his nerves. It feels a little like he felt before he defended his PhD, and a lot like how he felt every time he tried to talk to Ling about something serious. Like he’s about to disappoint in a new and groundbreaking way. 

 “Okay. I’m still - I’m still not sure,” Ed manages, after a moment. The words taste like acid in his mouth. “I want to, but I’m also aware that no matter how sure you are, two hundred pounds of person and metal is no small amount of weight to deadlift over your head.”

“What can I do to make you more comfortable?” Roy asks, all earnest eyes and pink cheeks. The novelty of a man genuinely asking after his comfort hits Ed hard, in a way it probably shouldn’t, but soothes those frayed nerves all the same.

It also helps that Roy is striking in the soft light of the hallway, and Ed can't help but wonder - not for the first time, either - what the rest of Roy would look like in this light. Would his shoulders throw the same kind of shadows as his cheekbones, stark and dark against already olive skin? Would his arms be defined by dips and shallows, highlighted where the soft light bounces off him? Roy is already coloured in shades of tall, dark, and handsome, the tantalizing soft edges of his face juxtaposed by the hard, clean lines of muscle over bone. It makes Ed want in a heady, intoxicating kind of way, and he just… it’s...

“You could take off your shirt,,” Ed hears himself say, as if from a distance.

“I - what?” Roy splutters.

Ed’s eyes go wide, realizing what he’s just said. “I - um - well - !”

But Roy’s already got a glint in his eye, one that Ed is quickly becoming familiar with, and there’s a shirt flying towards him before he can open his mouth to protest. “No take-backs,” Roy calls as Ed claws the shirt off his face, spitting curses all the while.

Then, of course, Ed catches sight of Roy shirtless. A loud, indignant groan escapes him before he can hold it back. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he cries, “it’s like you’re Photoshopped!”

And it truly is. Roy isn’t shredded in the way that professional athletes are shredded, where there’s not a single inch of extra body fat and every discrete muscle group is sharp and defined. It’s more like every muscle group has been softly defined with the careful attention of an artist with an airbrush, then smoothed over with something that makes his skin look velvety and lush. It’s worse (for Ed’s heart) than if the guy were just unattainably shredded, because it makes him all the more alluring. Ling was so sharp that Ed was sure he would cut himself just by looking too hard; Roy looks inviting, approachable, like he's asking to be touched.

Roy looks down at himself then back at Ed, cocking his head to the side like he doesn’t quite understand why Ed is reacting the way he is. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you! Holy fuck, I don’t know why I thought this would help, this made it so much worse.” Ed can feel a flush making its way from the middle of his chest to his hairline, and he buries his face in his hands to hide it. It's just his luck that his rebound is perfection personified.

“Personally,” Roy drawls cheekily, “I think you’ll feel much better about the situation if you also take your shirt off.”

“Oh fuck no,” Ed says immediately, releasing his red face to worry at where his sleeve meets his glove on his robotic arm, "that's not gonna happen, no way. Good try, but absolutely not.”

Roy pouts. Actually full-on pouts. “But consider-” he whines.

“Not fucking happening. I’m not a supermodel. I have way too much scarring to be scouted by GQ, unlike you with your,” Ed gestures broadly at Roy, who is standing there looking like a Greek god, “everything.”

Roy pouts a little more and opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, so Ed beats him to the punch. “You know what? I think I'm suddenly ready to hurl my body towards yours in the hopes that you'll be able to lift me over your head."

Roy’s whole body deflates, like he was hoping Ed had suddenly forgotten what they came into this hallway to do. “Alright, alright. You’re sure you’re ready?”

Ed bounces on the balls of his feet, then falls into a ready stance. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Roy fiddles with his phone for a moment then sets it down beside him on the floor, a crackling version of Time of My Life playing through its tiny speakers. “Okay,” he says after a moment of bobbing his head along to the music, “go.”

The time it actually takes Ed to run to Roy and jump is a blur of anxious thought and consciously coordinating his limbs, but before he knows it Roy’s hands are on his waist and he’s being hefted into the air. He’s flying! 

“Holy fuck, oh my god,” Ed hears himself saying, shrill and excited, “you actually did it!”

“Keep your legs straight and your arms out if you want to stay in the air,” Roy grunts breathlessly, and Ed obligingly stretches himself out for a moment more. It’s exhilarating to be up in the air, arms stretched wide, knowing now - because he was unsure, but he’s not any more - that Roy won’t let him fall. It’s by no means effortless for Roy to keep him up here, but despite the way Ed can see and feel Roy’s muscles straining, his breathing is stable and he hasn’t complained. 

Slowly, Ed puts his hands on Roy’s shoulders and lowers his legs, letting Roy shift his weight and lower him until they’re pressed together. They pause like that for a moment, with Ed straight-armed and bracing his weight on Roy’s shoulders, and Roy’s arms wrapped right underneath the swell of Ed’s ass, to just… stare at each other. Ed looks down to see Roy gently framed by a fall of golden hair, where Ed's braid has come loose because of the run and leap. The low light of the room filters itself through Ed’s hair, casting a beautiful warm glow over the high points of Roy’s face. It turns him into something otherworldly, and it takes Ed’s breath away.

Roy is oblivious and grinning, like he’s never been so proud of himself for hoisting something heavy over his head. Ed tries to contain himself - really, he does - but he can almost feel the way his pupils dilate in the face of Roy's radiant happiness. He can't physically force himself to tear his eyes away from Roy's lips. It’s almost as if Ed’s being drawn in by the gentle curve of Roy's cupid's bow, or the swell of his bottom lip, or - oh, shit, Ed’s actually getting closer. Roy is letting Ed slowly slide down his body, one arm steady and strong around Ed’s waist while the other slides up between Ed’s shoulder blades, keeping their bodies flush from chest to groin. Ed slides down, and down, and down, until his toes gently brush hardwood and he’s able to steady his footing on the cold floor. 

Ed lets his arms stay hooked around Roy’s neck, face tilted up, body still pressed against Roy. They’re both breathing hard, now, for what feels like no reason at all. Roy’s face does a complicated, heated twist-and-smile before he makes a desperate little noise in the back of his throat and bends down across the five inches that separate them, pressing their lips together. 

In a stark contrast to the other kiss they shared, Roy is almost exaggeratedly gentle with this kiss; he leans in again and again for light presses of lips and tongue that leave Ed impatient and desperate. Ed chases the feeling of Roy’s lips on his, going up as much as he can on his toes and winding his arms tighter around Roy’s neck, gasping when the arm that’s between Ed’s shoulder blades comes down to grip, bruisingly tight, at his hip. Still, the kiss remains tantalizingly gentle in a way that leaves Ed gasping with want. He pushes his luck and hooks a leg over Roy’s hip, slotting their groins together, and - oh. 

Roy groans, loud, and grips Ed tighter, grinding their hips together in a barely-there, aborted motion. They both gasp apart at the sensation then stay there, barely moving, barely breathing. Roy is all out of focus this close, but Ed can still see the way his cheeks are flushed a bright, rosy red.

Ed watches, entranced, as Roy’s tongue darts out and wets his lower lip. “Should - um - should we take this to the bedroom?” Ed breathes.

“Yes, absolutely,” Roy agrees, voice, rough, and wraps Ed’s legs around his waist.

It takes them a while to get to the bedroom. 

Roy keeps pressing Ed up against walls and kissing him breathless against the cool brick, briefly pressing his leg between Ed’s thighs and making him twist and groan at the friction. They bounce down the hallway, biting into each others’ mouths and laughing breathlessly when they inevitably fumble, before picking right back up where they left off. Eventually, they topple into Roy’s bed, bouncing on the firm mattress and barely avoiding knocking their heads together, not even really bothering to come up for air. They make out there for a while, grinding and gasping and groping at each other, until Ed opens his mouth and ruins the moment.

“This pillow is so comfortable,” he says on the tail end of a groan, hands grabbing at Roy’s shoulders as he sucks what’s likely to be a spectacular hickey onto Ed’s neck.

“Thank you,” Roy mumbles, barely lifting his mouth from Ed’s skin before he’s back at it. Ed moans again, pushes his hips up against Roy to get more friction, and - 

It’s fucking stupid - honestly, it is. It’s just that the pillow he’s laying on is so comfortable - too comfortable - and it makes him think about the pillows on the infomercials he sees when he stays up too late studying, and then he just has to ask.

“Is this one of the Brookstone pillows? The memory foam ones off the late-night infomercials?”

Roy goes suddenly, entirely, still.

“Holy shit!” Ed exclaims, pushing and poking at Roy until he can get a good look at the other man’s face. He’s bright red from hairline to sternum. If Ed could see the tips of Roy’s ears, he’s sure they would be literally steaming. “I always wondered who actually buys that shit - it’s you?! Of course it’s you! The hot guy from the bar buys infomercial stuff!”

“Do you want to make out with me or not?” Roy mutters, pouting except for the grin that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“No, you’re right, of course. Sex is much more important than making fun of you for your poor financial decisions,” Ed says, faux-serious.

“Shut up,” Roy hisses good-naturedly, and then Ed is actually quiet because his mouth is suddenly very busy trying to navigate the many ways in which his and Roy’s tongues fit together. 

They kiss for a while, all grabbing hands and wanton whimpers, until Roy gets tired of kissing Ed’s mouth and slips downwards to ruck Ed’s shirt up his stomach and work his mouth over Ed’s hipbone. Ed’s vision goes a little grey and he makes an entirely humiliating set of noises, reaching up to grab onto something - like the headboard, or maybe God - and when he does, his hand clenches on the first thing it reaches, which just so happens to be the pillow.

Of course, when he grabs the pillow, that just gets him thinking about infomercials again, which makes him think that if Roy has this then he must be stupid enough to buy other infomercial products, which means - 

“You have one of those ridiculous fucking massage chairs, don’t you?” Ed blurts out.

Roy, again, goes still. “No,” he says, like a lying liar who lies.

“You do!” Ed crows, quickly transitioning from breathless-from-sex to breathless-from-laughter, “You fucking do!”

Roy puts on a truly spectacular pout and crawls his way back up Ed’s body, laying his head carefully on Ed’s metal shoulder and pressing his face into Ed’s neck. The illusion of Roy’s pout quickly dissipates - Ed can feel it when Roy starts to grin into his neck, and the way his body shakes as he tries to hold back laughter.

“Okay, I do have one,” Roy admits after a moment. Ed can’t help but snort out another laugh - the way Roy’s voice warbles with laughter is just too much.

“How much did it cost?”

“... I don’t want to tell you. You’ll laugh at me.”

“I will absolutely fucking laugh at you, oh my god,” Ed snickers pre-emptively.

Roy’s right hand sneaks across Ed’s bare torso to drag, ticklish, against Ed’s hip in an obvious distraction tactic, before he mumbles, “Fivethousanddoll-”

“Five thousand dollars?!” Ed yelps, and he can’t help but start to laugh in earnest. He laughs so hard that his legs curl up to his chest and his throat starts to hurt, falling to the side until his face is buried in Roy’s soft hair and his hands clutch weakly at Roy’s sides and shoulders. “That’s - that’s - fuck - that’s too much money!” Ed hiccups.

Roy is laughing too - actually laughing, not hiding it like he was before. It’s a beautiful sound, low and rich, and if Ed wasn’t so busy laughing himself into stitches he’d stop and take careful note of what exactly he did to make Roy laugh just so he could do it again and again and again. 

Roy - gently, as if scared that Ed will pull away - starts to wind his arms around Ed, tugging and adjusting until they’re full-on cuddling. Roy’s head is still resting on Ed’s shoulder but their legs are completely tangled together. Ed’s arms are around Roy’s neck and Roy has a firm grip on Ed’s waist. 

Roy spends a smiling moment just staring up into Ed’s face before he demands, apropos of absolutely nothing, “Ask me a question.”

“I - now? I kinda want to see your massage chair -”

“I’ll show it to you after, I promise. I’ll show you all the infomercial things I’ve ever purchased, if you want.”

“But I’m not supposed to know anything about you!” Ed protests halfheartedly, still smiling, “I’m supposed to sex you up, promise to call, and never follow through. Those are the rules.”

“Don’t those rules expressly forbid cuddling?” Roy says, raising an imperious eyebrow, and Ed blows a raspberry right in his face.

“Disgusting!,” Roy laughs, “You are such a child - just ask me a question, and then we can do whatever you want.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Fine. But then we bang?”

Roy rolls his eyes right back. “Absolutely, we will absolutely bang. Now come on, you can ask me anything. Ask about my job, or my family, or -”

“What’s your mom like?” Ed asks. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Ed remembers his own mother with the typical fuzzy fondness of childhood memory. She was kind, and smelled nice, and always made waffles on Saturday. He and Al were so young when she died that he always wonders about other people’s relationships to their mothers; he wonders if he’ll find something that resonates, someday.

Roy actually looks a bit taken aback by the question, and he hesitates. Just for a moment, though. “Oh. Well - first, I suppose I should say that I’ve never met my birth mother. My adoptive mother, Christine, is… she’s kind. She took in a lot of kids - there’s seven of us - so she was pretty busy. But we’ve always gotten along. I know she cares about all of us a lot.”

“And your father? Or Christine’s husband?”

“Oh, both are long dead,” Roy scoffs good-naturedly, “I didn’t know my birth father at all, and I didn’t know my step-father for very long either. He left us all a lot of money, which is why I can afford things like foam pillows and massage chairs off of late-night television.”

“Not to add to the depression,” Ed says with a rakish grin, “but my parents are also dead. Well, my mom is dead, my dad is just dead to me -” 

And they just… keep talking. 

All night. 

Eventually Ed manages to convince Roy to take him out to the massage chair in the garage, as a detour before they raid the kitchen for snacks. Ed steals the quilt off Roy’s bed and wears it like a cape, padding along until he’s been seated in a giant leather massage chair that beats a comfortable rhythm into his back. Roy just stands there with the remote and asks It’s nice, right? like this is a totally reasonable thing to have spent five thousand dollars on.

They bypass the Shake Weight and shuffle inside towards the kitchen next, where Roy keeps a Slap-Chop and a Sham-Wow tucked away in his cupboards. They spend so much time playing around with those, chopping up almost everything Roy has in his fridge and cupboards, and spilling things all across the counters just to see the way the Sham-Wow wicks up all the liquid.

Ed’s face hurts from smiling so much. He doesn’t think he’s had this much fun outside of a lab in forever. Not since he and Al were children and living with their foster mom - Izumi - at least, when all they had to do in the day was learn and play. Being with Roy for these last few hours has been fun, Roy himself is fun, and Ed can tell that this isn’t just an act. Roy has entirely relaxed from the cool guy he was at the bar into this dorky, happy man who’s just really happy to be fooling around with useless kitchen gadgets at two in the morning. 

And through it all, they never stop talking. They talk about their lives, their careers, their families. Ed learns that Roy is a combustion chemist that works for a private company developing low-emission fuels for things like jet planes, he visits his mother every Sunday, and he’s never missed a single one of his sister’s cabaret performances.

They linger on the subject of loving their siblings but, at times, wanting to fucking murder them for just breathing. Ed mostly talks about Al - because Al is the most important thing in Ed’s life and always will be - and it’s fucking easy to talk about everything from helping Al with his first science project to the time that they had a massive, month-long falling out over a late-night ad for a seven-in-one watch. 

Roy reciprocates by admitting that his adopted mother is actually his aunt, and that the name Christmas - which he told Ed about so long ago, the first night they met - is actually their nickname for their adopted mother. Telling other children that your mother’s name is Christine Mustang isn’t nearly as much fun as telling them your mom’s name is Christmas, after all.

They go back and forth like that, sharing deeper and deeper truths and unearthing more and more ridiculous late-night gadgets. Eventually, they end the night right back on the couch where they started, an infomercial lady droning quietly about jewellery in the background.

Ed keeps one eye on the screen and one eye on the temperature gauge to the heated blanket they’re testing, telling a quiet story about the time Izumi almost murdered Al for trying to order forty pairs of moon shoes, when he looks back and realizes that Roy has fallen asleep on the couch beside him. Roy’s face is smushed against the arm of the couch and he’s curled in on himself until his knees are almost touching his chin, one arm trailing off the side of the couch in an awkward way that Ed just knows is going to leave Roy numb in about an hour. Adorably, the guy is mumbling nonsense about OxiClean as he sleeps. 

Ed laughs a little under his breath - resisting the urge to film it and save the video for later, as blackmail, or just because - as he crawls out of the comfortable nest he’s made in the cushions and heated blankets. He gently manhandles Roy until the taller man is spread out, legs extended and arms neatly tucked against his body. For safety, Ed turns off the heated blanket, but he does grab the quilt that he dragged all the way from Roy’s room, and pulls it up and over until the edge is tucked neatly underneath Roy’s chin.

Ed had called it, earlier in the night, when he said that the PG-13 version of the night would end with someone falling asleep on the couch and getting tucked in. Ed’s a little smug that Roy’s the one who’s fallen asleep, but that fades pretty quickly in the face of a much softer feeling.

Ed is… happy. For the first time in months - years, maybe? - Ed feels well and truly happy in the company of a person that isn’t Al. He’s looking forward to lying down next to Roy, sleeping, and then waking up and seeing Roy’s stupid morning face. He’s looking foward to seeing whether Roy is a morning person or not - he is, Ed just fucking knows it - and he’s looking forward to the breakfast Roy promised to make him, all those months ago when they were just two men flirting in a bar. 

Even better, Ed knows that even if Roy doesn’t remember making the promise, he’ll make breakfast anyways.

Roy will smile, and laugh, and be horrifically and entirely embarrassed about showing so much earnest emotion, and - Ed is excited to see it happen.

Ed doesn’t even consider sleeping anywhere else. He shimmies under the edge of the quilt and pushes gently at Roy’s side until Roy smacks his lips and flips an arm up, letting it fall back down heavily when Ed immediately settles against his side. Roy doesn’t even wake up, he just lets Ed crawl in and press his face against the taller man’s neck, crowding in as close as he can because of the small width of the couch.

As Ed closes his eyes he knows it’s not love, not yet, not even close. It could be something, though. Something really, really good.