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"It's cold."
It takes Roy a full second to understand he has said it out loud. The only other occupant of the inner office, Jean Havoc, pauses with his hand on the door handle and shifts his gaze to the same window Roy has been staring fixedly at for the past minutes.
"Yeah," says Havoc, in an oddly somber tone matching his oddly somber expression. "It's cold."
With that, he leaves; the door clicks shut behind him and Roy picks up the last document he is supposed to sign. The day is almost over, it's better to hurry and be done with it instead of lingering and risking the wrath of a storm to come.
He parks his car a block away from home and judging by the darkening sky, he will regret it tomorrow. However, in the past month, Roy has been making an effort to live in the moment, and his current priority is getting his hands on a bottle of wine from the store just around the corner. Leave the worries for the morning after.
His street is quiet even on the busiest days. Apart from the residential buildings, it only has a small restaurant-café-bar, a tobacco store selling newspapers and used books, and a grocery store about the size of Roy's office in the HQ. Today, probably because of the weather, the first two are closed, and Roy is overcome by a small amount of panic. It only eases once he sees the bright-yellow Open sign, once he is making his way through the aisles filled with all sorts of food and beverages. Roy knows the alcohol shelf like the back of his hand and he settles for a bottle of neither-fancy-nor-low-quality red wine from a western winery, one he had tried on his own in the past.
Hopefully, his company will enjoy it in the present.
He pays and leaves with a bounce in his step, only furthering his suspicion that there is something strange about himself, if he says things without meaning to and then feels such glee over coming home after what has been a pretty ordinary day. The most uncommon thing about it is this uncouth wind.
And, he reckons, the man he faces as soon as he steps foot in his apartment.
Lazy and unhurriedly, Edward raises his eyes from a book to look at him.
"Hey."
The fireplace crackles loudly, its light painting the scene in a gentle orange hue and causing the shadows to waver, to flicker, to dance across the barren walls in an off-beat pattern. Roy's living room has always been rather empty and Edward sits in the middle of the floor, all gold and silver like some kind of precious ornament — his smile is warm, his hair is braided, and the red blanket around his shoulders makes him look like a ghost from the past.
When the words make it past Roy's lips, they taste stale, as if he's taken too long to say them. "Hey." The corners of his lips twitch, flicker for a second before he catches up with his body's need to smile and fulfills it. "How was your day?"
"I thought of making quiche," Edward says, the deflection awkward enough to make Roy swallow dry. "It's cold though."
Before he can ask what one thing has to do with the other, Edward places a hand on his left thigh.
Roy hangs his coat on the rack and leaves his shoes by the door, then makes his way to the fireplace so he can warm-up before going to get a proper change of clothes. Edward's gaze follows him through each step, and Roy basks in every second of it, makes a show of rolling up his shirt's cuffs and outstretching his fingers towards the fire, of leaning against the wall as naturally as it comes to him and the tired slump of his shoulders.
What a shame that when he looks, Edward is staring at the paper bag. The bottle-shaped one Roy left on the shelf above the fireplace less than a minute ago.
"It's alright," Roy reassures him. "You don't have to cook. I'm not paying you to do house chores."
"You're not paying me at all," Edward says, eyes never leaving the bottle. "Neither letting me pay for—"
"I think there is canned soup in the pantry," Roy cuts him off. "Unless we ate all of it on that day you were feeling lazy."
Finally, Edward turns to him again. As his bones realign under the precious weight of a glare, Roy smirks.
"Well shit," Edward starts, "why don't you do it for a change, then."
After a few passive-aggressive instructions, Roy departs to the kitchen to make do with pasta and some leftover tomato sauce. Even he can't manage to fuck up boiling noodles.
He leaves the food cooking after he decides he is absolutely done with the wool of his uniform pants, and that Edward is in a safe distance to either turn the stove off or yell for Roy to do so if the situation calls for it. His limbs feel sluggish, and as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom his steps are uneven as if one leg is heavier than the other.
He changes clothes, puts on something softer, darker, more human — the old slacks and cotton shirts he never expected to wear around anybody else, but after weeks living with Edward, it was only natural to succumb to a sense of domesticity. To look in the mirror, comb fingers through his hair, and think that's it in a manner that lacks the finality of giving up on appearances because it's not really about that. Roy doesn't know what it is though; he is not scared of it, just genuinely disinterested in the rationale behind it. Some things can just be, devoid of names or explanations. Edward has taught him that.
(Well, maybe he is scared. A little bit.)
Nonetheless, he goes downstairs to face his mistake — taking too long upstairs — and his punishment — watching as Edward waltzes off-beat across the kitchen: draining the water of the pasta, then setting up their plates with a caution Roy once thought beyond him, and offering Roy two identical meals that look and smell homey. Everytime Edward takes a step, he trembles. Roy still has a heart and functional hands, so he carries everything by himself.
"It's alright," he tells Edward, who looks almost heartbroken by the idea of letting anyone cater to him.
But instead of going to the table, Edward leads him back to the living room.
All in all, the place is oddly inviting. Warm, pleasantly lit, and the wine bottle almost strategically placed on top of the shelf. The sound of thunder comes from the distance and suddenly Roy remembers—
"It's cold," he says. "Indeed, it's better if we eat here." He thinks for a moment and hands the plates and cutlery to Edward. "Hold these for a second."
Their night calls for an impromptu redecoration. Roy pushes the couch across the room — which is easy, he has no coffee table nor lamps nor a carpet — as it is only fair that they sit comfortably next to the heat of the fireplace. Edward has the gall to frown, and Roy is certain the only reason he doesn't protest is because he can see Roy doing it for purely selfish reasons.
Roy still has to go back to the kitchen once to get them glasses and the corkscrew, and then, once he gets rid of the cork and pours them both a generous amount of wine, he settles down next to Edward.
Truth is, food tastes better with company. Wine too, Roy reckons, watching from the corner of his eye as Edward takes a careful sip, then the stretch of his arm as he sets the glass on the floor, and the flowy movement of his hair when he moves back. Sitting cross-legged on the cushions and pushing a blond strand behind his ear, Edward becomes a disarrayed grace: unconditionally ethereal yet completely human. He is quiet, focused on his food, perhaps too focused and Roy can feel a knee against his thigh but he doesn't want to comment. Surprisingly, Edward is fond of silence.
When Roy offered his home to him — wrong phrasing: when Roy offered him a place to stay temporarily — he had been ready to relinquish the peace and quiet. Edward, abrasive and careless, seems like the type who is as loud as they come and Roy figured he could welcome the change of pace because he had no other choice. Edward is jobless, for some reason unwilling to leave Central, and the least Roy can do is put a roof above his head. But what had sounded like an impulsive decision turned out to be this. Homemade meals, a couch pushed to the middle of the living room, and silence — occasionally superseded by banter or stimulating conversations because not even when he is rambling Edward manages to be boring. Edward is the perfect roommate, the more so for his culinary abilities, and if Roy forgets to ask about job and house hunting it's simply for the sake of keeping harmony.
Though he can admit to himself what he can't say to anybody else: truth is, food tastes better with company.
Edward, with his brilliance and his beauty, is the best company he could ask for.
So they eat. So Roy is painfully aware of Edward's knee against his thigh. So their fingers brush when Roy collects his plate to put it away in the sink. So Edward tears his eyes away from the book as soon as Roy steps inside the room again.
And Roy is scared. He is terrified. He wants to stretch both of Edward's legs on top of his and place a soothing hand on the juncture of metal and flesh.
He grabs the bottle to refill his glass, then flops down on the opposite end of the couch.
A thought crosses his mind: he has no idea when getting what he wants suddenly became so difficult. But that is incorrect. It was never easy — he just didn't know what he wanted before.
Roy goes to bed after his third glass and Edward falls asleep on the couch — the latter he only finds out after waking up at two in the morning desperate for a glass of water. He crawls out of the bedroom and stumbles down the stairs only to pause at the bottomest step.
His course changes. He is no longer thirsty, just worried; and so he tiptoes his way to the couch to crouch next to the sleeping figure. A man looking about the size of a boy, huddled under a red quilt hugging his knees to his chest, and blond hair slipping from the braid. The scene brings him a sense of déjà-vu: Roy is in his office, the sunlight dripping through the windows to spill over Edward Elric and make him shine like gold.
Back to the present, the only source of light is the fireplace. Even then, Edward burns — even as small he seems, as still as he is, Edward is a vision that scourches his skin, cuts his flesh open, and carves itself deep into his bones.
Back to reality, Roy witnesses him falter. A twitch to the eyebrows, a purse to the lips. His fingers grip the quilt tight for purchase, a succession of sharp breaths as if the oxygen had been transmuted out of the air.
Step back, his conscience tells him. At the end of the day, Roy is unwelcome, unwanted, and unnecessary — the Elrics do very well on their own.
Except this time it's not the Elrics, but just—
"Edward."
The whisper is as instinctive as Roy's hand on his shoulder. A soft, comforting pressure, yet still much more than Roy intended and now there is no turning back. He shoves lightly, feels muscles tense up under his palm and once again, "Edward."
Less quiet and more than enough to startle him awake.
Edward jumps up, eyes wide open and lips parted around a gasp. Scrambling to give him space, Roy loses his footing and ends up with a knee hitting the ground way too hard — he swallows down a yelp of pain, throwing his hands above his head in an offer of peace. The fire crackles loudly behind him, a wave of heat hits him on the nape but Roy stays very still, waiting for Edward's pupils to shrink back to normal size and for his breathing to sound less like desperation.
Focus comes to him slowly; but it does come, and he turns to Roy with a frown.
"I'm s—"
"Sorry to wake you up," Roy interrupts, "but it seemed to me that your dream wasn't of the most pleasant kind."
Edward stares at him as if Roy had just slapped him, his brain working through the words as if they have any other meaning besides preventing him from apologizing for what he doesn't have to. Whatever conclusion he comes, it can't be a bad one since he sighs and rubs the sleep off his eyes.
"Yeah," he whispers. "Thanks."
Not asking is painful. Sometimes, when Roy sees certain sides of Edward — the most vulnerable, frail, insecure ones — his throat itches with the questions. But as much as he is interested, he knows for a fact Edward would share if that's what he truly wanted. And Roy is a master of dancing around a serious conversation — might as well put his skill to good use. "Would you like a glass of water? I'll bring it to you."
The weak please he gets as an answer verges on terrifying, but Roy nods and goes get them their drinks without another word. He makes sure to take a bit too long in the kitchen, opening the wrong cabinets and checking the glasses for any stains or dirt before pouring the water, and even then he still hesitates on the doorway. Like every second counts.
When he walks back to the living room, Edward is significantly more composed. Hair out of his face, shoulders tense against the backrest cushion, feet firm on the ground instead of bouncing around with anxiety. He shoots Roy another one of those intense, over-analytical looks and frankly, who can blame him.
But Roy has no idea what he is doing wrong. He keeps himself in check, hanging around the periphery of Edward's orbit instead of surrendering to the pull of gravity. He gives Edward space, both physically and emotionally, and he is trying his best, his best, and maybe it has nothing to do with him and he is just being self-centered once again. But still.
Roy hands him the glass like it's a peace offering.
There is not a single cell in him that wants to sit on the couch, but then Edward slides a tiny bit to the side in a silent invitation and Roy is prone to overindulging when the opportunity presents itself.
He takes a sip from his glass and Edward mirrors the act, eyes drifting to the fireplace and staying there.
"Al sent me a letter," he says. "He's coming back next week."
"Ah." He swallows. By Roy's count, next week is in two days. "That's good news."
Edward turns to him, twirling the end of the braid around his finger and frowning as if to ask is it?
"Yeah, I miss him. And he is bringing a lot of interesting notes and books too, we'll have a lot of work to do, you know. Comparing stuff and shit. But it's great, really great."
Roy smiles. "Of course it is."
It's tempting, he won't lie. To come up with some bullshit reason to drag the Elrics back to the military, back to the sphere of Roy's quiet control and vigilance. But Roy knows that his interest in this matter is rather biased, that research facilities are the last thing in his mind, and the country's progress has nothing to do with it. He crosses his legs and rests his elbow on the backrest, watching as Edward's eyes skim over him like he is a book to be read.
Maybe the wine is still affecting him, because suddenly Roy feels inebriated.
"I suppose Amestris can't remain peaceful forever," he quips, "since the Elric brothers are bound to stick together."
"Hey, don't bring Al into this!" Edward laughs. "All the dumb extra paperwork you had to deal with was my fault, not his."
It's such an odd tone, coming from him. A mix of playfulness, gratitude, and nostalgia, and Roy is clinging to it as if it's air for him to breath. He laughs too, an undignified noise, snorted and choked back at the same time.
Afterwards, they go silent. Edward absorbed in his memories and plans for the future, Roy absorbed in the company he can feel slip from his grasp. They stay like this until Edward drags himself upstairs to sleep on a proper bed this time.
When Roy wakes up the next morning, the rain is rattling his bedroom window. Which looks like a frail little thing, all glass and old wood, ready to break at a thunder that happens to be loud enough. It's cold now, truly cold, and Roy huddles up under the covers like a child afraid of storms.
In the bedroom across his is Edward Elric, with his automail leg and bad dreams. Roy's heart finds it appropriate to skip a beat and, as if the temperature is not discomfort enough already, ache sympathetically. Edward has a heater in his bedroom, and if he isn't as forgetful as Roy he remembered to turn it on.
Oh, but what if he is.
Roy jumps out of bed without thinking. His body moves of its own accord, he pads across the room and the hall, and doesn't even have the decency to hesitate before opening Edward's door.
The first thing he notices is that the bedside lamp is on. The second is that despite that, Edward is sound asleep.
He hasn't entered this room in… a while, really. The last time was to show Edward the way and he didn't pay much attention to it, so seeing it now has this odd effect on him. As if it is not part of his house. But he remembers those beige walls, painted in the same shade as his bedroom and the living room, and the wooden floor and the cream-coloured curtains over the windows. It is smaller than his, but the wardrobe is just as big, the same brand of dresser, and the bed—
Yes, Roy shouldn't be looking at the bed at all.
He turns, at last, to the heater. It is not entirely surprising that it is turned off, given Edward's state after their conversation. But it still twists his heart in a too-tight knot and his brows furrow.
As quietly as possible, he turns it on. The noise isn't loud enough to startle Edward awake. Or maybe it does and Edward is just pretending, and although Roy would like to say that he knows him enough to prove that possibility wrong, for the past days he hasn't been very confident in his ability to read him. Roy keeps getting more and more surprises the more they interact — he can't and won't call them unpleasant, but they disarm him a bit regardless.
For no particular reason, he tests the heat against his palm just for an instant, that buzz on the skin as it gets a few degrees warmer. Edward remains sound asleep. His hand aches a little, an almost-burn, then he pulls it away and walks out of the bedroom as quietly as possible.
The clock on the hallway wall says it is not even five in the morning yet. He sighs, resigns himself to wait a few hours until it is a reasonable hour to get coffee, and goes back to bed.
The next time, Roy actually wakes up. He tells himself this is it, and even if somehow it ends up being one a.m. he is going to rise and shine with the brand new day. Thankfully — and he searches his uniform for his pocket watch just to be sure — it is closer to lunchtime than to breakfast.
Roy's bedroom is a suite, the only one in the apartment. It is by no means luxurious, his taste leans more to practicality than to sophistication or glamour; and what is more practical than a bathroom a few steps away from the bed? Every day, he uses this advantage to its fullest. He makes himself presentable, refreshed and dressed, and makes his way downstairs to finish his Saturday morning routine.
Edward is in the kitchen already, surrounded by the smell of the coffee he brews. His hair is down. His sweater looks soft to the touch. He looks at Roy and gives him a millisecond of a smile and Roy resists the urge to stand too close and pull the blond strands aside to reveal his nape.
"Good morning," Roy says.
"Good morning," Edward replies between a yawn.
Roy yawns back and Edward seems to find that funny.
They get their mugs. The way silence seems to accompany them is rather comforting, in Roy's opinion. Sometimes they won't stop talking, bickering, discussing, and Roy thinks he could tell Edward a grotesque amount of things — but what truly feels like company is silence. Roy had never thought he could find someone with whom he could be quiet.
Edward doesn't spare him a glance as he leaves and that too seems like deep understanding.
For lack of what to do, Roy stands in the kitchen. There is restlessness crawling under his skin and nothing he can do to get rid of it; the rain is strong, the cold is piercing, the comfort of the warm mug in his hands renders him static. Roy suffers, suffers before the actual pain arrives.
Edward will leave. Roy shivers. He hasn't even figured out if they are friends yet and Edward will leave.
He finishes his coffee and refills his mug. Finally takes a seat on the table. It takes him two sips before he is resting his head on his forearms, closing his eyes, and steadying his breaths to a relaxed rhythm. His limbs are heavy, so are his eyelids, but despite that, he doesn't fall asleep.
Instead, he listens: the fireplace is on in the next room, Edward's steps are mismatched and he is still limping. Roy's heart is beating inside his chest; sometimes slow, sometimes faster. The wind howls. He pays close attention to the rain until it stops sounding like a single melody and he starts to hear each note of a drop individually. A deafening chorus.
When Edward comes back, Roy is sitting in that same position. He doesn't move, just waits. Then, as if on cue, a hand touches his shoulder and shakes him slightly.
"Man, go back to bed," Edward whispers. "That's a shitty place to sleep."
"'M not sleeping," Roy explains, pulling himself out of it with a languid stretch. "And I'm not going to, I slept well enough."
Edward gives him a flat look that tells him he doesn't believe a single word.
"Are you hungry?" Roy asks.
"It's too late for breakfast."
"Since when are you a strict rule follower?" Roy laughs. "I thought your philosophy was eat when you're hungry. And eat all you can."
Edward shrugs. "Yeah, let's call it brunch and roll with it," he says and goes to inspect the cabinets. "We don't have much here though… Can brunch be soup and eggs? Damn, even the butter is gone." He laughs. "Sorry, you're right. I inhale everything in my sight."
"I can go to the store."
"Under this downpour? Are you senile? I suppose you are, but even that is going too far."
Roy feigns a groan. "God, thanks for reminding me. I am old, so old— can't even walk anymore, or cook. Thankfully, I have a roommate who is young and agile and he can make me an omelette…"
"If there is nothing to put in the omelette, it defeats the purpose of the omelette," Edward states factually. "That's just scrambled eggs."
"I disagree," Roy says. "The difference lies in the process, not in the materials."
"Excuse me?"
"You are excused," Roy snorts. "For scrambled eggs, you beat the eggs when they are already in the heated frying pan; for an omelette, the requirement is to beat them as they are raw and put them into the heated frying pan after the yolks and whites are properly mixed and even."
"So you're a form purist?" Edward scoffs. "What if I keep beating the eggs after I put them in the pan, huh? What would that be?"
Roy rubs his chin dramatically. "Good question," he says. "Want to find out?"
A few minutes later, they end up with the ugliest pair of omelettes Roy has ever seen, and Roy insists on calling them omelettes despite the fact that it's just eggs, salt, and pepper — until Edward starts calling them "scrambled omelettes" and Roy, passionate for anything innovative, decides the name is appropriate enough.
A few hours and book chapters later, they come back to the tiny kitchen table. Lunch is canned soup and Roy opens another bottle of wine because he can, and drinks alone because Edward thinks wine makes him sleepy. Roy considers pointing out that being sleepy on a weekend when you are rained in is not nearly as bad as he makes it sound, but what comes out of his mouth is entirely different.
"That's adorable," he says. Then, he notices the slip up. "I suppose someone your size couldn't have much of a tolerance."
It's a shame the tease doesn't get as much of an explosion as it used to, but it's still a card up his sleeve.
Edward flares up nonetheless.
"I am not short, my height is literally average!" he protests. "Also, it's not about tolerance, asshole, I just get sleepy. I slept on the couch last night because going upstairs was a real fucking chore."
Roy lets out a laugh — he hopes it's not too obviously nervous, or strained, or that Edward will notice he is just trying to get them away from the current topic of the conversation. But then Edward's brows shoot up and he turns to Roy with an honest expression of a sentiment Roy feels way too awkward to witness.
"Oh, that reminds me!" Edward exclaims. "Thank you, for last night."
Glancing away at his empty soup bowl, Roy shakes his head. "Don't thank me," he says. "That kind of thing happens…"
Edward's eyes widen. "No, that's not it! I mean, yeah, thanks for that too but I was actually talking about the heater…" He scratches his nape and Roy's heart speeds up. "I woke up once because of the cold but I was hiding under the blankets I guess, so I couldn't get up. And then this morning when I woke up, it was all warm and nice." He smiles. "Thank you."
Then he goes back to his food and Roy is left to sit there, praying to all gods that he is not blushing over a crush at the age of thirty, and that if said crush notices the red on his cheeks, he blames it on the wine.
When the rain eases enough, Roy manages to convince himself that he actually wants to get groceries because they can only ingest so much canned soup.
"Are you an idiot," Edward chides. "Yesterday you went to the store and all you bought was wine. What the fuck is going on with your priorities?"
"I had no idea we were out of stock," Roy says defensively. "You were supposed to let me know at some point, I think."
"It's your kitchen!
"In theory," he contests. "In practice, you are the only one who actually uses it."
Edward squints at him. "Did you just call me a housewife?!"
Roy smirks. "If the shoe fits."
After that, Roy is kicked out of his own apartment under a string of curses and threats and he swears he is only going to come back when he has bought enough food to last them the week.
He can't say he doesn't like rain. The cold is a bother, he decides, when the needles of the wind pierce the skin of his nape and his nose starts to feel a bit runny, but the rain — his hair is half wet, and then a drop hits his cheek and slowly drips down his chin. At this point, it's gentle and silent. It hits the puddles on the sidewalk and barely agitates the water.
Roy didn't bring an umbrella. First, because he is stubborn, and he predicted back then what he is living right now: his hands are full with bags and he has no extra arm to protect himself. Second, because he doesn't mind. Let it rain, he is not made of sugar. If he catches a cold, it's just an honest reason to take a day off.
A car passes by then it's his turn to cross the street. Joy blooms in his chest, he can feel it tingling his fingertips — it's the undeniable emotion of going home. Or better yet, of seeing Edward.
And he does see him, regardless of the pang of a future loss that is coming faster than he hoped, and Edward comes to meet him by door, to scold him for getting himself drenched in rainwater, to offer to take some of the bags from his arms.
The scene is blissful. Roy sometimes has these moments when he thinks his brain is tricking him — it happens so often, he wakes up from a dream reaching out towards something that isn't there — but he blinks, opens his eyes, and neither Edward nor the hallway disappear. Roy is quite sure his imagination isn't that good to keep the sound of rain in the background even under the thundering of his heart.
He is so out of it he forgets. He gives Edward half of the bags, a quippy commentary out of his lips before he can even process it fully, before he can come back to the not so rosy-tinted version of reality and he watches Edward's first limpy step away from him.
"Hey, Ed—"
And then he drops his own bags on the floor, jumps fast enough to catch Edward's arm but not fast enough to compete with gravity and Edward falls, then he falls, hits his forehead on the wall and groans in pain.
"Fuck," Edward curses.
Roy detangles himself from their heap of human bodies and grocery bags, hand rubbing his forehead. Oh, the jars of pickled vegetables, he wonders about their survival. But then his focus shifts to the fact that he was still half on top of Edward and they were close and Edward's features were twisted in a pained grimace.
"Oh, hell," Roy breathes out. "I'm sorry—"
"It's alright," Edward reassures with a strained tone. His flesh hand clutches Roy's upper arm and Roy freezes, seated on his knees. "Just— it's alright."
Then, he throws his head back and laughs. Laughs like he can't stop himself — a first bark as his body sags onto the floor and soon enough his chest is shaking with each burst of sound. And Roy follows him, embarrassed at both of them and their futile attempts at help, but the bubbles are there, fleeing out of his lips, and the awkwardness is just an afterthought in the face of Edward's smile.
"I've always known you are a fucking idiot," Edward gasps.
Roy tries to glare at him but for that he has to stop laughing, and Edward is still laughing so how could he? It probably looks like a half-hearted scowl. "Me?" he says indignantly. "You were the one who went and grabbed— oh, god, you grabbed most of the bags when you can barely stand without falling! How come I am the idiot here?!"
"I wasn't going to fall. But of course, Colonel Shit just had to go and play hero—"
"Play hero?! When I caught you, you were already half-way to the ground, you ungrateful brat!"
"So you decided to join me?! Idiot."
Roy smirks. "Pardon me, I thought you would like some pleasant company."
"Oh, fuck that," Edward laughs. "There are better places where you can keep me company."
A beat of silence. A thunder roars in the distance and Roy is lucky he didn't take too long because more rain is about to come. His hair is wet, so are his clothes, but he is shivering for a whole different reason. He is trying very hard to think of a response that isn't then by all means, take me there.
It must have shown on his face, his hesitation must have been too revealing, because suddenly, something shifts in Edward's expression. His eyes are searching, his breath hitches, his lips part, and Roy is so aware of the hand on his shoulder holding him very, very still.
And then it's gone. Edward lets go and takes away the remaining warmth with him.
Another thunder, a bit closer, and then Edward is whispering, "Sorry, sorry, sorry— I didn't mean to. To make you uncomfortable. Sorry."
The rain sounds stronger — a sudden burst hitting the roof and the windows and it just keeps going. Frozen in place, Roy stares wide-eyed at Edward.
"No," he says. "I'm just—"
Scared. Afraid. Terrified.
Puzzled, Edward looks at him. It's that combination of focus, confusion, and curiosity that steals the words from Roy and he is left there. Without his script, Roy has to improvise.
"I'm just happy that I get to keep you company," he confesses. "Wherever that is. And I didn't want to assume anything in case that could pose a threat to—"
"Oh," Edward says. "So you are an idiot."
"...I beg your pardon?"
"I'm just wondering, really, how did you ever get laid? If I've been throwing myself all over you and you just— oh, for fuck's sake, Mustang, you are the idiot here."
Edward sits up fast, his hand back to Roy's shoulder then sliding up to his nape. Struggling to decide whether to back away or lean in, Roy stays still. Edward's eyes are gold and embers, and he licks his lips, and Roy is so, so, so afraid he could swear he is shaking — yes, this is what he wants, and Edward is willing to give it to him, and his stomach drops with a terrible feeling, but Roy's panic must have been interpreted as surprise because suddenly Edward invades his personal space to kiss him.
It's a short thing, a press of lips with the intonation of a question and Roy answers by not moving away. Then, by chasing after Edward when he tries to pull away. Roy is scared, he really is, because Edward kisses softer and slower and more hesitantly than he expected, and it doesn't feel like any of the kisses he has ever shared in an entry hallway.
Familiar. Calm. Sweet. Roy wonders if it's the kind of kiss for teens going for a stroll in the park. Roy also wonders if Edward hasn't kissed that much in his life or if it's just their weird half-kneel-half-sit position on the floor that makes this awkward, and it's as nice as it is terrifying to consider that he might be Edward Elric's first.
When they separate, Roy almost kisses him again just for stalling — because he really has no idea what to say, or what to do, and Edward's fingers are warm against his nape, and he is looking at Roy with a mix of question and dare gleaming in his eyes. And Roy doesn't want to let him go.
"I'd love to make some grand confession out of this," Roy whispers against his lips. "But first, I'm worried about your leg."
Edward blinks as if he'd been startled awake. "Oh," he says, "It's hurting a bit, but it's no big deal. It hurts most of the time, when it's like this."
"Back to the fireplace, then."
"Damn, I'm fine, don't fret," he huffs. "You owe me that grand confession, though."
"Sure. But first your leg. And then I have to check the state of pickle jars."
Roy helps him up and walks him to the couch to fuss over the fireplace and cushions and pillows and blanket until he gets accused of acting like a goddamn annoying prick. But he can't help it. He can't evade the fact that his main cause for concern has always been Edward Elric.
The groceries give him some time to panic by himself. He hides away in the kitchen, taking his time to stack the things he bought in the pantry and icebox — the jars are, thankfully, safe and in their proper place now. He picks each item and stores it with unnecessary deliberation.
As absurd as the process looks from an outside perspective, it gives him time to think. About Edward, and Alphonse coming back, and why Edward won't go to Risembool, and why he picked Roy out of all people. The thoughts roll around in his mind. They take him nowhere. Roy talks himself in circles, in spirals, into maze after maze, and there is no way out because there is no way in to begin with.
There is a nineteen-year-old lounging in his living room. A stunning nineteen-year-old whom Roy had been attracted to for longer than he wished. He gets himself a glass of water and swallows down the liquid and the disturbing emotion making it so hard to think.
Lightning strikes somewhere out there, the light invading the room for a second, and then thunder follows. Roy can't run away, he can't go anywhere, and when he thinks of Edward curled up on the couch, he realizes he doesn't want to.
That inspiration brings him back to Edward's company. Edward who looks at him with that newfound expression that is difficult to read but makes him seem observant, analytical. Before, Roy didn't know him for that. But Edward has changed more than enough and when he watches Roy like a hawk, he reminds him a bit of Maes — a pair of shining eyes that seem capable of taking anything apart to get a satisfying answer.
Roy does feel taken apart, at the moment.
Edward puts his legs down to free space for him to sit and Roy catches them to pull them over his lap. The automail is cold against his thighs even through their clothes; Roy adjusts the blanket and Edward leans closer. Hesitant, but familiar enough.
"Is this comfortable?" Roy asks.
"Yeah. I just wasn't expecting it." Edward looks at Roy's hand on his left thigh, expression curious and a bit relieved. Then, he raises his eyes. "Kiss me?"
"Edward, we need to talk."
"I know," he says. "Does it have to be now, though?"
"See, I'm not trying to make this difficult," he explains, "but it has to be at least realistic. Do you even know what you want?"
"Now? I want you to kiss me."
Roy sighs. "And later?"
Edward's hand finds his shoulder, his fingers clutch the fabric there, and he says without an ounce of doubt, "I want you to keep me company."