It is the same, nearly every morning they think they can get away with it. All three of them will be awoken by the shrill buzz of the alarm clock, cutting into their sleep; will grumble and complain as they attempt, still sluggish with morning, to identify the owners of the limbs and bodies entangled tightly together.
Havoc always gets up first—blearily wipes the sleep out of his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed; hunts down a pair of boxers, and ambles off down to the kitchen to make the coffee while Roy and Ed squabble over whose limbs were where.
Once all three are up, dressed and showered—and with coffee in them, that helps too—the next chore is breakfast, which, uncharacteristically, Ed proves to be quite good at making. Roy flips to the next page of his newspaper and reads the article aloud to the other two; Ed ignores him, tossing the bacon in the frying pan and then feverishly buttering the bread. He is naked aside from a light blue apron of Jean's, tied tightly around his waist, and his long hair is pinned up in a manner unnervingly reminiscent of Hawkeye.
Jean gets his first—he likes his bacon pink, while Ed and Roy both like theirs crispy and salty. He eats it in the comfortable silence—Roy reading, Ed cooking; nobody need say anything, and perhaps if they did it would shatter the gentle, peaceful quiet.
Ed turns the stove off, puts the pan in the sink and runs the water to clear the worst of the grease and oil away. This done, he heads to the table, a plate in each hand; swings his arm over Roy's head and deposits the man's breakfast right in the midst of his paper, bearing it down to the table.
"That was petty, Fullmetal," Roy says mildly, raising an eyebrow, and Jean snorts. Ed doesn't dignify the statement with a response—draws the chair next to Jean back and hungrily tears into his food, with all the appetite a teenage boy can typically muster.
"Well," Jean says, when he's finished; stands and puts the plate in the sink. "Thanks for breakfast, boss." He gives Ed a nod, which Ed returns in between taking large bites of his sandwich.
"I'll see you at work," Roy murmurs, without looking up, and Jean gives him a flippant salute and heads out, grabbing his coat from the hook in the hall. "What are you going to do today, Fullmetal?"
"Library," Ed says immediately. "Al wants help with a particular array. Might come in around twelve to mooch lunch off one of you two bastards."
Roy disguises his smirk by taking another bite of his breakfast. "Of course," he says, when he's swallowed it; "I hear the local cafe has a discount on childrens' meals, anyway."
"Fuck you," Ed snaps, and from the hall Jean calls, "Hey, don't rip each other apart. Anyone know where my door keys are?"
"They're in the pocket of your jacket," Ed replies, still glowering at Roy. "You left it on the stairs last night."
There's a pause, and a rustle of cloth. "Thanks, boss," Jean says, and then the door slams behind him. Roy sighs and folds his paper up, pushing the empty plate across the table towards Ed.
"I should be getting ready," he says, standing and brushing down his boxers with as much dignity as he can muster. Ed smirks up at him, collecting Roy's plate, and pushes his own chair back in order to start the washing up; Roy raises an eyebrow at his back and says, "You know, prior to this arrangement, Fullmetal, I'd never have pegged you as the domestic type."
Ed snorts. "I can cook just fine," he mutters. "Had to. Al could cook but I always felt bad making him, y'know? And he couldn't do the washing up. Rusted his gauntlets and he kept breaking the plates."
"But not any more," Roy remarks, almost gently, and Ed grins, almost brightly.
"No," he agrees, "Not any more." The expression on his face for a heartbeat before he turns back to the dishes is achingly tender, and Roy chooses to leave the kitchen without commenting on it. Most of his clothes are strewn over the bedroom floor, and he bundles them up and tosses them in the laundry basket. Someone—probably Ed; the boy is domesticity personified, though he'll feverishly deny it—will do the washing later on, when the basket is full; will bitch about it and demand a backrub for the chore, no doubt, he thinks wryly.
Edward comes in as he pushes the wardrobe door closed, a bunch of clothes hangers hooked over his finger; the boy merely snorts and undoes the apron, letting it fall to pool around his feet. "You think you'll be pulling overtime?" he asks casually as he steps out of the fabric; Roy throws his uniform over the bed and undoes the buttons on the shirt.
"Probably not," he admits candidly, "Although it depends on Hawkeye, of course."
Ed snorts. "You should appreciate that there's someone out there who can kick your lazy ass into gear, you prick," he says as he yanks his leather pants out from underneath the bed.
Roy frowns as he shrugs the shirt on; tugs at the lapels to straighten it and says, as he begins doing the buttons up, "I am grateful for her assistance, Fullmetal, although I'm sure you would do that ass-kicking for me if you could reach it."
A loud knocking on the door cuts Ed's rant off, the boy merely gives him the filthiest, most betrayed look he can muster before tugging the black undershirt on and going to answer the door for his brother. He grumbles the whole way down the stairs, and Roy finds himself unable to resist the urge to smirk.
"Roy! Get down here!" Ed demands from the bottom of the stairs, and Roy can hear Alphonse's appalled admonishment. He huffs out a long breath—really, the boy is so very bratty—and does up his uniform jacket, picking his gloves and watch up from the nightstand.
"Good morning, Alphonse," he says as he pads down the stairs, and Ed folds his arms over his chest and looks away. "Have you eaten?"
"'course he has," Ed mutters, "You think his girlfriend would let him go if he hadn't?" He watches Roy stomp his boots on, still scowling, and Alphonse steps out of the man's way as he heads out of the door.
"I'll see you both at lunchtime?" he says, pausing with a hand on the doorknob; Al smiles, but Ed leans over, fists his metal hand in Roy's shirt, and yanks his down for a kiss. His brother huffs out a long breath and shoves his hands in his pockets, while Roy succumbs quietly, without a fuss.
"Have a... tolerable day," Ed growls when they part, "And pass that on to Jean."
"Of course," Roy replies, wiping his mouth off with his sleeve. He nods at Alphonse over Ed's shoulder, and leaves before his youngest lover gets it into his head to do anything bizarre; he wouldn't put it past the blond, not with that light in Ed's eyes.
"He's good to you," Alphonse mutters as the man leaves, and Ed snorts at him. "No, really brother, he is. Jean, too."
"He's a smug arrogant prick and Jean's a lazy bastard with a mouth like an ashtray," Ed grumbles, reaching for his coat.
Al rolls his eyes, flexing his fingers by his side; rotates his shoulder as his brother slips his boots on and says, softly, "You never imagined this, did you."
"This what?" Ed pauses, eyes wide and gold.
"This—" Al gestures "Life. Ten years ago."
Ed's face softens. "Geez, Al," he says gently, "Ten years ago I thought I was gonna die getting your body back."
"But you didn't," Al says fiercely, jaw squared. "You didn't."
Ed blinks at him, incapable of reply, and then huffs out a long breath. "Might've been worth it," he says with a cocky flash of teeth. "No more damn short jokes from that asshole Mustang."
Al shivers, and his brother wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get going," he says, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on Al's temple. "Otherwise we'll waste the whole damn day."
"That doesn't matter," Al replies softly, reaching up to touch his brother's arm. Ed is vibrant, warm; a shining golden thing right next to him, almost larger-than-life. "'cause after all, brother," and he straightens and looks Ed in the eyes; Ed stares back, caught off guard. "After all, we have the rest of our lives to waste."
Ed grins, a flash of teeth, white and sharp. "Yeah," he agrees, "we do."