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The mandated 27-day nation-wide mourning period for his father felt too brief.
He did everything he was supposed to: he wore the right colors, he stayed isolated for most of the day, he thought about his father. Lan Fan visited his chambers often to comfort him, but it was only for appearances. In reality, she was preparing him for the next step. She brought him stacks of books, scrolls, mandates, legal documents. She quizzed him on everything under the sun. Ling is only 19. Still, they both knew well what came after.
It starts with a prayer to Heaven.
He kneels beneath the broad blue sky, forehead pressed to the earth. He prays for the mandate to rule. He’s happy to carry it. For his nation, he has to be happy to carry it.
The walk through the palace grounds that follows is a slow, silent one. It’s a rule to keep the steady pace of a tortoise, lest the long beads of his miǎnguān swing too far and hit him in the face. Patience is a heavenly virtue. Even if he lacks it, he can pretend otherwise. It would be unbecoming of him not to.
At least, it gives him time to sort his thoughts. With every scrape of his shoes, there’s another dissolving face. Every time beads hit beads, there’s someone else he left behind. He remembers the faces of the people he stepped over to get here. The people he left behind. The people he lost. The people that drove him. And even the ones he knows he’s made feel doomed by getting here at all.
If only Lan Fan were allowed to be by his side now. That would ease his mind. Better yet, Edward.
He pushes it into a bottle and corks it, ignoring the looming whirlpool inside. All of it can be addressed at a later date.
At last, it came time for him to take his seat upon the Dragon Throne. Intricately, patterns are carved into the pure gold seat of it, the arms, the back. The dark screens behind it offer a backdrop that separates it from the rest of the room. It looms, tall, imposing, shining in the light of the sky through the doorway. The steps look steeper now than they ever did. He swallows.
Ling, hesitating, takes a step into the hall. The doors shut behind him. He wants to look back. But he can only look forward.
He moves up the steps without a word, forcing his gaze forward. Up, up, up, until he comes face to face with it.
And finally, he takes his seat.
He runs his palms over the smooth arms of the throne. He swears that his heart is skipping beats. It’s surreal. He’s seen his father sit in this seat all his life. He’s imagined sitting in this seat since he could walk. Since before he knew what it even meant. There were times when he imagined it wasn’t his, sitting in it as an act of rebellion. Times when he imagined destroying it.
And of course, times like this. With officials lining up before him at the bottom of the steps, systematically, orderly, bowing to him and kowtowing to him and wishing him prosperity and reign for ten-thousand years, just like they did his father, while he sat ceremoniously and watched them move like ants.
It’s his. He is the son of Heaven. He bears the mandate of Heaven. He bears the fate of his nation in his palms.
The mix of sheer elation and dread makes him feel sick.
After everyone files out of the hall, Ling opts to sit a while. He’s trying to get used to sitting here. Even if he won’t be for the majority of the time, the sense of responsibility and power when he sits here is more immense than it's ever been. He needs to commit it to memory. It slowly settles deep in every cavity of his body, seeping into his bones. He’s the Emperor. Him. At 19. It’s almost too much to fathom.
Lan Fan enters through one of the smaller side doors, kneeling before his throne. “I see you’re getting comfortable, my lord.”
He smiles at her, giving a wave of his hand. “Please. It’s nothing.”
She stands with a quickness then, scaling the steps and tucking her arms behind her. Her expression reads as annoyed when she leans toward him.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers. “Is there an issue?”
“You have.. an uninvited guest. He’s here to—“
“Heeeyyyy, dumbass! Congratulations!”
A loud pop rings out in the space, color drawing Ling’s eye toward the door. None other than Edward Elric has burst through, popping a colorful party popper that he likely brought from Amestris, face wrought with a terrible joy and an energetic flush, visible even from up on the throne. His gold braid is wild. He must have been in a rush to get here.
Ling stands immediately from where he sits. “Have you no sense?”
Lan Fan stiffens beside him. The fool at the bottom of the steps falters, lowering the party popper. Ling can almost see the corners of his mouth droop. “What?”
“Why did you come here?” He takes a step down from the throne, and then another.
Edward processes for a moment, before scoffing. All excitement has drained from him. “Seriously? I haven’t seen you in person in years. I thought you’d be happy!”
Ling presses his mouth into a line. Did he go too far? Edward looks ready to bolt, so Ling quickens, hopping down the steps in an unceremonious fashion. He skids to a stop in front of him. “Ed, I told you to wait until the railway was finished. I haven’t even gotten it started yet.”
Edward softens at the use of his nickname. He takes a breath. “It’s whatever.” He reaches for Ling’s hand and presses his cheek into the palm of it, then his lips. “It was more important to see you.”
…
It’s dark out. Over the plum leaves, dim candlelight spills out from Ling’s bedroom window. Quiet laughter floats out on the midnight wind. And again, silence.
“You have a long life-line,” Edward says, hushed, tracing the long crease in the middle of Ling’s palm.
He stares for too long at those eyes, sifting through them, but not for answers. He’s looking for nuggets of pyrite, little pieces of deception or faux affection. He finds nothing but pure, perfect gold. “What?”
“Your hands.” Turning Ling’s hand around so he can see, he runs a finger down the center line. “Your life-line is long. Longer than most people’s.”
“Life-line?”
“Yeah.” Ed looks sheepish, glancing away. “It’s palm reading. It’s kind of stupid. The other kids in our hometown taught Winry how to do it, and she taught us. Me and Al. We always did it when we were bored.”
Ling raises a brow, laughing lightly. “Are you bored with me?”
“No!” Edward lets go and sits up from the pillow in his offense, then pouts and crosses his arms, playing at being uninterested. “I might get bored if you keep being such an ass.”
“Oh, come on.” He pulls the blanket up to his bare shoulders and pats the pillow where Ed had laid his head. “You know I was joking.”
After some hesitation, Edward huffs a breath and flops himself back down facing Ling. Ling reaches over and pulls some of his hair back behind his ear. The annoyance marring his angelic features eases when their skin brushes.
He knows Edward just wants an excuse to keep touching him, to stare at him, to memorize the lines on his skin. He knows because Ling has been doing the same, but with more subtlety. They haven’t seen one another in years, and the last time they did, it was in a completely different context. The letters they sent one another just kept getting sappier. Long distance is the worst heartache he’s ever felt.
Handing over his palm again, the new Emperor grins reverently. “Keep going.”
Edward scans his face for a moment, flushing. He takes Ling’s hand and drags his finger across it. Peace is what settles on his face, then. The last time Ling caught a glimpse of that was in Amestris. But now it’s for him. He drinks it in as much as he can. Just another thing he’s trying to commit to memory.
“You have a long thumb.” Edward runs his finger down the side of it. He almost looks mesmerized. “Smooth. Pointed at the end.”
“And what does that mean?” Ling can’t contain his grin.
“It means, um..” Edward swallows, catching his eye briefly. He’s trying to remember, Ling can tell. “You’re determined and confident. Energetic. But you can do things without thinking them through.”
He hums. Not wrong.
“And.. this one, next to your thumb. The one I was talking about before. It’s long and deep. It means you’ll live a long, prosperous life.”
“How lucky,” Ling remarks, watching Edward’s face as he analyses the every crease of his hand. He’s quiet for a while, brows furrowing.
“I forgot the rest,” Ed admits. Then, he pulls his palm close and presses his lips into the center of it. “How was your ceremony? It’s an enthronement or something, right?”
“Right.” When their hands connect, he laces his fingers between Ed’s. “It went very well.”
Gold searches dark brown. “But?”
“..But,” Ling repeats, averting his eyes. His mouth hangs open. He tries to formulate a response. But he would rather keep tracing the patterns on his walls than answer. Not now, in his little escape bubble. He would rather hide from the pressure of his role, and he almost does. He almost turns away, pulls the sheets over his head.
Instead, he leans in, pressing a kiss to Edward’s lips. Every time he does, every single time, and this time is no exception, he can feel Edward shudder into him like shattering ice. The ice breaks, and then Edward runs into him, through his fingers, like water. Ling brushes his pinky finger down the warm ridges of Edward’s spine. When Ling pulls away, without fail, Edward hangs on for just a little longer.
“You’re cute,” Ling teases, curling strands of gold around his thumb.
Ed pouts at him. “I haven’t ever gotten to kiss you before today.”
He shrugs, grinning slyly. “If you would like more, be my—“
He’s cut off when Edward barrages him with kisses.
Ling giggles loud enough to scare away the bird perched on the neighboring roof.
It was a good day.