There should be a word for this, Edward thought, vaguely. Something that wasn't quite narcissism, wasn't quite masturbation; was something in between, and he sits on the edge of his bed and pants quietly in the aftermath of another one. Always the same dreams, every night. Short hair in his hands, a rough tongue on his neck; a hard cock pressed against his hip. "I killed you," he whispers to his mirror image, and it nips at his lower lip, pants into his mouth and grinds against him, hard.

He cannot explain this to Alfons. He has tried, but the words die in his throat; too embarrassing, too... it is not something one should just tell one's roommate, he thinks. He's looked through most of the Munich library's biology section, bewildered, thumbing through a German-English dictionary and the tip of his tongue sticking out as he painstakingly translates notes on male puberty, on wet dreams and sexuality. Still doesn't explain why his dreams consist of himself—sharp golden eyes, hair short and he ruffles it, startled by the difference. His doppelganger unzips his pants and goes on his knees and sucks, in a yellow wasteland, before the eyes of the gate; Edward awakes in sticky patches, ashamed and horrified. This never happened before, not during all those years travelling, when his body was actually going through puberty; never dreamed of a copy of himself sucking his cock, licking up the underside and wrapping his lips around the head.

"Is it possible to be egosexual?" he ventures over the breakfast table one morning, body still tingling from where his dream-self had jerked him off, pinching one of his nipples with the other hand. Alfons had blinked at him, startled, over the top of his newspaper; smiled nervously and asked, "Why do you want to know?"

"No reason," he'd said, looking down at his toast and remembering slick fingers, a hard cock pressing into him and his clone licking the back of his ear as he pushed himself in. Remembers panting and gasping, pleading to come soon as the other-him pinched his nipples, nudged his hair out of the way in order to lick at the back of neck; fingers around his cock and groaning as he comes, and the other-him is still throughout it all and then whispers, "Mine."

"Yes," he replies softly, leaning back against his copy and feeling hands settle on his hips. "I killed you."

The doppelganger hums agreement, pushing Edward forward so he can thrust into the long-haired blond easier; Ed goes without complaint, pants and whines under the sensation, and knows this is what he deserves.

And when he wakes each morning, cock throbbing in his hand and sheets sticky, he knows this is a situation of his own making. His little brother always said he was arrogant, this should surely be no surprise.

Narcissus, he thinks, leaning back against the pillows and curling his fingers around his balls. That's who I am.

And when he comes with a soft whine to a memory of gold eyes that are and are not his own, he thinks the name suits him perfectly.