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Ed often thinks about hands.
To perform alchemy, one first has to master the art of controlling their own hands. You simply cannot move your fingers this way or that, you have to make an art out of it. Roy can’t produce fire by making random gestures the same way Armstrong won’t move rocks only closing his fists. You need all—or most—of your fingers to hold the chalk that helps you draw a transmutation circle.
An alchemist is nothing without the use of their hands, but even so, Ed hadn’t put much thought into it until now.
Now, lying in bed after a very long day, he stretches out his arms and looks at his palms, the side and back of his hands. One of them is calloused and strong and completely shattered in some places, while the other is soft as a baby’s, unused for a great part of his life. They make such an uncanny pair, almost as if one of them didn’t belong to him.
He curls and uncurls his fingers, the ten of them, five per hand, and they really don’t seem special. Just fingers, just hands. Ed cracks his knuckles with violence and relishes at the sound they make, crack crack crack. Like a skull breaking, he thinks. Maybe a heart.
Maybe now that he can’t perform alchemy anymore his hands aren’t any different from any other person.
However, his curiosity is not satisfied. Once he thinks about hands, he can’t stop doing it. He kind of develops a weird obsession with hands. Soon, he starts visiting a pub just below Hawkeye’s apartment where they play live music—every Thursday a man in a tuxedo comes in to play the piano, and Ed sits as close to the scenery as possible, even if the sound travels around the room just fine.
Because music doesn’t really matter to Ed. He can admit no problem that the piano is nice, and that the man—whose name he’s come to know is Oliver—is very good at what he does, but what interests Ed is his hands. He has big hands, but not so big that they bother him when he plays. Long, black fingers that stretch and curl as he moves his hands over the keyboard, as he presses key after key, sometimes black and sometimes white, sometimes both at the same time.
He’s grown taller as the years passed, and he’s as close as he can to the scenery, so he can see clearly how Oliver’s fingers move with control and care. Occasionally slow, but preferably fast, they make a melody as sweet as wine at midnight. Ed watches, mesmerized, as his pianist’s fingers, slender and pristine, caress the keys as if it were a lover.
It is fun to watch, more entertaining even when, one afternoon, Oliver lets Ed try to play the piano, only to discover music really isn’t his thing. Also, Ed discovers one night, Oliver’s fingers might be dexterous at playing the piano, but they are not especially good when under the covers of a bed.
So Ed moves on to arm wrestling, with its big hands and meaty fingers covered in blood. He investigates the gloved hands of swordsmen and how each finger holds the handle of a sword differently. He becomes most interested in the fragile hands of ladies born into royalty, how they hold teacups with softer than soft fingers and manicured nails—Ed even discovers that their hands are most adequate to the bed, with their pointy nails and passionate holds.
He watches Izumi Curtis cut meat and then tear into the pieces with her hands, how she performs alchemy in her backyard with a smile on her lips. She is curious about Ed’s investigation, but he can’t really tell her much about it because he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, only that he’s not found it yet.
One day, when he’s speaking to Roy about his future—boring—, he fixates on how the man holds the pen only with his thumb and pointer finger, the rest battling for control. A few weeks ago, when he thought the office was empty, he caught Roy and Riza making out behind a half-open door. He’s not a pervert, mind you, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from how Roy cupped Riza’s cheeks, the way she held onto him as she threw her head back and closed her eyes.
He’s grown accustomed to share his bed at night. With Oliver—only once, because he’s handsome but, honestly, not very good at pleasure—, with royalty ladies, with random people looking for other person’s comfort. Ed does not like sleeping alone because that means letting his thoughts wander to Truth’s slimy hands all over his body, but also to his brother with his hands over Winry’s eyes, both laughing hysterically. Honestly, Ed doesn’t know what’s worse.
So he holds out his hand, watches it with an expert eye. There are teeny tiny scars on the back of it, bright when the moonlight catches it just so. Ed doesn’t even remember how or when they appeared. Are they from when he fell off a tree as a kid? Or maybe he cut himself with the alchemy books he read compulsively. Probably from when he fought to the death.
Tonight he’s alone in his room, in his enormous, empty bed. What is he looking for? He’s not really told anyone about his obsession with hands, primarily because it’s a little creepy and, honestly, kinky. But there has to be a reason, he’s sure. What he’s not very sure about is, will he ever find it?
Alphonse and Winry’s baby has chubby hands, little and very fragile. His small fingers curl around Ed’s like a lifeline and don’t let go, maybe because he’s mistaking Ed for Alphonse, so alike they are. Maybe simply because he likes Ed. The baby moans and smiles and even laughs when Ed makes a funny face, and then immediately puts Ed’s fingers inside his mouth.
There are black bags under Ed’s eyes that he knows Alphonse’s noticed, and he’s certain his brother is going to ask about them later, but for now Ed focuses on the baby, how beautiful and little he is, how fragile. He has blonde wiry hair and brown eyes and a purple dress that reminds Ed of a flower. He’s so cute, and he’s seen him a thousand times since he was born, but still his eyes water a little at the mere thought of him, of his brother being a father.
‘He likes you,’ Winry mumbles for the hundredth time today. She’s sitting beside him on the stairs of the porch, her smile almost delirious. He’s never seen her so happy before, despite the sleepless nights and her still bloated stomach. ‘He likes everybody, really,’ she adds, pinching her baby’s cheeks playfully and then giving him a kiss.
Her fingers are dirty with grease from working at the workshop, even if the doctors told her to rest for some weeks. Her hands and full of callouses and nips from the tools she uses, and even if Ed didn’t know her, he’d known the hands belong to a mechanic. Unconsciously, he squints white looking at them, but stops when Alphonse pretends to cough. Great, Ed thinks. Another thing he’s going to ask about later.
‘I can’t believe you’re parents now,’ he whispers. The baby—July—is not asleep, but he’s afraid of startling him. ‘Before me! You’re my little brother,’ he says, pretending to be disappointed, but frankly, he’s so happy he might burst. ‘I was supposed to be a dad first.’
Alphonse wrinkles his nose. ‘With all the fooling around you do, you very well could’ve been a dad already.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ Winry scolds, but she’s still smiling. ‘We were just faster, right, Al?’
She winks at Alphonse, and if it weren’t for the baby in his lap, Ed would’ve vomited. ‘I don’t want to think about you two like that.’
‘Like what?’ she asks.
‘Like adults that do… adult things.’
This makes Alphonse laugh. ‘We’re twenty-four, Ed. We’ve been doing adult things for a while.’
‘You are my baby brother who’s pure and an angel, and I won’t be discussing this anymore.’
Winry pretends to whisper so only Alphonse hears her, but she might as well be shouting when she says, ‘Wait until we tell him we want at least three more babies.’
Later, when baby July falls asleep right in Ed’s lap, Winry offers to take him to the house. Ed knows she does this so Alphonse can talk to him alone, and it bothers Ed, a little, because that means that they’ve talked about him. About how he’s a mess, probably. About how he’s never been so lost in this entire fucking life.
‘So,’ Alphonse says, sitting beside Ed, who bumps his shoulder against his brother’s. ‘How are you doing?’
‘’M fine,’ Ed mumbles. ‘Y’know, fooling around.’
Alphonse rolls his eyes, and for a moment it occurs to Ed that he doesn’t know when the roles changed, but they did. Now Al is taking care of him, even if it should be the other way around. In what world do small brothers take care of their big brothers? Ed opens his mouth to say something else, but Al is faster.
‘I think you should do something about… this.’
‘Did you just point at myself?’
‘Yes. Are you still sleeping with the piano player?’
Now it’s Ed who rolls his eyes. ‘That was just one night. He makes weird sounds, also thinks I'm a piano, which is no fun at all.’
Alphonse doesn’t laugh, to Ed’s chagrin. ‘I’m serious, what are you doing? I get that you don’t want to be serious with anyone yet, but Ed, c’mon, you’re twenty-six and you don’t have a job nor a life.’
Ouch. ‘That’s not fair, Al.’
‘I know it’s not, but someone has to say it.’ He puts his hands to his hair, messes it up, looks at Ed like he’s begging for something. ‘I know you miss him, Ed, but he left.’
At his words, Ed looks away. Not because what Alphonse is saying is anything Ed didn’t know before, but because he doesn’t want his brother to see the hurt in his eyes, how those two last words hurt him more than a punch to the gut.
‘I have a job, you know,’ he mumbles, because it’s true. He’s a fucking tourist guide, which is neither here nor there. Does he like it? Not very much. Does it pay well? Also no, but at least he can live. ‘And I have a life. I have Winry and you, and Roy and—’
‘You have to move on, brother.’ Alphonse sighs. ‘Remember when you two used to travel? When you’d send me postcards from all over the world, and you were so happy the smile didn’t fit in your face? I miss that version of you.’
Ed shrugs. ‘I do too, Al. But I don’t know how to be that person anymore.’
When he sleeps, nightmares plague his head. Usually he sees Envy laughing his cruel laugh while a thousand hands choke him until he loses consciousness. Sometimes it’s his father that visits, his hair an ugly shade of gray and tears streaming down his face. Other times, Ed’s inside a jar, small as a pinky, while he’s being watched over by Pride, who smiles a thousand smiles. On the rare occasion it’s Wrath that he encounters, drawing a sword right between Ed’s bleeding lungs.
But there are moments, scarce and rare, that he dreams none of the above. Oftentimes, behind his closed eyes, Ed is being caressed by gentle hands, fingers that tickle him and trace slowly his spine, making goosebumps appear all over his skin. In these unusual dreams, Ed feels his breath hitch and his eyes full of tears as someone he doesn’t dare to name kisses all of his most sensitive spots, his ear lobes and his neck and his stomach with such care and devotion and adoration. When he wakes up, Ed still feels the ghost of someone’s hands over his arms and legs and back.
He prefers the nightmares because, when he wakes up, he knows that they aren’t going to bother him anymore. The dreams, however, are a reminder of all that was but isn’t no more.
Before they started traveling together, they used to write letters. Ed used to carry a notebook everywhere he went to scribble down the thoughts he deemed interesting enough, and after dinner, when everyone else was asleep, he lit a candle and started writing. Ed’s never been particularly good at expressing his thoughts, or feelings, or anything in general, but he tried his best to convey every one of those in just a letter.
Dear L:
Today was hot as all hell. We’ve been trying to dig up some ancient city’s remains, but, if I’m completely honest, I don’t know if we’ll find anything. How about you? Please tell me you’re not causing so much trouble at the palace. I miss your stupid laugh, hope I can see you soon.
E.
This was a few years ago, back when Ed worked with a group of archeologists. Truthfully, even though it was difficult for him to convey his thoughts, more often than not his letters were several pages long.
Ed always had to wait to read his letters when he came back to Central, and it wasn’t uncommon to find three or four piled up in his mail, waiting eagerly to be opened. Ed loved it, not so much the wait, but having so many pages to read, so many stories and feelings and anecdotes. This is a secret not even Alphonse knows, but Ed used to read one of his letters always before going to sleep, as if he were a child and the letter a fairytale.
Now, sometimes when he’s wide awake and the night is long, Ed likes to imagine the way L held the pen as he wrote. Was it like Roy, only with two fingers? Maybe he used all five, maybe he was one of those people that do it weird, with the whole hand.
They sent each other letters for two years almost, and there was this night when Ed went to a gathering at Riza and Roy’s and ended up very, very drunk. Alphonse and Winry took him home, made him drink several glasses of water and even put him to sleep, but Ed’s brain was too wired up, he was too wired up. When he heard his brother and Winry close the door, Ed pushed the blankets aside and began to write.
Dear L:
I’ve drunk a lot and I’ll probably regret this tomorrow, but I haven’t been completely honest with you. I do not miss your laugh or your jokes or your stupidly long hair. And I want you to cause so much fucking trouble at the palace that they kick you out and you come back to me, because I miss all of you. I miss you so much sometimes I can’t breathe. Oftentimes I watch Alphonse caressing Winry’s cheek or Riza kissing Roy’s forehead and I find myself thinking that I want that with someone too, as much as I’ve thought it ridiculous in the past. My bed’s so big some nights I drown in it, and I think you could be the oxygen I need to keep alive.
You stupid asshole, you’ve made me fall in love with you.
E.
From then on, it all was really, really good, until it wasn’t.
Ed never received a response to that letter he sent one night whilst drunk, but L came to Central when Ed was with the archeologists in some mountain or whatever and found Roy, who told him, no questions asked, where Ed lived. Unsurprisingly, L managed to force Ed’s lock and waited there for him almost two weeks. He devoured everything Ed kept in his fridge, then bought everything back and thoroughly cleaned the apartment. He even bought new sheets and plates and a few flowers to put here and there. Truthfully, he’d never been so nervous in his entire life.
When Ed came back, first he thought someone had robbed the place. L had gone out to do some errands, what were the chances? It didn’t even cross Ed’s mind that L would have come, and when he unlocked the door as if he was already accustomed to it—he was—a series of things happened. First, Ed threw a book at him because he thought it must be the robber, even though all of his things were still there. Then, when he realized it was fucking L, he started screaming.
‘What the fuck!’ He didn’t know why he was so angry, but he just was, so his voice just kept on getting louder and louder. ‘How long have you been here? And why the fuck haven’t you called? You can’t just come into someone else’s home and make it your own!’
L didn’t even appear fazed. He left some bags of food and other utilities on the floor and smiling so much it hurt, walked towards Ed, step by step until finally they were almost nose to nose. Even though Ed had grown several inches in the past few years, L was still impossibly taller.
Ed didn’t care one bit for the smile on the other man’s face. ‘What are you smiling at, huh? You… you… Asshole! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for a reply? A call? I thought you didn’t want to be friends anymore, and all because a fucking drunken—’
‘Ed,’ he said, his voice a whisper, and it was all it too for Ed to shut up. His heart was beating so fast he feared it might burst out of his chest. L, with his long, black hair and his dark eyes and alabaster skin, so beautiful and so close and there, right beside him. ‘I missed you too.’
That wasn’t what Ed wanted to hear. He looked down, realized his socks almost touched the other man’s shoes, then up again. ‘You’ve come all the way here to tell me you miss me?’
He laughed hard, shook his head, cupped Ed’s cheek with utmost care. ‘I love you too.’
And the rest was history, as the stories say. They started living together immediately after. It took some time for Ed to get used to the quirks of the other man, and it was really upsetting only having one bathroom when they both needed it at the same time, not to mention that Ed couldn’t stand waking up early and L’s one and only wish in this life was to see the sun rise. L took a job teaching young boys and girls at a school nearby and Ed kept traveling with the archaeologists, though much less because now he also traveled with L.
Winry and Alphonse were ecstatic when Ed told him the news, and Roy pretended not to know anything, while Hawkeye winked not very discreetly at L when they were told.
If someone asked Ed about happiness, he would’ve said that the year they lived together was it. That is, until one day he came back from one of his travels and he was gone. All of his things were anywhere to be seen, as if he’d been erased from life. Ed didn’t need to call his brothers, his friends, or him, because he knew it’d been too good to be true.
Right then and there, at the door of their—his—apartment, he could’ve sworn he heard his heart break. It’s been a year, and still Ed can’t even bring himself to say his name out loud, not to himself, not to anyone.
It’s around three in the morning and Ed hasn’t slept one bit. He can’t stop thinking about the conversation with his brother but, most of all, he can’t stop thinking about something Oliver said. It was also nighttime and it was after they’d slept together—or tried to. Being completely honest, it was one of Ed’s worst experiences in bed, and partly it was because he’d compared every single men he’d been with with him, but also it was because Oliver was really awful at—well, everything. Ed had the suspicion that he was the first man Oliver had ever slept with.
But anyway, Ed felt really weird asking him to go home and Oliver didn’t seem to want to go, so after taking a brief shower and having a snack, they both lay in bed together. It was very awkward for Ed, but it seemed like routine to Oliver, who caressed Ed’s arm absentmindedly.
‘Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about starting a family,’ he said, and Ed felt his body go rigid. Oliver must’ve felt it too, because he laughed. ‘Not with you, silly. I… well, a month ago I broke up with my girlfriend. I’d been with her since we were teenagers, you know?’
‘I’d imagined,’ Ed mumbled.
Oliver didn’t hear him, or pretended not to. ‘I loved her so much, man. She was the love of my life, I’m sure of it. And I just—I was so scared of messing it up. Nothing really happened, but still I…’ He sighed, long and arduous. ‘I was a fucking coward, Ed. Why did I do that?’
One little part of Ed was begging the universe for Oliver not to start crying as they were both in his bed after just fucking, because that’d be pathetic even for him. But he was also thinking of him, how he’d suddenly left without even a good-bye note.
‘I think you preferred leaving her before she left you.’
‘But she wasn’t going to leave me,’ Oliver protested, crying. ‘We were thinking about having babies, you know?’
What an asshole, Ed thought at the moment. But now he can’t stop thinking about it and the situation. What if Oliver’s girlfriend didn’t tell him that she loved him enough? What if she took their relationship for granted? What if Oliver simply needed her to tell him that everything was okay, that they were okay? What if his head got the better of him?
His fucking head.
Not thinking about it twice, because it’s three in the morning and if he reflects upon it he’s not going to do it, Ed dials and calls his brother. The line rings once, twice, thrice, and then— ‘Hello?’ Winry asks.
‘Winry,’ Ed sighs, breathless for a second. ‘Is Alphonse awake?’
‘I don’t think so, but—’
‘What does he want?’ Alphonse asks, and after a second he’s on the phone. ‘Ed, is everything okay? You know what time is it?’
Ed sits on the bed and bites his nails, a complete wreckage even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He breathes in, out, and then: ‘I know it’s late and I’m sorry, but I have to ask you something important. Do you think he left because he didn’t love me?’
He hears Al let out the longest sigh. ‘Ed, I don’t think—’
‘Please just tell me.’ Ed hates himself for it, for dwelling into something that happened a year ago, but he can’t just let go, as much as he wants to. ‘Do you think he stopped loving me?’
‘Honestly, Ed, no. I don’t think he stopped loving you.’
He can’t answer because he lets out a sob he didn’t know he was keeping at bay. Ed has never talked about it with anyone, not even with Alphonse, because it hurt too much. It hurt that he left, but it also hurt that Ed though they were the happiest and still L found a reason to leave. But there must’ve been something else.
‘Why do you think he did it?’ Ed asks, voice small. He hugs his legs and wipes the tears from his face, though it’s useless.
‘This is not what I told you to do,’ Al mutters, but Ed knows his brother and knows he’s going to answer him regardless. ‘I think he was scared, Ed. You were twenty-three when you started writing each other, twenty-five when you started living together, you were still very young. And after everything that’s happened to us… We’re not like other people. You know what I mean?’
He knew. How many times had they’d both laid in bed awake all night, afraid of the nightmares waiting for them to close their eyes? How many times had Ed heard him cry in the shower, how many times had they comforted each other? They’d lived a fucked up adolescence and it was only fair that their adulthood would be a little fucked up too.
Ed sniffs, wipes his face again. ‘Do you think I should’ve done better?’
Al sighs again, and Ed can picture him shaking his head. ‘Maybe, but who knows for sure? Maybe if you’d done something different he would’ve left anyway, or maybe he would’ve stayed. What does it matter now, Ed? He’s gone.’
You preferred leaving before she left you, he’d told Oliver. But Ed would have never left him.
‘I miss him so much, Al,’ Ed cries, and again he thinks that they are doing this the wrong way. He’s the older brother, he’s supposed to comfort Alphonse, not the other way around. But he simply cannot stop the tears. ‘I still love him, even though what’s happened. I don’t think I will ever stop loving him. I don’t know how.’
It’s not Alphonse that answers, but Winry. ‘Aw, Ed, that’s not a bad thing. He was a very big part of your life—your first love. Maybe you will never stop loving him, but even if it doesn’t look like it now, you will make space for others. Our hearts are bigger than we think.’
‘You have to let it all go, brother,’ Alphonse adds, sniffing a bit. ‘Cry it out, scream, fuck a thousand people if you must,’ Ed hears Winry smack him, and both brothers laugh. ‘But it will pass, like everything else.’
Ed believes them wholeheartedly, because he remembers what it felt like when he lost his mother—like there was no air, no gravity, no nothing. Like he’d died even though he was still there. But it’s been years, and it still hurts, but not like at the beginning. Not as bad.
However…
‘I’ll visit tomorrow, if that’s okay,’ Ed says, wiping his tears one last time. ‘I love you both.’
‘We love you, too, Ed,’ Alphonse says. ‘Call us whenever you need.’
He hangs up before Alphonse finishes speaking and, fast as lightning, dials another number he knows from memory. Ed knows they are going to be mad because it’s very late—or maybe very early—and honestly, he could’ve waited till morning, but if he doesn’t do this know, he’s going to go crazy.
‘I hope you have a very good reason to be calling at this hour,’ Roy says, and Ed opens his mouth and closes it, opens and closes, like a fish gasping for breath. ‘Ed?’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Ed says, very fast, one letter on top of the other. He’s not even sure that Roy’s understood him because he keeps quiet. ‘Roy, do you know where he is?’
He doesn’t answer straight away, and the silence stretches long and heavy. ‘Why do you want to know?’ Roy finally asks.
That’s a yes, Ed thinks, and he can’t keep sitting down, he’s so jittery. He starts pacing the bedroom, phone in hand, cable stretching until almost breaking. ‘I need to tell him I’d never abandon him,’ he says, almost breathless. He puts the phone between his cheek and shoulder and starts getting off his pajamas. ‘I need him to know, Roy. Please tell me where he is.’
‘Took him long enough,’ mumbles Riza somewhere close to Roy, and it makes Ed cringe, but he’s not going to change his decision.
Back when he was in bed with Oliver, Ed asked him, ‘Why don’t you go and tell her you were wrong? That you still love her?’
Oliver shook his head, leaned in to give Ed a kiss on the lips and muttered, ‘She’s not going to forgive me.’
He was scared to come back, even if his love for her was still the same, still there. He was only scared.
‘I’ve been such a fucking idiot, okay?’ he tells Roy as he puts some pants on. ‘I should’ve gone looking for him, is that what you want to hear? I should’ve fucking fought for him, but because I’m such a self-obsessed asshole I made it all about me, fine! I’m sorry, Roy, but please tell me where he is.’
‘He’s here,’ Roy says simply, and Ed drops the phone accidentally from the surprise.
‘What?’
‘He’s here in Central, Ed. He never left.’ Roy chuckles, and it’s all Ed can do not to strangle him through the phone. When Roy tells him his address, his jaw almost hits the floor, it’s so close to his. ‘It’s not my place to say anything of this, but I think he’s been waiting to go to you, Ed. And scared of fucking it up again.’
‘That’s enough,’ Riza shushes him. ‘Come back to sleep.’
‘Good luck, Ed.’
And he hangs up.
Turns out, he lives only two blocks away from Ed, which angers and endears him equally. Maybe angers him more, because how the hell haven’t they crossed paths in the past year? They were so fucking close and Ed didn’t know, but then again, would he have done something? He likes to think that he would, but, being completely honest, probably he wouldn’t have. After all, he broke Ed’s heart.
It’s almost five in the morning and Ed hasn’t slept a bit, but he feels like he has all the energy in the world coursing through his body. His pointer finger hovers over the doorbell, and it’s shaking so much he fears he might accidentally press it. What is he waiting for? He’s right there, at the other side of the door, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
It’s been a whole year. What if Ed’s too late? Maybe he’s found another man to love, or maybe he’s tired of waiting or maybe it’s simply too late for Ed to come and take him back. He closes his eyes and thinks about all that can go wrong, but also everything that can go right, and finally presses the doorbell.
Only two minutes pass between the ringing of the doorbell and the unlocking of the door, but it’s the longest two minutes of Ed’s life. He’s sure that, any moment now, his brain is going to stop functioning. As many times before this one, he’s wrong, because when the door opens and he finally sees him again, long hair disheveled and eyes sleepy, it’s his heart that stops.
‘Hello,’ Ed says, small smile awkward. He can’t stop fidgeting with his own fingers, and it’s taking all in him not to hug the man in front of him. Maybe punch him, too. Punch then hug.
‘Ed,’ he says, clearly dumbfounded. He’s probably trying to decide if this is real or his imagination. Because it’s been a fucking year they’ve been apart, but Ed can still decipher the twitch in his nose, the almost imperceptible way his lips wobble. He’s also trying not to cry, and Ed bites the inside of his cheek to stop the tears too. ‘Ed,’ he repeats.
A moment passes, maybe an eternity, and Ed can’t take it anymore, having him so close and so far away at the same time, so at the end he decides to simply give in. He takes one step forward and then all of a sudden, his hand has a mind of its own. Ed grazes the other man’s cheek with his fingertips, and he flinches at the touch, then tenses.
He’s with another man, Ed thinks, chastising himself for being so fucking stupid. The bravado from early has dissipated like a cloud, and now only doubts remain. He doesn’t love me anymore, he reckons, because I waited too long. Because I could only think about myself when he was hurting too. Not knowing why he left was painful enough, but having him so close and not knowing that he was there hurts even more.
Ed removes his hand, or is about to, but the other man catches it between his before Ed can do anything. A breath leaves his lips, and it’s all Ed can do not to break into tears. He opens his mouth, but not one word feels appropriate right now. In the end, all he can say is, ‘Ling.’
Speaking what has been unspeakable for a year feels liberating, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Ling shakes his head and laughs, a little at first and then loud, louder than he’s supposed to laugh at five in the morning. Ed tries to shush him, but Ling shakes his head again and pulls him in for a hug.
‘You fucking asshole,’ Ed mumbles, but it lacks conviction. He’s become such a sappy person in the last few years, he reckons as he hugs Ling back. He’s only wearing pajama bottoms, so his chest is warm and soft and exactly as it was a year ago before he left. Ed feels some tears slipping down his face but doesn’t even bother to remove them. ‘I’m going to kill you, you know?’
‘I missed you so much,’ Ling breathes right above his ear, and it dissolves Ed into gelatin. ‘Come inside.’
Ling’s apartment is not very big, but there’s a living room with some chairs for them to sit and a small table where Ling sets two cups of tea, his hands a little shaky. Ed can’t stop himself from snooping while Ling is making the tea, so he opens some cupboards and tries to look for something to tease Ling, something that’ll tell him that he’s been okay, but there’s not much to be found. Honestly, the apartment feels kind of new, as if no one had been living in it for long.
When he comes back from the kitchen, Ling moves a chair so he’s facing Ed and takes his cup of tea, brings it to his lips, sips a little. Ed watches mesmerized, as if he was seeing a ghost, because he’d thought for a year that he’d never see him again, that he only had left the memories. And yet.
‘Have you been living here long?’ he asks.
‘How did you find me?’ Ling asks at the same time, their voices one above the other, intermingling.
They both laugh a little, but the silence that follows it’s uncomfortable and too long. For lack of a better thing to do, Ed picks up his tea and drinks some. He doesn’t like tea very much, but this is a special occasion.
‘Why have you come so early?’ Ling asks then, biting his lower lip, trying not to look at Ed.
Ed shrugs. ‘I haven’t slept, I was… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’ At this, Ling opens his eyes in surprise, and Ed’s heart does a somersault. How is it possible that he knows the man in front of him since they were teenagers, that they’ve spent so many hours, days, years together, and still he’s not sure how to act around him, as if he were a stranger. ‘I have been thinking about you since you left, really.’
Ling shakes his head a little, strands of black hair coming undone from the braid he’d put it into before. The sun’s just coming up and some rays of light are streaming in from the window, casting a halo all around him. He looks like a prince, something straight out of a fairytale. He used to be all mine, Ed thinks absently. ‘I’d never have abandoned you, Ling.’
Ed wants him to know this so desperately, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets it. Ling recoils, as if he’s been struck, and Ed realizes that it sounded like he was judging him for having left, which is a little bit true, but entirely not the point. He opens his mouth to try and fix it, but Ling shakes his head again, rubs his eyes and starts crying.
‘Shit,’ Ed mumbles. So quickly he spills some, he puts his cup of tea on the table and kneels in between Ling’s legs, carefully pries his hands from his eyes. They are red and puffy already, and his lower lip wobbles a lot, and for a moment he looks like a little kid, so vulnerable and lost. ‘Don’t cry, love. I didn’t mean it like that, I—’
‘I don’t know why I did it,’ he murmurs, his words only audible because Ed’s so close. ‘I loved you so much, Ed, I still do. I was just feeling… overwhelmed I guess, everything was going really great, and I was just… waiting.’
‘Waiting for what?’ Ed asks softly.
Ling shrugs. ‘For it to end. I was waiting for you to leave, or to fall in love with somebody else, or to simply stop caring about me.’
The confession burns like cold whisky down his throat. Ed stills for a moment
The confession burns like cold whisky down Ed’s throat. Ling couldn’t possibly mean that, right? He stills completely and tries to go back the life he had a year ago, when he traveled with his little group of archeologists and came back home to the most beautiful man in the world. They used to have dinner together always, and fall asleep around the other’s arms, and laugh until they cried from the joy of it.
Yes, maybe some times he heard Ling cry in the shower, and they both had nightmares about the horrible things they’d gone through, and maybe once or twice he caught Ling looking out the window in a trance, something like despair in his eyes. But not once had Ed reprimanded him for any of it.
‘Ed,’ Ling mumbles, putting his hands over Ed’s shoulders and holding on for dear life. ‘Please say something.’
‘I wasn’t going to leave,’ he says, again, and it feels a little like being underwater. It doesn’t matter how many times he says it, he’s not sure Ling’s grasping the meaning of his words. ‘Maybe I should’ve checked on you more often, or told you how much you meant—mean— to me, but, Ling—’
‘I was drowning,’ he says, almost hyperventilating, and it occurs to Ed that this is the first time he’s said it out loud. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. ‘I was drowning in my own insecurities and sorrows and fears and I just—simply—I didn’t want to drag you down with me.’
‘That’s what I’m supposed to do, though,’ Ed says in return, a little smile on his lips. ‘When you are drowning, I have to drag you up. And don’t do that,’ he murmurs, putting a finger over Ling’s lips, ‘you’re going to hurt yourself.’ He cups Ling’s cheeks, warm and flushed a pretty shade of pink. ‘Y’know, I don’t like you only because of your good looks or because you travel with me or because of the amazing sex.’ Ling laughs at that, a little bit watery because of the tears but a laugh all the same. ‘I want all of that, but I also want the bad moments. I want you to tell me you think I’m going to stop loving you so I can kiss you until you’re sick of me to prove you otherwise. I want you to tell me that you think I’m going to leave so I can tell everyone we’re sick and stay together for days on end.’
‘Now you’re trying to convince me to go back to you,’ Ling says, not reluctantly but neither happily. ‘But what happens when you’ve had a shitty day and you can’t be bothered by my problems?’ Ed opens his mouth to speak, but Ling shushes him. ‘What happens when I tell you for the fortieth time that I everything in me is screaming that you’re going to leave? When you get sick of me?’
This time, when Ed laughs, it’s with complete merriment, much to Ling’s surprise. ‘You’re absolutely mad, Ling Yao, because not even in a thousand years could I get sick of you. Look at me!’ He points to all of himself, like Alphonse did a few days ago. ‘Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about you, and you broke my heart like no one has before. I’m a fool for you, and everyone seems to have noticed except for you.’
Ling shakes his head, but there’s less hurt in his eyes now, which makes Ed feel as strong as the sun, even without his alchemy. Nothing could beat him right now, not even Ling’s words as he says, ‘I should have done better.’
‘I should have done better,’ he exclaims, startling Ling into a laugh. ‘And maybe you’re going to regret taking me back, because from now on, every hour of every day you’re going to hear me say how much I love you. You are going to be sick of me by the end of the week, I assure you.’
Ling keeps on laughing, loud and pure and as addictive as any drug. He presses his forehead against Ed’s, their breaths intermingling, and it is absolutely intoxicating. Ed bumps his nose with Ling’s and, cockily, asks, ‘Because you’re going to take me back, right? You know my bed’s too big only for myself.’
‘You are literally on your knees, begging me,’ Ling teases, ‘how could I not?’
They stay like this, so close they can count each other’s eyelashes, so close they are breathing the same air, but neither of them move an inch. Ed feels a hundred snakes coiling in his stomach with wanting and lust and something indescribable. He bumps his nose with Ling’s again, and unable to wait a moment longer, presses his lips against Ling’s.
Alphonse is right: over the last year, Ed’s fooled around more than anyone could hope to. He’s kissed every kind of people: men and women of all colors and shapes, younger people and older people, some with more experience than others and some with no experience at all. He’s cried out at the hands of lovely mans and cursed tens of curses at the hands of royal ladies. He’s had sex in his bed and by the kitchen counter and near the fake fireplace in the living room, and he’s touched countless hands and cheeks and torsos, but none of them had felt like this kiss.
Ling kisses him like he used to, soft but hungrily at the same time. He’s holding Ed by the neck with one hand while the other toys with the hem of his t-shirt, eyes closed as he opens his mouth and plays with his tongue. He licks Ed’s lips and doesn’t even wait for his reaction before he’s at it again, lips soft and plump against Ed’s dry ones.
Ed moans with pleasure and presses a thumb against Ling’s pulse point, reveling in the little sounds he makes as they kiss. It’s addictive the way Ling moves his head this way and the other so they fit perfectly, and even though Ed protests when Ling kneels on the floor too, he couldn’t be more pleased.
The sun is already high in the sky, and it bathes Ling in orange and magenta and the brightest yellow. If he knew how to paint, he’d paint him right then and there, with spit in his mouth and eyelids half-closed, stupidly in love. Ed bites his lower hip hard, just like he likes, and Ling yelps and smiles devilishly.
‘It’s like no time has passed at all,’ Ling mumbles, but time has passed, and Ed has a few tricks up his sleeve.
He hums in affirmation and pries Ling’s hand from where it was hidden under his shirt. Ed looks him dead in the eye, totally serious, and very, very slowly licks his pointer finger from palm to tip. Ling watches him with his mouth open, completely absorbed in Ed’s every movement, and when he’s finished licking, Ed puts the finger in his mouth and sucks.
‘You’re so dirty,’ Ling whispers, but by the look in his eyes, he also likes it. Ed’s about to put the drooling finger somewhere else when Ling asks, ‘Have you been with someone else this past year?’
‘Um.’ All the wanting and lust disappear from his stomach in half a second. The look in his face must be completely transparent, because Ling bursts out laughing. ‘Don’t laugh!’ Ed shrieks, red as a tomato. ‘Have you not?’
Still laughing, Ling grabs Ed’s t-shirt and pulls until it’s off. The floor is cold under them and the window’s curtains are opened, but it’s like they are inside of this bubble of joy that may explode tomorrow. Right now, however, it’s just them.
Ling pretends to think of a moment. ‘I kissed a girl a few months ago because Roy told me I needed to forget you,’ he says with a grin. ‘You’re going to think I’m so corny, but after a while I burst out crying because I started thinking about you. Also, she was a terrible kisser.’
Ed laughs, too, and kisses him once, twice, thrice. He tickles Ling’s sensitive skin at his torso because he is absolutely in love with his giggles and cries out when Ling nips at his nipple a minute later.
‘You haven’t answered,’ Ling reminds him. Ed, who was about to try and get Ling out of his pants, sighs. ‘I take that as a yes?’
‘I’m going to tell you because if I don’t, Alphonse or Winry will.’ He gulps not because he thinks Ling will get mad, but because it’s not exactly easy telling the love of your life that you bonked a lot of strangers after he left. ‘I’ve been with… some… people.’
Ling starts playing with Ed’s zipper, zipping it up and down teasingly. ‘How many?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ed mutters under his breath.
‘What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.’
‘I don’t know!’ he bursts out, much to Ling’s absolute glee. ‘Maybe twenty? I didn’t keep count, okay?’
‘Twenty!’ Ling screams, laughing so hard he would have rolled over the floor if it weren’t for Ed’s arms keeping him straight. ‘Did you actually miss me at all?’
He knows Ling’s taking the piss, but still he has the urge to excuse himself. ‘I was very lonely, all right? I told you, my bed—’
‘Is too big for only you, yeah, yeah, I know.’
Ed shakes his head, but he laughs too, at first a bit shyly but then uncontrollably, so loud some of the neighbors hit the walls and the floor to make them shut up. He kisses Ling not like the first time, because that was quite messy and he put too much tongue into it, but like the fourth of fifth time, when they’d already learned what the other liked, how to make the other sigh and groan. ‘I love you,’ he whispers in Ling’s ear after a bit, nipping at his neck while the other scratches at Ed’s back. ‘I will love you forever.’
Ling mmhs, pressing his fingers hard against Ed’s collarbone. His hands are callous and hard, with long fingers like a pianist’s but sneakier, lovelier, more dexterous. ‘I love you too, Ed,’ he whispers back, and immediately after moans loudly when Ed pulls from his braid hard. He throws his head back and Ed kisses him there and there and there, just where he knows Ling likes it.
It’s easy to get naked with him—well, maybe not exactly easy, because neither of them can go a second without touching the other. Maybe Ed has sleep with twenty other people, but this feels completely different, more intimate. Here he can be honest about how his metallic leg bothers him if it’s not in a certain position, and he doesn’t have to pretend he likes something just to please the other person. Also, he knows about everything from Ling, how to make him moan and scream but also how to graze his skin just so to make him roll his eyes.
‘Yes,’ Ed moans when Ling touches him above his pants, as if they were horny teenagers. ‘Yes,’ he moans after, louder, when their clothes are all over the living room and they are touching each other slowly, then faster, then slowly again. ‘That feels so good,’ he sighs, clawing at Ling’s scalp.
‘Better than any of those twenty other people?’ Ling teases, but he’s also breathing hard, flustered red and so, so handsome.
Ed laughs a little before it’s all gasps again. ‘If you want a compliment, you just have to ask.’
Ling is at the verge of the orgasm, Ed is absolutely sure because he lets his head fall over Ed’s shoulder. He slows down, wanting to prolong the moment even if he knows he can have Ling at any time now, and Ling moans a protest. ‘I don’t want any compliments, you asshole.’
‘You are so beautiful,’ Ed whispers anyway, biting the inside of his cheek in between words because he’s also close. ‘I love the way your hands feel on me,’ he continues, letting his head fall on Ling’s shoulders too. ‘I can’t wait to see again your face every morning, every day.’ Ling bites his skin just hard enough, and Ed’s closes his eyes until he sees stars, opens them again. ‘How can I be so lucky to have you?’
‘Ed,’ Ling breathes, toes curling, body tense. ‘I’m going to—’
‘I know,’ he answers, pressing a quick kiss to Ling’s neck. ‘Me too.’
Later, the day starts for most people. Some go to work and some take the day off. There are fruit vendors and people at the market preparing their products, fish and meat and everything in between. Roy asks Riza for five more minutes in bed and she kisses him on the cheek good-morning, tells him she’ll prepare breakfast today. Alphonse has been away all night with the baby, and when the sun is high in the sky Winry thanks him and tells him to go get some sleep. It’s a regular, quiet day for most people, except for some. At the school they are wondering if Ling got sick last minute and forgot to call, and a small group of tourists is angry because their guide forgot to show up.
There is a rental apartment close to the outskirts of Central. A boy’s been living in it for almost a year, but he’s neither decorated nor made it his, maybe because he’s hoping to go back home soon? If someone were to look through the window, they’d see two boys lying on the floor. Both have their eyes closed, but they are not asleep—the one with black hair has his lips pressed against the other’s shoulder and is painting with his fingers an invisible drawing over the other’s naked torso. The one with blonde hair is talking nonstop, maybe about how weird people are in the bedroom, or he might be telling the other that he loves him?
Possibly he’s talking about hands, how your fingers curl and uncurl and tiny muscles clench when you perform alchemy, but also when you touch, caress, brush, pet or tickle the love of your life.