Work Text:
He can’t fucking do this.
Not now — not this late at night, when he already feels on edge and tired and generally just like crap . Not when everything is too much.
Ed turns on his heels and tries to make his stride into the hallways seem less like an escape attempt and more like a respectful leave after hearing someone admit their literal love for you and talking about how it’s literally ruining their ability to be a goddamn normal human being . As the door slams shut behind him, the air he’s breathing seems to catch in his chest. There has to be a blockage somewhere, with the way tears pool at the corners of his eyes but won’t all.
Not that he wants them too, he ain’t no weak person crying in the military headquarters.
His back hits the wall and where the wood panelling meets the wallpaper digs into his back as Ed slides down the wall, one hand clutching his mug and the other covering his face. It almost feels like someone is holding him underwater and the mere thought sends a tremor down through his spinal cord until he feels the tingling in his toes because Ed can’t swim . The automail is too heavy and besides, it’s not the most essential skill nowadays, when his everyday tasks consist of pouring over books in the library.
Faintly, at the very edge of his senses, Ed can hear a door opening. It’s probably Hawkeye because there is no way Roy would face him right now.
He understands, somewhat, because there’s no way he can see the man’s face now, either.
“Edward?”
Hawkeye’s voice sparks a new wave of panic in him because she probably thinks he is some kind of eavesdropping dick that just straight (straight, ha ) up hears what he wants and then just leaves .
And that’s not right because— because Ed’s not like that. Sure, he’s got the social intelligence of a slab of butter on his better days, and sure, he’s not really the one to do relationships and perhaps he’s a bit standoffish and rude at first glance but—
He’s not mean .
Not intentionally, at least, if that’s any consolation. Ed doubts it is. People will always have a slightly off-centre perception of you, just a little mismatched to your own self-image. Not that he thinks highly of himself. Jeez, no, he’s barely half a person as it is, and so blackened with issues.
Honestly, only fucked up people of his calibre has stupid sensory overloads or panic attacks or whatever this shit is from walking into a damn office and overhearing a conversation .
The thought of being hurtful toward someone he cares about makes nausea pool in the bottom of his stomach, somewhere close to where Ed imagines his breath to be, judging by how there are small black spots at the very edge of his vision.
Is he hyperventilating?
Damn, it must be worse than he had previously thought.
“Edward?” Riza says and this is highly unusual, too, and it’s sort of upsetting in its own peculiar way when prim and proper Riza Hawkeye is sitting sprawled on the floor next to him and Ed’s brain can’t … keep up with all of this.
Fuck this shit .
He needs to say something, needs to come with that fake reassurance thing people like to do to lessen the concern. He can go have the full extent of his breakdown on a bathroom somewhere after he’s sent her on her way with a message for Mustang.
Oh shit, Mustang . What’s he like right now, anyway? Sitting in his office with one hand covering his face and one firmly placed on the desk or armrest of his stupidly comfortable office chair to stabilise himself? Has he given and reached for the bottle of bourbon he keeps in the bottom right drawer of his desk, hidden in that drawer that requires a key?
Or, is he pacing? Ed can’t hear anything, but Mustang has that tendency to be eerily quiet until he needs to be loud. Until he needs to feel that respect and attention that comes with being a well-decorated officer of the Amestrian military.
“Tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Ed says and god , his throat is dry, so he tries to swallow and avoid the cough resting at the bottom of his trachea. “I promise . I… just need some time to think and besides,” a fragile laugh bubbles up his throat. “If I don’t make it home soon, Al’ll come looking for me under the impression that I’ve like, died .”
There’s something else on his mind, something he should have Hawkeye tell Mustang. “Heck, if you’d like, tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll, I dunno, talk to him during lunch and take him out on a walk to sort this entire shit out.”
Another wave of panic lurches in his stomach and he can feel the imaginary bile rising in his throat. He needs to get back home to Al, like, half an hour ago.
Ed tries to smile and winces at how false it must seem. “Like fuck I’m gonna reject him, but he gotta hear me out. Me ‘n’ my issues are a package deal in shitty fucking wrapping. He has to know.”
“I’ll tell him,” Riza promises, before patting his shoulder and standing, dusting the imaginary dust and grime off her pants. Ed doesn’t blame her; the corridors of Central Headquarters is probably packed with invisible germs that are only invisible once it would be improper to attack the uniform with a wet wipe. “Go home and get some rest, Edward. Say my ‘hello’ to Alphonse, if you would be so kind.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ed says, resisting the urge to squirm at her touch. It had been too light, too gentle and there’s now an imaginary imprint of her hand on his left shoulder.
He wants Alphonse here to do that perfect pressure thing he does, rubbing out the imprint with his hand before wrapping Ed in a hug worth dying for.
The door to Mustang’s office closes and Ed leans his head back towards the wooden panelling on the wall.
It takes him a while to remember how to breathe.
When he walks in through the door to his and Al’s flat, his brother is there immediately, clearly sensing something being off.
Ed walks straight past him into their kitchen. He slumps down on one of the rickety chairs, ignores the ache in his lower back and tries to gently place his mug on the table. When that ultimately fails and it falls to the floor, Ed ducks his head so that his bangs fall down into his face, obscuring his vision with strands of gold.
“Brother? Are you okay?” Alphonse is behind him, not yet touching him but he’s close enough to drag Ed into a fucking-good-perfect-tight-hug if deemed necessary. “Did something happen when you were out?”
Ed looks up and rubs at one of his eyes and jeez he must really look like shit because Al bends down and embraces him. A hand reaches up to pull out the tie securing his ponytail and he’s close. Ed hides his face as best as he can into Al’s shirt. It smells like their laundry detergent, sunlight and Al .
“The office wasn’t empty when I got there,” he mumbles weakly into Al’s shoulder. Al’s hand is carding through his hair and it’s really relaxing. The pressure is just right and it’s nice and good and lovely and— anyway , back to explaining to Alphonse what happened. “Mustang ‘n’
Hawkeye were in the inner office and I didn’t realise until I couldn’t leave. They were talking. I didn’t mean to stay and listen—”
“But the situation seemed important so you chose to stay.” Ed can feel Al nodding into his shoulder. Every touch feels elevated, but Al’s perfect and so it doesn’t really matter, even if it makes his shoulder ache a bit at the angle. That’s fine. He can deal with that. “Carry on,
Brother.”
“’N Hawkeye was talking about him not working properly and Mustang said that there was something on his mind, fucking shit over, ‘n so naturally I thought Hughes because that guy was like a parasite of sorts. I’ve been in a lot of the older archive files lately ‘cause of work and his name came up a couple of days ago and Mustang has to look through all of the shit I hand in and so I thought that probably I caused this entire ordeal by making Mustang remember him. But—”
Ed breathes , dragging that precious oxygen into his lungs so that he can continue his explanation. His head is spinning and those damn spots are back again.
Al seems to notice because instead of it being a hug it’s now more like Al’s holding him up.
Good, a concussion at this point seems a bit annoying. He has deadlines coming up and a fucking love-relationship situation with Mustang to sort out and shit this is all gonna be too much.
Breathe. Okay, breathe some more and then continue your explanation.
“But it being Hughes wouldn’t make sense because Hawkeye said like ‘talk to them’ and shit, you can’t talk to the dead, Al, so that made it a living person and no longer a shitty grief reminder situation but like, something else and—”
His voice gets stuck somewhere in his throat, and Al leans back but keeps his hands on Ed, holding the spots right above his knee — one near flesh and one near metal. “He said he was in love with you, didn’t he?”
Trust Alphonse to always just know . Ed swallows and drags a hand over his face and he sighs and— is he shaking? The panic is back but now it’s not just in his gut— it tingles down his spine and renders his hand practically useless.
Ed nods faintly because as much as he wants to pull up a grin and crack a joke to make Al feel less concerned for him, he doesn’t have the energy for it right now. He’s been running on empty for too long already. “I’ll take him out for a walk tomorrow. Talk it out. ‘Cause, like, I don’t mind his … attraction or whatever at all, but there’s so much that could go to hell, A. He could hate me when he finally realises how goddamn fucked up I am or maybe he won’t be able to deal with my shitstorm of assorted trauma, like some demonic confectionary box or—”
“Stop,” Al says gently, and his knuckles are digging into the tissue around Ed’s port. For some reason, his ports always hurt more when he’s upset. He lets out a small hiss before it slowly turns into a satisfied sigh as the muscles relax.
“How about you go take a shower? It usually helps and while you do that I’ll make some food. You haven’t eaten dinner yet, that’ll help too.”
Ed takes a second, digs the palms of his hands into his eyes and sighs, takes a few deep breaths. “Okay. Okay. I’ll— just go. Shower. Yeah.”
The next day comes too quickly and after a night of broken sleep and waking up in a sitting position, hands poised to clap, Ed’s ready to … something. Go insane, leave Central to travel the country or get so wasted he won’t remember his own name.
What he’s not ready for is to face Roy-with-a-crush-or-something-on-him-Mustang.
Surprisingly, Ed’s on time (for once, seeing as he’s usually running late and just barely making it). He slumps into his (fucking uncomfortable, why is Mustang the only one with a nice chair?) office chair, chugging desperately from his travel mug. It’s not gonna be enough coffee to keep him on his toes and Ed’s almost willing to drink the shitty excuse for coffee the military offers.
Their office has its own coffee machine. He should really just be, like, decent and start bringing good coffee beans to the office and share it with the rest of the team. Maybe then they’ll stop bothering him about ‘getting action’ or lack thereof. Speaking of—
Havoc and Breda are whispering about him again. Ed knows because it’s always in that same dumb faux-quiet whisper that people out in East City probably wouldn’t have trouble hearing if they so wished. “What?” He snaps, levelling them both with a vicious glare that displays exactly how crappy his day has been so far, even though it’s barely past eight in the damn morning.
Jean leans over to his desk, unlit cigarette like usual hanging out of the side of his mouth. It’s a miracle how he manages to speak and keep the cigarette there while maintaining at least an understandable pronunciation. There’s a grin on his face and Ed wants to wipe it off with his fist.
“Looks like someone got some action last night. Who’s the lucky girl, Boss?”
Lucky girl? His nightmares had been on the same disturbing repeat like a broken record. A girl, just gone five years old, morphing into a horrific mix of girl and dog and in staggering amounts of pain even Ed had trouble imagining.
Ed stares at him, incredulous. The anger is there, itching under his skin like a colony of ants, but there’s also that panic that only the nightmares manage to bring to the forefront. “Excuse me?”
Breda’s leaning over too now and great , now they’re gonna interrogate him about his so-called imaginary girlfriend that only lives in those two pests’ heads. Good. Maybe she’d clean up the cobwebs and pure stupidity that resides there most, if not all of the time. It certainly would benefit him .
He’s not in the mood for mindless chatter and borderline accusations regarding both his sexual preferences nor his other pastime activities. But these two— sharks , they’re convinced that there’s blood in the water and they’ll hardly let him off the hook now.
God damn.
Adults. Apart from the fact that they act like high schoolers on the best of days, talking about little other than girls, alcohol and food. The only disqualifier is that they don’t seem to talk much of either basketball, hockey or football.
What a bummer.
“Your hair, kid,” Breda says, pointing to his unkempt braid from last night.
Ed scowls. “I’m twenty, Breda. Not a kid. Get on with the times.”
“Yeah, no, sorry. You’ll always be a kid to us,” Havoc says. “Considering we’ve literally known you since you were, like, eleven-and-a-half, it takes a while to get used to.”
Lies.
“The bags under your eyes,” Breda continues, likely ignoring the entire ‘not a kid’ comment and interjection from Havoc. “It’s clear you didn’t get much sleep, if any at all.”
Nina laying dead in a pool of her own and her father’s blood, eyes wide open and empty.
Ed rubs a hand over his face, trying to shape a lie that’ll let him be left alone to do his paperwork. Eugh . “Al wasn’t feeling well,” Ed says, inwardly cringing. He doesn’t like lying, hates it, in fact, but this should be believable enough that, hopefully, they’ll leave him alone. “I stayed up with him until he managed to fall asleep. I overslept. That good enough for you nosy bastards?”
The coffee will go cold if he doesn’t drink it soon, and so Ed chugs it before pulling his stack of reports closer along with (sadly) a dictionary. He does all kinds of work now, usually being hired in by someone in Investigations that needs a translator. Considering that he’s learnt Xingese from Ling and he’s working on his Cretan due to that one trip to Table City years ago, the Investigations department seems to adore him.
Not a lot of people in the military are bilingual (or almost trilingual, in Ed’s case) and so, they need him to translate shit from other places as long as the severity and confidentiality level of it isn’t too high or some shit. As a major, there’s only so much crap he’s apparently supposed to know, even though he’s literally saved the entire fucking Investigations department in the Promised Day.
Well, not directly, but hey, no Investigations if there’s no people, no country and no military.
“We need to talk,” Ed says, slamming the door to the inner office shut. “About yesterday.
C’mon, I said something about a walk. Lunch’s on me.”
Roy only looks at him, contemplates and sighs before standing. There’s the faintest hint of white poking out from one of his sleeves which must mean that there is where Roy keeps his gloves.
“Lunch only goes on so long, I really shouldn’t leave the office for an extended period of time,” Roy states, walking over to him and looking down. Had this been six years ago, Ed would have cursed the bastard about and called him a condescending dick and whatever the insult of the day happened to be.
But Ed’s a grown-ass adult now, old enough to regard that look on Roy’s face as apprehensive yet contemplating. So when Mustang says, “Lead the way, Edward,” he does.
Ed takes them to the closest park to Central Command for two reasons. One, if Roy’s so horrifically insistent on the fact that ‘they only have the allotted forty-five minutes to talk this out and nothing else’, fine , he’ll accommodate for that, because if that means he’ll get a less stressed Roy for this entire shit, then that’s good. Why Roy would want to go back in the first place is beyond him, considering that the man in question seems to be doing his very best to develop an anaphylactic allergy to paperwork. Secondly, some of the nearby cafés have stalls in this park and honestly, the coffee from either of these are worth getting shot for.
...Shot by someone else than Hawkeye, perhaps, considering that Ed prefers to stay alive for the duration of his coffee-drinking.
He talks to one of the vendors and somehow, without either swearing at his own social awkwardness or spilling hot coffee down the front of his shirt, Ed manages to buy both of them coffee and croissants that are packed nicely into a brown paper bag.
Roy looks at him with that expression again, and why is it terribly attractive and anxiety-inducing at the same time? The way one of his eyebrows is just raised in that way, and that smile that most people would think has him expecting something but it doesn’t mean that, not really. It’s just the go-to base façade for when he’s really deep in thought or staring at something.
...staring at him?
What a damn plot twist. The entire man. One giant, twisty, complicated mess Ed can’t quite seem to get a read on because once he thinks he might have the faintest idea, something changes and bam a completely new side of him is revealed and—
Why is that the entire concept of something ever-changing like Roy intrigues Ed to the end of the world and back? Is it because he’s an alchemist, always scrabbling for new bits and pieces of knowledge, for anything that can bring him closer to knowing everything, and perhaps this entire journey is one major disaster, waiting for the fuse to burn all the way to the bomb and detonate with a force powerful enough to rip him apart, atom for atom?
There is always the distinct possibility that it is because he’s simply human, but that explanation is just one of many. He’s never really felt this way before, never really wanted to explore and figure every last part of what makes Roy … well, Roy .
Ed wants to know everything , from what makes him tick to what makes him laugh and smile and if the entire expression is as genuine as his talent for alchemy. Ed wants to get to know the brilliant brain behind that dazzling smile, figure out exactly how Roy’s managed to do what he does, how he’s managed to stay more or less intact even after losing both of his parents, growing up in a brothel for Truth’s sake and Ishval .
“Come on,” Ed says. “There’s this one place I have in mind. There’s a bench there and it’s always empty because like, probably, fifteen people in the entirety of Amestris know about it and it’s really peaceful and some shit that you’re probably into— aesthetic crap.”
He’s been here with Al a couple of times, on the weekends when nothing else happens, and he’s pretty sure he’s been here with Elicia a few years ago because if there’s something else this park excels in it’s excellent playgrounds.
The area is big enough to have its own fucking forest, and right before it, a trail, or perhaps something like a path with trees growing on either side. Naturally, the trees are planted there by whatever department is responsible for nature, wildlife and aesthetic-ness of Central.
Ed strongly doubts it’s a military branch.
“It’s called an alameda,” Ed says as they walk underneath the trees shielding them from the sun. It’s nice, the way it makes his eyes hurt less. “It’s more of a regional slang in the East, probably not something really used in the bigger cities, but out in the country, around Resembool especially, we use it a lot.”
Roy looks at him, coffee cup raised to drink. “I might have heard the word before, although I’m not entirely certain. What does it mean?”
“It’s basically like a public path shaded by trees.” Ed snorts. “We really like making cute and dandy, usually useless as fuck, words out in the middle of nowhere. Not that a city boy like you would know about that.”
Roy doesn’t reply immediately. Ed looks away because this is suddenly awkward as fuck.
“I think it’s a lovely word,” Roy says at last, and it does kinda sound like he means it and what the fuck is the honesty doing to Ed’s heart? It’s beating too fast and too hard and he does feel slightly lightheaded and … euphoric in a sense, however the hell that works out because this entire thing is very confusing.
“I think you’re lovely,” Ed says before his brain catches up to what he’s said and he turns bright red. Goddammit , why does his brain always run off like some rabies-infected cow on crack and he can’t reign it back in until it’s too late?
Roy laughs, and when the laughter fades, the silence is back on all fronts. But somehow, it seems that Ed embarrassing himself and making himself want to like, jump into the void if he can find it, has somehow broken the ice between them. And now, the silence isn’t so overwhelming.
It’s nice. Just. Walking together. And if he walks a bit closer, then— so? There’s no one else here to judge him, to watch his every move and give it a ‘socially acceptable’ score from 1 to 10 or anything like that.
Fuck socially acceptable anyways; Ed doesn’t have time for that shit.
There’s a clearing up ahead, with a bench off to one side and the tiniest fucking lake Ed has ever seen on the other. It leaks out into the river the path up there follows.
Ed sits down on the bench and looks up expectantly at Roy, who obediently takes up the spot next to him. Damn, he’s a … bit too close. But— but that’s okay because Ed can deal with this without overreacting or starting to cry or bring pain to himself and whatever crap he unconsciously does whenever he just … gets upset.
Is tapping his automail knee an acceptable coping mechanism? It isn’t particularly loud or visually noisy in any way and it doesn’t look like Roy’s even noticed him doing it so… that’s a plus.
This. Is. Fine.
But it’s not. Not really.
But it will be.
All he needs to do is to confess to being a fucking person that listens in on other people’s conversation and doesn’t leave even though every semblance of knowledge he has of social convention is screaming at him to do so.
“I heard it,” Ed admits, slowly before he sips his coffee. It’s scalding, and something fucked up inside Ed revels in the sensation. “Yesterday, in the office. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you and the Lieutenant, but I … I guess I got too curious or something.” Ed hesitates because he doesn’t really do apologies. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve never heard you apologise to me sounding like you actually mean it,” Mustang says. He’s staring at something in the woods, beyond the distance of the pond. “I’m going to take it as the genuine article. Thank you, Edward.”
Ed stares down at his coffee while removing the lid to add sugar to it. He had grabbed probably an impolite amount of sugar packets and those small coffee creamer things from the mess hall (the military has enough money, they can deal ) before going into the office that day, because he knew from experience that the particular coffee vendor he usually got his elixir of life from usually ran out of both around lunch time. “I guess you’d want to talk about it. Don’t apologise for anything you said. I— I think, it’s not an issue for me , but … honestly , Mustang, I don’t think you’d want me after you know what I actually am.”
“That sounds like you’re a monster of some kind,” Roy says drily. “In which case, I would have to update your employee file under the part specifying species.” He sighs heavily. “I doubt you’re in any way worse than me.”
This is heading to be one of those band-aid conversations, isn’t it? Where he’s just gonna have to spill it all to minimise the pain he’s putting on himself. If this had been Al or Winry, he’d maybe have done it without a second thought, but with Mustang? He’s not used to him, not used to whatever is going wrong up in Ed’s brain and what if— what if he just … gets pulled along with the current and ends up drowning?
Oh well. He’ll just have to do damage control afterwards.
“I’m fucked up, Mustang. In the head. Like, literally just ignore the fact that my body is broken and repaired and one-third metal for a second. My head is messed up. I wake up every night gasping for breath, remembering something fucked up. I can’t deal with going into public because it feels like my brain or eyes will explode from everything going on. I constantly feel on edge, waiting for another attack to come out of fucking nowhere. There’s so much going on in my head all the time, my thoughts racing and not making sense and the only times where it shuts up is when I do alchemy. It’s the only time I feel at peace, even though the transmutation light hurts my head and my eyes because it’s too fucking bright.”
Now that he’s said it— gotten it all out of his head —he feels drained , in a way. Like everything’s just poured down an imaginary sink drain and vanished into nothingness.
The only thing that seems to be real, and isn’t even doing a good job at being even, is, of course, his best tell for when the panic is setting in, deep in his bones. His heart has deemed it its job to speed up, to make the blood flood through his veins until he can hear the roaring in his ears and tingly sensation in all of his limbs.
Well, the limbs with a blood supply, that is.
“I’m sorry,” Ed manages to get out between too-controlled breaths. He wants to look up, wants to see if Roy’s disgusted with his behaviour. He’s curled up, bent forward until his face almost touches his knees because suddenly, even though the trees around the clearing do a decent job of shielding him from the sunlight, it’s still way too fucking bright, and even though the area around him is quiet, Ed’s sorely tempted to slap his hands over his ears and just… vanish. “I get like this a lot. Just, like, gimme some time to calm down.”
“Oh,” Roy says from above him. It doesn’t really do much to quell Ed’s anxiety, but eventually, he manages to look up to see Roy holding out his arms in an— how the fuck does he make it seem gentle? — invitation for a hug.
Ed bites his lip and hesitates for a moment, trying to clear his brain. “There’s a very real possibility I’ll hurt you if I hug you. My automail isn’t comfortable and both my hands tend to seize up when I … when I’m this anxious.”
Roy shrugs, and what the fuck, that good fond smile is back and— yes , his heart is beating faster, but now it’s more consistent because it’s also because something good appeared and not just because he’s said too much and spilt too many secrets and— goddamn fuck , this man . “I’ll be okay, Edward. Honestly.”
The first thing Ed notices as Roy’s arms tighten around him is that Roy is really a very good hugger. It’s the perfect pressure and with the way he’s been pulled closer, it doesn’t pull at any of his horrendously tight muscles that ache when he moves the wrong way. Ed presses his face into Roy’s uniform jacket, right in the middle of his chest, where there are no stupid decorations to hurt his face. Admittedly, the fabric scratches in a fucking awful away against his cheek and ear, but what-the-fuck-ever, he’ll just, like, wash it or something later to get the sensation away.
Ed lets himself count slowly to sixty before pulling away. He rubs awkwardly at his neck, and joyous , now he has one more weird shitty thing he does and/or needs to be a functional human being that he has to explain to someone.
“Thank you,” Ed says. “I, uh, usually I make Al to that for me. It’s been a thing since we were little, but when he, y’know, was stuck in the armour he couldn’t and we had to resort to other methods to help me since I couldn’t drag, like, a ton of heavy blankets or Winry around all the time, for that matter.”
An awkward laugh escapes his throat. “My red jacket. It’s made in a special way— I transmute it myself from raw material —so it’s actually really heavy despite not looking like it. It’s made a bit thicker, with leather layers between the cotton. Makes it sturdier too, and as I said, heavier. It’s pretty stupid, but it helps a lot, so, yeah. It— it’s one of the reasons why I don’t like to wear the military uniform, ‘cause, like, it’s so damn hard to modify it.”
Roy cups his chin and tilts his face up. “Edward, that is in no way stupid. If it helps you cope, and it’s not hurting other people, then it can’t in any way be negative. You could be doing way worse things, like harming yourself or harming other people.”
Ed doesn’t want to show his reaction to that statement, because the topic of harm is not something he wants to approach today. Maybe— maybe if they can work this out and it doesn’t go to seven shades of hell, then maybe he’ll be willing to talk about it more. “I guess you’re right,” he says slowly because it seems that again, his breath has dislodged and his voice is coming out airy and god , does he sound like some love-stricken teenage girl now? “Thank you, Roy.”
He’s not meeting Roy’s eyes, and Roy seems to be okay with that, and he’s glad . He wants to, though, sort of— wants to look into those dark, mesmerising orbs but if he does, he’ll just be uncomfortable as hell because when people call eyes the windows to the soul, it might just be meant literally. There is also the distinct chance that he might just start grinning beyond control or cry , and while that is something he probably should do to rinse out the excessive hormones bouncing through his blood, he doesn’t want to inconvenience Roy any further because he had said forty-five minutes to meet their lunch break.
And Roy, this literal angel , is still holding his face, now with both of his hands, thumbs rubbing gently against his jaw.
For a moment Ed wonders if he’s died and come back.
“This—” Ed says, gesturing vaguely with his automail, which creaks alarmingly. He frowns at it. “Oi, shut up, you.”
Roy laughs at that and bends forward until their foreheads are touching. He’s gorgeous. “Sorry,” Roy says, and his voice sounds just as airy as Ed’s had only a few moments earlier. Is there something wrong with the air here?
There must be, right?
“This,” Edward says again, conscious to not move his automail hand (he should really try to take better care of it, or Winry’ll have his head again). “It’s gonna take time. I’ve got issues— and I bet you probably do too, ‘cause life is a series of just shitty events after each other. It’s gonna be slow and tough but, fuck , Roy, I really wanna give this a chance, like, if you’re willing to— deal with me?”
It comes out sounding sort of like a question.
Roy laughs and sort of gently tugs-drags-pulls him closer until Ed’s doing something half-way resembling sitting on Roy’s lap. It’s a bit embarrassing since he’s not little why is he perched on someone’s lap but also a bit amazing, glorious and perfect because proximity comes in limited amounts— portion control, according to the way the world has treated him since… basically forever.
He can almost imagine it. Daily, weekly or monthly supplies of intimacy, individually packed in obscene amounts of plastic, each with an instruction guide on how to apply.
Would it count as a medical product? Would it need a prescription or could it be bought at, like, the nearest pharmacy?
Edward Elric, proximity supplement, one dose in the morning
He’s not sure if it would be like, a pill to swallow with some water or perhaps a liquid to drink, something to place under his tongue or a lotion-cream-salve-fusion to put on his skin where he craved touch the most.
Ed severely hopes it wouldn’t come in the form of effervescent tablets because those are the worst .
The best thing the universe has given him today is by far the vibrations from Roy’s chest that seep into Ed’s body, making him feel all good-jittery and happy and like he might just grow wings and fly off. Which would be a pity, because he’s comfortable . Admittedly, he’s sitting partly on Roy’s lap on a hard, uncomfortable wooden bench in the middle of a clearing in a pseudo-forest in a park with their lunch forgotten but that— that doesn’t matter .
“I’ve got all the time in the world, Edward.”
And why the everloving fuck does that sound like some kind of weird love confession of sorts?
“Eugh,” Ed says, softly as to keep the mood calm. “You’re a fucking sap, did you know. Should stuff you into a pine forest for that.” A grin sneaks onto his face. “And technically you don’t. The thing with being human, as you should know, is that you’re basically destined to die at some point. That ego of yours’ll end up strangling you before you hit forty, dumbass.”
"If I can indulge in your reciprocated affection until then, I'll gladly succumb to my sense of self-importance," Roy murmurs into his hair. "It might just be inevitable unless something else kills me first."
"What, like your paperwork or somethin'?"
He can feel Roy stiffen for a moment before doing a very Mustang slump of defeat. He should patent it. "Speaking of paperwork, we should probably head back to the office before Hawkeye comes searching for us and deems me worthy to shoot for slacking off."
"Yeah," Ed sighs. "Guess so. I didn't, um, get much done before lunch, so, like, I gotta catch up. Likely have to do overtime or somethin'. The military'll love me for my 'work ethic' or what they call it these days."
"That, or they'll be unhappy with having to pay you overtime."
Ed stands and only then notices the croissant bag abandoned on the bench. "I think we'll just have to eat on the way back."
"There are worse things in the world than walking and eating," Roy says, dusting off his uniform, which is probably covered in inhuman amounts of dust, pollen and assorted microbacteria native to the park bench. He holds out your hand, almost hesitantly. "Would you be opposed to— ?"
Ed points to the coffees and the paper bag. "It might prove a bit hard, but if you're willing to sacrifice easy carrying, then— yeah. I— yeah."
They're both wearing gloves (not that it's military protocol or anything, Ed just— it's easier and Roy has his for protection or status or something Ed doesn't want to think too hard about. If he's strategic about this, maybe he'll be able to carry the bag and his coffee with one hand.
Roy's looking at his automail hand and likely thinking the same thing as Ed. Carrying coffee or a pastry bag with the dexterity his automail hand has is fine, but both ? That's... unlikely. So the logical thing would to have Roy hold his right hand. It's gloved and everything, but what if— what if somewhere, deep inside, Roy minds ? What if he actually gives a damn and feels bothered by the fact that he's one-third metal?
“Um,” Ed says, gesturing vaguely. “How—?”
“What would you be the most comfortable with?” Roy asks pleasantly. “If you’d like, I can carry the pastry bag, or I’ll hold your right hand if that’s easier. Whichever is best for you. Honestly, Ed, I couldn’t care less.”
“Not to say that I don’t care,” He adds hastily, which is… a bit cute, all things considered. “Just—” Roy sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “To me , both of your hands are yours and a part of you, and I am well aware that you may feel different on the topic, but—”
“Roy,” Ed says. This is a lot a bit awkward— which makes no sense. “It’s fine. I’ll … I’ll take the bag if— is you really don’t mind holding my hand.”
His hand isn’t built to feel light touch, but when Roy grabs it— like kindergarten children would, with palms touching but no fingers intertwining —Ed thinks his brain might be trying to make up for what it should feel like.
“I don’t mind your automail,” Roy repeats, deadly serious. “I really don’t mind. Well, apart from the fact that it likely isn’t pleasant to wear it all the time. Then again, that might be a lesser evil than taking it on and off all the time.”
“Yeah,” Ed says with a sigh. “D’you wanna know the dumbest part about it?”
When Roy makes a hum that Ed guesses is meant to indicate his curious, he continues. “I can’t wear light clothing— colourwise, not weight — since the machine oil I use stains that shit. D’you have a fucking idea of how many pairs of gloves I go through in a year? If they don’t get ruined by the common wear ‘n’ tear or the oil stains, I tend to rip them in combat ‘cause I transmute my automail.” He laughs quietly. “You’d probably be able to track me by destroyed gloves alone. Don’t deny it, I know you’ve got eyes on me everywhere.”
“Ah, yes,” Roy says after a sip of the now probably-luke-warm coffee. Ed would shudder if he wasn't one of those heathens too— the ones caring more about caffeine than taste. “Edward Elric, famed for his glove destruction and feared by all clothes manufacturers.”
“The uniform department-thingy I never bothered to learn the proper name for hates me,” Ed says with a shrug. “What’re they called anyway? Quartermasters?”
“I believe so. I have an ever-growing suspicious that they don’t like alchemists and leaving it at that. Me especially. They don’t fancy the fact that I don’t use the common cotton blend gloves the military usually supplies.”
Ed eyes Roy’s gloves. “Yeah. I always wondered how the hell you managed to make a spark. Al theorised once — ages ago — that you simply transmuted the stuff on matches— phosphorus and potassium chlorate, but I told him that’s not possible. First off, it’d be used up too quickly to be sustainable in combat. Second, you’d have to blend it really well and evenly into cotton, which would require a bitchy-ass array. You’d also basically be walking around with a really fucking temperamental firework in your pocket. So I told him, in as many words, that that had to be bullshit.”
“I tried to do that in the beginning,” Roy admits. “Please do not remind Lieutenant Hawkeye of the fact or she’ll be on the floor howling while also trying to recount the tale of how I managed to lose my eyebrows at the tender age of sixteen. To answer your question, it’s a special material called pyrotex or ignition cloth. You can imagine it as the fabric version of flint and steel— not that it contains either. How it’s made is a secret of sorts,” Roy says as they exit the park. Now that they’re back in an area containing people. He’s let go of Ed’s hand. Ed only mourns the loss a little. “It’s really just a fancy way of saying that the actual process escapes me at the moment.”
He opens the pastry bag and takes out one of the croissants before handing it to Roy. “Continue.”
“It’s not terribly expensive or anything,” Roy says, taking a small bite of the croissant as if to test it. Cute . “The only really unfortunate thing about them is that they come in as plain white gloves without the markings.”
“Might be better for you,” Ed mumbles into his croissant. He chews, swallows and looks up. “Honestly, Roy, you should be more careful with that array. It’s wicked dangerous and you don’t want anyone to get hold of it and reverse-engineer it to figure out exactly how it works. Besides—” He pauses for a second as the thought falls face-first into his mind. Snickering, he says, “Wait, you’re telling me you stitch the array yourself? Now that I’d like to see. Roy Mustang sitting in front of his fireplace one Friday night, neatly stitching arrays into his gloves with red thread.”
“Careful, or you might,” Roy warns, but here’s something playful in his voice. “You don’t have any right to comment on what I do in regard to my own garments. You’re the one making your own coat on a regular basis. I understand, however, the necessity, given your size.”
“Shut it, you bastard,” Ed grumbles, but there’s no malice in his words. “You’ve only got a few centimetres on me now. Don’t you go judging a man for something he can’t control.”
“Of course not, Edward,” Roy says. He sounds almost disappointed and Ed’s confused for a moment until he realises that they’re in front of the Central Command gate. He flashes his pocket watch to the guard on duty and they breeze through without a hitch.
“Thank you,” Ed says when they’re in the hallway where the office is located. “For talking to me. For not hating me or whatever. You, um — yeah. Thank you.”
“It was no trouble,” Roy says, looking straight at him, that smile present again. He’s resting one hand on the doorknob. While pushing the door open, the smile turns into a smirk and he turns. “Now, about that report you were supposed to hand in this morning…”
Ed groans, shakes his head and follows Roy in through the door.