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“I don’t know what to write!” Ed hollers.
The vast expanse of the blank page stretches before him into infinity like the unending arc of time, the expansion of the universe, the bleakness of the snow fields outside Briggs Fortress, the incomprehensible length between the stars, the unfathomable whiteness of the Gate, the—
Or maybe he’s just being a melodramatic bastard. Fitting, given who he’s supposed to be writing to.
Alphonse’s voice calls back to him through their apartment. He’s probably doing something ridiculous, like teaching the cats to perform tricks on command, or to read, or how to plot the overthrow of the Amestrian military, or… Or he might be doing the dishes.
“Just tell him how you feel! It’s not that hard!”
Not that hard. Not that hard? If it wasn’t hard, then he wouldn’t be here trying to hide his dumb ass behind a piece of paper.
If it were easy, he would have taken matters into his own hands. Literally—he would have marched into the bastard’s office, slammed the door behind him, stalked across the room and around the desk, fisted both hands in the bastard’s uniform, and smashed their faces together. Lovingly, if he could manage it through all the pent-up frustration and desire.
But he’s afraid, and so instead he’s sitting at his desk in their tiny Central City apartment, letting ink bleed all over his fingertips.
He curses and snatches up the ink-stained tissue sitting morosely and judgmentally on the desk beside him. It’s seen a lot of starts and stops already. He dabs at his fingers and the grip of the pen, then crumples up the tissue a little more just to feel in control of something.
Paper makes for a flimsy shield. Words are not his weapon.
The sound of Al’s measured footsteps means his precious little brother is coming to his rescue, at least. Al peers over his shoulder and sighs.
“You haven’t even started it.”
Ed caps the pen and sets it down with more force than strictly fucking necessary. “I know. I don’t know what to write.”
“I maintain that you could just go see him.” When Ed gives a little shudder of horror, Al sighs again. “How are you ever going to be able to make overtures if you can’t even—” The expression on Ed’s face must look especially tragic because Al just throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “Brother, if he returns your feelings—and I’m fairly certain he does, which is why you should just go talk to him in person like I said you should—you’ll probably have to, oh, I don’t know, see him, spend time with him, take him out on a date, kiss him—”
Ed tries to brain himself on his desk. Maybe if he can just knock himself out with the letter, he won’t have to write it. It’s going to be mortifying explaining that at the emergency room—he was such a pussy he thought death by papercut would be easier, Al will have to say, not that Al would say ‘pussy.’ He’ll probably be nicer about it. It’ll be so embarrassing. Good thing Ed will be dead, and he won’t have to witness it. Will Al bring up how it happened in his eulogy? Hopefully not. If he gets too specific, Mustang will feel responsible, and then Ed will feel the guilt all the way on the other side of the Gate, and he’ll have to bring himself back just so he can die of shame all over again. He’ll have to—
“So, what,” Al continues, “you’re just going to tell him you love him and then never see him again?”
“Maybe,” Ed says, voice going incredibly weak at Al’s use of the word ‘love.’ “Actually, I’ve been meaning to go on vacation.”
“That’s so counterproductive,” Al mutters. “Alright, butt over. I’ll help.”
Ed wordlessly hands Al the pen and vacates the chair. Al uncaps the pen with a mocking flourish, then poises the nib over the paper to begin writing. He glances at Ed expectantly.
“Tell me what you want to say and I’ll translate it from Ed-speak to General-speak,” he says.
Ed will just have to pretend that wasn’t insulting, mostly because he needs Al’s help. Anyway, he deserves it. He sits down on the edge of his bed and tries like hell to articulate everything he feels. It’s a lot like yanking teeth.
“Dear…uh…well, Bastard, I guess. Or, Mustang?”
“Roy would probably work,” Al says. He hasn’t written anything down yet.
“I don’t call him that,” Ed says, bewildered.
“...Right,” Al says. He turns back to the letter. “My mistake.”
“Just put ‘Mustang.’ No ‘Dear.’ That’s—better. Uh.” He clears his throat. “Mustang…”
Al makes the bastard’s name look really…pretty…in cursive.
“Mustang,” Ed starts again. Now that he thinks about it, Mustang is an odd choice for a surname. What’s the etymology of that? Is it an artifact from when folks were named after their professions? Like—professional mustang wrangler, like from when the military still had a cavalry. Or maybe Mustang’s ancestors were frontier settlers, or cowboys, before Amestris really became Amestris. That’s a funny mental image—the bastard riding a— He’s getting distracted. Shit. “Mustang, I—”
“I’m a fucking coward who couldn’t come tell you I love you in person,” Al says in an imitation of Ed’s voice.
Ed gasps. “Alphonse!”
Al has the grace to blush. “Sorry! I’m not sure what came over me. Carry on!” he squeaks.
“I’m not sure I can after that.”
“I’m sorry.”
Once Al looks appropriately penitent, Ed continues. Again. “Mustang, I hope this letter finds you…well. People say that, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s not really something I would say, but he’d probably say it. So. I hope this letter finds you well. Um. I’m writing to tell you that I…think…you’re not…terrible, actually. And, before you get all worked up about that, I’m trying to compliment you! Being not terrible is high fuckin’ praise coming from me, and we both know it. So just…take it for what it is. Okay? Even though you annoy the ever-living fuck outta me, I’ve liked spending time with you since Al ‘n’ I moved back to Central. Having lunch is fun, especially because you usually pay, and I can talk about alchemy with you and you actually keep up. That’s even higher praise, I hope you know. How am I doing so far, Al?”
“Great,” Al says, scribbling away. The letter looks suspiciously shorter than what Ed’s said so far, but he’ll trust the process. “Keep going.”
“You might be wondering why I’m writing you a stupid letter. Well, so am I. But it was either this or go batshit insane on account of the fact that I…have become aware that I…have…positive feelings. About you. Apparently that’s the kind of thing that makes you go crazy if you don’t say it out loud eventually. I was really hoping I’d get over it—that it was a fluke, a phase, a momentary lapse in judgement. That doesn’t seem to be the case. Just my shitty, goddamn luck. To be fair, that pretty much fits in the overall grand scheme of my life. I shouldn’t be surprised. And I shouldn’t be surprised it’s you. It’s always…been you. If I think about it. You probably don’t want to think about it. I don’t blame you. I was fourteen and fucking confused and scared as shit and you were there. That’s not all you were, of course. It isn’t all you are now. But you are… Here. Still. Um. So, I want you to know that I think you’re…great…and…reallypretty. Can I say that?”
“You can say anything you want, Brother,” Al says very gently. He glances up for a moment and smiles.
“I think you’re probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And your mind—holy shit, you have brains. Aside from Al, you’re definitely the smartest person I know. I like that part the best. But I wouldn’t mind the rest of it, you know, if you wanted. If you wanted to…do the rest of it…with me, I mean. Like, the kissing and stuff. Like, romance. Shit, that’s so stupid, Al. He’s going to think this is pathetic.”
“No, he won’t. He’ll like it. He’ll appreciate that you’re being honest with him.”
“He’s going to give me so much shit for this.” An even more horrifying thought occurs to him. “Al, what if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore after this? What if he hates me so much that he… What if he’s disgusted? This is a terrible idea. I’ve changed my mind.” He goes to yank the unfinished letter out from under Al’s hand. He’s going to crumple it up and throw it away. No—better, he’s going to fucking burn it.
Al slides it out of reach just in time and elbows Ed away. “No! Bad Brother! Bad!”
Ed tries to go around him, but Al starts brandishing the pen at him—the really pointy end. “Give me the letter, Al!”
“Sit down, you little—”
They grapple like that for a minute until Al manages to leverage Ed back onto the bed through a combination of force and slander.
“Brother, it’s going to be fine,” Al says. “You are going to be fine. I promise.”
Ed gives up the fight. He puts his head in his hands and just breathes for a moment. “How do you know?” he mumbles.
“I know because General Mustang is a good person who has always watched out for the people he cares about—you’re one of them, by the way. He may tease, and I know he loves his flirty banter, but he never intentionally hurts people. Have you ever seen him be cruel like that?”
“No.”
“If he doesn’t return your feelings, it won’t be the end of the world, or even your friendship. He’ll be honored that you feel that way about him, and I’m sure he will be gentle about turning you down. Either way, won’t it feel good to finally be done with it?”
“Guess so.”
“Come here,” Al says. He pulls Ed into a hug, letter forgotten, pen left uncapped on the desk, and they just hold each other while Ed tries to let the reassurance sink in. It will be okay.
It will be okay.
The doorbell rings.
“Can you get that while I finish this up?” Al asks, pulling away.
“Yeah, sure.”
Ed hops up and shuffle-jogs out of his room and down the hall in his sock feet. He slides to a stop at their front door and swings it open.
“Oh, crap.”
“Hello to you, too,” Mustang laughs. “Edward. Weren’t you expecting me?”
“I… Was I?” Ed scowls and turns to threaten his brother with bodily harm. “Alphonse!”
“Sorry, Brother! I can’t hear you! I’m taking a shower!” Al is not taking a shower. He is, in fact, standing at the end of the hallway wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Is this a bad time?” Mustang asks. He actually sounds concerned about it. Ed whips back around. Why did he have to choose today of all days to be Mr. Polite-fucking-Gentleman? Ed really wants to give him the finger—and maybe slam the door—but his heart is too busy going ‘oh no, he’s sexy!’ to cooperate.
He is sexy. Goddamn, he’s sexy. It’s so…annoying. Infuriating, even. Frustrating. Crazy-making. Ed just wants to grab two fistfuls of his hair and hold him down while he licks his face. And then he wants to listen to the bastard talk about politics in that inciteful, intelligent way he has which gets Ed so hot under the collar. He’s so fucked.
“N-no,” Ed wheezes.
At the same time, he would really like to run away and hide right now.
Mustang straightens up from where he’d been leaning over slightly to peer at Al over Ed’s shoulder. And there’s something about having his full focus that always makes Ed feel like he can’t move. It makes him feel like he’s burning up, like his whole body is tingling, like—
“Are you alright, Edward?” Mustang asks. “You look a bit flushed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, won’t you invite me in?” Mustang smiles, but thankfully it’s with an edge of the usual charming smarminess. That’s…better, in that him looking concerned was wigging Ed the hell out.
“If I have to.”
“Lovely.” Mustang puts one hand on Ed’s shoulder and gently nudges him out of the way so he can cross the threshold to their tiny apartment. Mustang shuts the door and locks it himself, too, all while Ed stands there feeling stunned and betrayed by his beloved little brother.
“I’ll put the tea on!” Al says. He looks very pleased with himself. “Make yourself at home, General.”
“Thank you, Alphonse.”
Mustang wanders into their living room and sits gracefully onto their worn couch. He is immediately covered in cats.
Ed scurries into the kitchen to corner Al. “What have you done?” he whisper-cries.
Al starts filling their tea kettle from the tap. “I invited a dear friend over for tea.”
Ed fists both hands in his hair and squeezes until it hurts a little. “You’re trying to murder me. Dead, Al. Murder me dead.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine.” Al turns off the tap. He sets the kettle down on the stove and lights it. He begins fishing in the cupboard for mugs while Ed has an existential crisis. “Why don’t you go keep him company? I promise to get out of your way as soon as I’ve served the tea.”
Oh, no fucking way. Ed latches onto one of Al’s arms. “You are not leaving me alone with him!” he hisses.
Al puts down the tea-makings and finally gives Ed his full attention.
“Brother, you need to do this. I need you to do it, he needs you to do it. We all need and want this for you. So, just…breathe. I promised you it would be okay. I still promise.” Al gently pulls Ed’s hands from his hair and then runs his fingers through Ed’s bangs in an attempt to get them to lie flat again. “You’re so brave, Brother. I know this is scary for you. Heck, it’s probably the only thing you’ve ever really been scared of. I know you can do it, though. At least go spend some time with him. If you really can’t say anything, he’ll never know that’s why I invited him. He’ll just think we wanted to see him, as friends do. Try for me, though?”
Ed’s breath shudders out of him as he tries to calm down his racing heart. He leans his forehead against Al’s shoulder and just nods.
“I thought you would feel more up to telling him how you feel once you got it all out on paper. I’m sorry for pushing you.”
“It’s okay, Al.”
“You’ll try?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Let me finish the tea. Go sit with him. I’ll bring cookies.”
“The chocolate ones?”
“The chocolate ones.”
Ed straightens up. He rolls his shoulders up and back. He huffs out one more solidifying breath just to feign determination. Fake it till you make it, and all that other bullshit.
Al gives him a sarcastic little salute and returns to the tea.
Buck up, Elric. It’s go time.
Back in the living room, Mustang looks even more gorgeous than when Ed left him there, with his long legs crossed at the knee and their fluffiest white cat draped across his lap. The cat blinks her wide blue eyes up at him slowly in a sign of utter devotion. He’s not wearing any gloves. His bare fucking fingers are combing slowly through the fuzzbucket’s fur while he smiles softly down at her.
Ed really wishes he’d smile at him like that.
As if on cue, Mustang looks up, and if anything the smile turns even softer. Oh no.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
“Yeah. Yes. Everything’s fine. Stop asking that, will ya?”
Mustang smirks. “Yes, sir,” he teases.
Ed edges across the living room until he’s close enough that he can sit next to the General on the couch. It’s a cozy little thing. Even pressed to the arm of it like he is, Ed could brush their shoulders together just by breathing a little too hard.
“So…” Ed manages.
Mustang has turned his attention back to the cat.
“What’s this one called again? I’m afraid I only remember your colorful nicknames for them, and as a guest in their home I feel it would be more respectful to address them by their proper titles,” Mustang says.
“Oh. Uh. Technically?” A smirk begins to spread across Mustang’s face and Ed hasn’t even answered the question yet. He’s doomed. He clears his throat. “That one’s Meow-jor General Olivier Pawstrong.”
Mustang busts up laughing—so hard that the Meow-jor General springs from his lap looking mighty offended. It always makes Ed feel fucking amazing when he can get Mustang to laugh like that. Today it helps him feel a little stronger. He needed that.
“I can see—” Mustang fights to say through his laughter. He wipes at the corner of his eye—for dramatic effect or because he’s actually tearing up, Ed can’t tell. Either way, it’s cute. “I can see why you refer to her the way you do.”
“Yeah.”
And Ed can’t help smiling back. He really can’t. When Mustang finally looks over at him—his eyes still crinkled up, teeth showing, cheeks a little pink—and catches Ed looking, he stills and holds Ed’s gaze. His smile doesn’t dim, exactly, but his lips close and it quirks up more on the left side than the right. It’s an expression that’s almost always reserved for Ed and Ed alone.
This is the moment, isn’t it? While Mustang is looking at him like that? He looks relaxed, happy, open. Maybe he won’t react too badly.
Nothing in Ed’s life has ever just landed in his lap. He fought tooth and fucking nail for every inch of ground, for every accomplishment, for the never-taken-for-granted fact that he’s sitting here—right here—in his and Al’s living room. For the ability to see Mustang with both eyes and feel him with both hands…
If he’s brave enough to reach out and touch.
“I’m in love with you.”
He says it fast—so fast that maybe Mustang won’t even understand what he’s just admitted and Ed can get away with having said it without any consequences.
Ed has never been that lucky.
Mustang’s smile dies completely. “Edward…”
“Oh fuck.” Ed buries his face in his hands. He’s just…mortified. He hears Al squeak out a little “oh” behind him and disappear back into the kitchen.
A warm hand brushes tentatively over his right shoulder, then settles, fingers curling around it and gripping tightly.
“Edward. Look at me. Please?”
Ed shakes his head. “Just forget it. I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t you?”
That gets Ed to look at him. Ed could never resist a challenge. He scowls. “I said forget about it, Bastard.”
“No. I will not forget about it. Edward—” Mustang darts his other hand forward and winds it into the hair at the base of Ed’s ponytail before Ed can even think about running away. His eyes search Ed’s face for…something. Honesty, maybe. “You meant that.”
Ed doesn’t know what to say. All the meager words he’d come prepared with have dried up. His mouth is a desert. He wets his bottom lip.
And Mustang glances down at it.
Oh.
“Tell me you meant that,” Mustang says, voice dark and commanding, almost a growl.
Oh, fuck.
“I meant it,” Ed breathes.
“Good.”
Every time Ed has imagined kissing the bastard—more times than he’s willing to tally —it has been controlled, methodical, deep and hot, yes, but he was always at the mercy of Mustang’s skill and experience. And he is definitely at Mustang’s mercy, now, but…
Instead of all that, Roy smashes their lips together so that it’s more of a desperate attempt to absorb each other than an actual kiss, and Ed loves it.
He never imagined it could be like this.
He whimpers into it, finds his hands clenched in Roy’s sweater and his body leaning farther and farther forward, so that Roy has to catch him or else they’ll both just go tipping right over. The kiss is hard—steel plunged into a forge so that it can be shaped into something sharp, something new, becoming molten, and it is so much, and then Roy tilts his head slightly in a way that fits their lips together even more perfectly, and Ed knows now why everyone talks about this, writes about it, sings about it, kills for it, dies for it. He knows now why people make desperate promises, promises like—
“I love you,” Roy says, pressing it into Ed’s mouth. “Edward, I—”
The only response to that is to push Roy all the way back down into the cushions until Ed can climb on top of him and kiss him silly.
So he does.
Right up until the Meow-jor General jabs Roy’s cheek with a single paw, startling him enough that he gasps and pulls away from Ed to look down at her. She blinks.
“Pardon me,” Roy says faintly.
“Sorry.” Ed’s breathing is ragged. Is that embarrassing? Should he be embarrassed? This has been a morning full of things he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to feel embarrassed about.
The Meow-jor General flicks her tail once where she sits primly on the floor just at eye level with them—as they are now completely stretched out on the couch, legs tangled and hearts beating fast. She decides they’re boring now that they aren’t making out and prowls away to seek attention and entertainment somewhere else.
“You get used to it,” Ed says.
Roy gifts Ed with yet another world-shakingly sweet smile, so Ed buries his face in Roy’s shoulder before he can get caught blushing.
“I could certainly get used to this,” Roy says. He squeezes his arms tight around Ed’s waist to demonstrate. “I’ll gladly put up with a little bullying from your militia of cats. It seems like a fair exchange, don’t you think?”
Ed smacks Roy’s chest weakly and mumbles into the crook of his neck, “Equivalent exchange my ass.”
“That can be arranged.”
Ed snorts.
“You know, I don’t own any pets,” Roy says. It’s so damn unsubtle that Ed can’t help but sit up a little to laugh directly in his face. Roy just looks pleased with the reaction.
“You don’t fuckin’ say.” Ed raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to seduce me, General Bastard?”
“Is it working?” Roy smirks. He knows it is, the asshole.
“It’s working!” Al calls down the hallway.
Ed groans. Roy’s low laughter bounces them both.
“C’mon,” Ed mutters. “Al’s probably going to have a conniption about the tea getting cold.”
He rolls off Roy carefully, then offers Roy a hand to help pull him up from the couch. Once they’re both standing, and no one is in danger of tripping over any cats, Roy rearranges their hands so that their fingers are intertwined.
Uhg, that’s so gross and sappy and…and everything Ed has ever wanted, dammit.
“Lead the way,” Roy says. He looks happy.
Later, after one of the best days he’s had in recent memory, Ed tucks the fresh letter Al penned for him into his journal as a reminder that he has people who really, really love and understand him.
Maybe he’ll show it to Roy someday.
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Dear Roy,
I’m going to tell you I’m in love with you today. I can’t wait to hear you say it back.
Yours,
Ed
May 20th, 1921
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