Roy spends much of his time dating, that summer of Edward's fourteenth year, taking strolls on shadow-speckled walks with the whisper of the trees up above, and he finds himself smiling almost fondly at the mention of yet another abominable destruction that the Fullmetal Alchemist has ravaged upon the lands of far away.
There is much to be said of the situation, for it's time—illustriously ironic, moronically methodic—but even though there is nothing remotely exciting about that summer, it is a pleasant summer nonetheless, because, for a blessedly long period of time, it is not Fullmetal for another lengthy period of months, because he seems focused on something else, for a change, and mostly stays away.
Occassionally, Edward will make some excuse or invent some situation that requires the two of them to be alone, but those times never grow beyond anything but the older alchemist's teasing whispers, and the blonde's pleading eyes. It is a farce that has become so natural as to be routine, and on some cosmically ironic scale, it isn't that bad of a routine to have. Teasing, to some laborious extent, is just fine. Touching is not, and ever since that heinous day in the office when Roy had fallen carelessly into a garcon's game, he has fought hard to keep the distance between them a measurement that is something unbridgeable.
Edward, uncharacteristically, spends much of his time completing missions in the far north, close to Drachma, and he hardly ever rushes to the office anymore to give his reports; he is often summoned, after a day or two, and when he slinks into the room, shuts the door, and sulks on the couch, his eyes have never looked so dull.
His shoulders get broader, however, and he adds a few more inches to his unimpressive stature. His chest fills out with developed muscle, and his hands seem longer and more capable, though his face is still a little softer than a typical man's, and his neck is still as skinny as it was when he was a boy. In short, he is growing up, and honestly, Roy can take relief in that fact, because growing up would finally mean that the Fullmetal Alchemist would grow out of that ridiculous crush he had carried for two whole years, and Roy could finally quit feeling so goddamned guilty over the entire thing.
The summer heat is placid when compared to those smoldering yellow eyes, and honestly, the older alchemist is glad to have them gone.
The fourteenth year, Roy recalls, is the quiet year, the year that finally gives him room to breathe, until a hurricane comes sweeping into his office around October, and demands to see 'that shit Colonel'. The announcement, nor the request, is anything particularly new, and so he smirks, puts down his pen from where he was doodling on the desk blotter, and stretches out his hands to crack the knuckles of his fingers languidly.
"B-Brother, maybe I should go with you, just to make sure you don't..."
"Outside, Al!" Edward roars, yanking the door open but keeping his eyes on the lounge, giving the colonel an admirable view of his still-skinny, still-dirty neck. "I don't want any witnesses for this!" the blonde adds, and Roy quirks an eyebrow in amusement as the door is slammed, and there is blessed silence yet again, save for that harried breathing. Edward leans against the door, as is his custom, and doesn't push away from it until he has taken a deep breath, let it out, and haphazardly schooled his features into something that could pass as civility.
Roy takes the opportunity to ask, without preamble, "Fullmetal, how were things up in North City?", and waits patiently for the inevitable rant. There is nothing, save a forced silence, and then, words that are even more forced:
"...The same as always. No Stone, of course, but there never is, so I wasn't too disappointed."
The words are calm, they are collected, and most importantly, they are carefully calculating, in a manner that would have made the Fuhrer envious, and it is an effort for Roy to breathe only through his nose. He waits a for a few halting minutes before saying anything.
"...And that's all?"
Edward's practiced serenity is terrifying. "Yeah, pretty much."
The answer brings to the older alchemist's head a point that he was surprised he hadn't thought of, yet, and so he voiced his confusion aloud in the form of an inquiry. "Then, Fullmetal...why are you here? I wasn't expecting your report until at least tomorrow..."
He trails off as the blonde saunters up to his desk, and puts his palms down flatly on the smooth wood, leaning forward with curious eyes that seem to be taking in every aspect of his face, before grinning suddenly and straightening up, smoothing out the front of his jacket.
"Just wanted to remember what you looked like," he says, seemingly offhand, and strolls almost casually across the office to exit through the door.
"Borrowing my office again?" Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan asks him, sultry and demanding, and Roy knows that the woman is fingering the lighter that she carries around almost pathetically within her pant's pocket. He fakes a desultory smile.
"Only for a few minutes," he assures her, holding up a stack of papers he had grabbed almost randomly from the top of his desk. "My stapler's broken, you see..."
"Oh...of course." Though she is not happy about it, Pearl knows better than to cross him, and perhaps she has noticed that dreadful sort of desperation in his eyes, seen that mantra of fuck, I have to know that is written all over his goddamned face. The woman smiles with those insidious teeth of hers, but exits the office gracefully, stopping for a moment just outside the door to ask some sergeant or another if they would like to join her for coffee. When her footsteps fade, Roy drops to his knees and starts sketching that array.
Nothing much has changed about the bathroom, and that includes it's occupants, as well; Edward still slams his back against the wall of the third stall from the left, still braces his right foot against the edge of the toilet bowl as he pushes back with his shoulders against the corner of the wall and the door, and still ignores how much his voice echoes as he howls his laments for the entire world to hear.
—"hate you, hate you, HATE YOU!"—
—and he still uses the goddamned automail, and still clenches his fist in a way that is sure to bring about more pain than pleasure, and he still manages to make the style of self-gratification look like a pathetic spider's plot that he cannot escape from, and yet again, Roy feels the blood rush to his head.
"...goddamned...bastard... w-why don't you...fucking...n-notice me?!" the blonde half-yells, half-cries as he comes, and Roy remembers how, the very first time, the boy had gasped beautifically and worn an expression of fleeting euphoria at that time; this time, there is nothing but mutual misery and the sound of Edward's hollow, dry sobs, and his face contorts into a terrible mask of agony and wrath.
The truth is, the younger alchemist is not entirely incorrect. Roy notices him, far more than he notices most people, but the fruitless irony of the situation will forever lie in the fact that he does not notice Edward that way, simply because it's something he cannot bring himself to do. Unfortunately, he has gotten himself far too attached to the boy—and, to a lesser extent, the boy's brother—and in a streak of bitterness stemming from the fact that Fullmetal refuses to let himself be loved like a son, Roy has let the situation grow entirely too far beyond his reach of control.
Edward, he is starting to understand now, only loves him because he hates him, in the like extreme.
It is of no surprise to anyone when Roy punches out from the office early, because thunderclouds are blooming in the east and he is infamous for his dislike of foul weather. The rain has not started yet, though, so he makes the trek home on the sidewalk, feeling the humid wind ruffle his hair and make clammy his hands and cheeks; he turns his head to the sky and sees several leaves get whisked off into the merciless air, and finds it situationally ironic. He was the leaf getting whisked away in the force of the storm, and around his presence, Edward shakes like the foilage from all of the old stories.
A red flag whipping in the breeze catches his attention.
Across the street, staring at him darkly through the sheen of golden bangs, is Edward. The look on his face is horrifying, simply because of the sheer amount of emotion within it, all love and hatred and desire. He stays still for a moment, perhaps to get some sort of hidden point across, then whirls abruptly on his feet, pushing through huge iron gates that creak loudly, proclaiming—inalterably—the boy's entrance into the East City Cemetery.
There are, of course, people hurrying home on the streets who glance at the blonde oddly, but no one stops nor says anything, and Roy supposes that they probably give him odd looks, as well, when he takes a deep breath, slowly, then suddenly plunges across the street to chase after his prodigal son.
October had come and blessed them with an Indian summer, but the wind is whirling and chilly as the colonel tucks his chin even further into his collar and stamps his feet, blowing on his hands and wrapping them around his arms tightly. Glacial drops of rain are beginning to fall now, in fat drops that cling to his eyelashes and form frozen tears when he blinks. Cold weather has never been his strong point, and he wishes he was at home right now, with a warm fire crackling and a good shot of brandy to go along with his newspaper, but instead he is shivering in the cold, getting wet, and running through a blackened and creepy cemetery in his neverending search for gold.
He doesn't bother to call out Edward's name, because he knows, somehow, that the blonde won't answer, and therefore, he is not at all surprised to see the blood-red fabric of the younger alchemist's coat snagged carelessly against a tree branch, a clue that is subtlely trying to be an accident, but is of course a very obvious indicator of the boy's desire to be caught. He starts for that beacon of red light, in a small patch of forestry that is not technically a part of the cemetery, but there are still a few older tombstones scattered throughout the trees, as he discovers when he trips over one and nearly breaks his nose against a gnarled tree root that is sticking out of the ground.
The sky is growing dark with impending rain, and so Roy keeps his eyes on the ground, and it is only the flash of fading sunlight against metal that causes him to look upwards. His eyes are met with the sight of the Fullmetal Alchemist standing atop the crumbling remains of a mausoleum, legs squared firmly, shirt missing and black jacket flapping open in the gale, one arm balled into a fist at his side, and the other stretched out towards the trees, holding what appears to be two aesthetic-looking javelins pointed against the stone.
"Fight me," Edward says lowly and desperately, from his place in the air.
There is a moment when Roy can only gape at him. "Wh...What?"
"You heard me!" the blonde yells, and almost in response, the wind howls with him. Roy has to dig his heels in to keep from being toppled over, and it takes him a moment to regain his balance. As he does, the boy speaks again. "Fight me." A sharp inhalation. "Just... Just this once. N-Not to the death, or anything stupid like that. Just...fight me. Please."
And in that moment, the older alchemist can almost understand. Fighting, to the boy, would equal something closely akin to foreplay, something that will let him pound his frustration into patience and slightly musty-smelling earth, something that will strip away all of the anger, and unwillingness, and reveal to him the true nature of his attentions, and Roy lets out his breath with a rueful smile.
"All right," he relents.
Edward looks relieved for a moment, but then his look turns dangerously sharp, and he jumps down from the top of the mausoleum into the spongy moss of the forest, and starts walking towards his commanding officer. "Here," he says curtly, stopping a good five or so yards away, and tosses the older man the longer of the two javelins, a fact which is darkly amusing. "And in case you're wondering about the rules—well, there are no rules."
And in a flash of awe-inspiring speed, the boy grins—a feral flash of slightly pointy teeth—and charges.
Roy barely has time to act, and when he does so, he does so reflexively; he brings the pole section of his polearm up to block, and wonders then why the hell Edward had to choose something so hopelessly phallic—fighting is easiest when used with fists or swords, but of course the blonde would think that he would love nothing more than to spear his superior officer, in one way or another.
The two of them skid backwards for a moment from the resistance, and Edward seems aggravatingly pleased. "Good," he says heavily, eternally out of breath, and surges forward again. "Don't hold back."
It was annoying because Roy wasn't holding back, and yet he felt himself being pushed back even farther and farther towards the edge of that sparse forest, and by the time he even considers ending this ridiculous altercation with a simple snap of his explosive alchemy, the sky has opened up above the two of them and his gloves are soaked. It is all he can do to defend, and though it's nerve-wracking and frightening and tense, at the same time, he sees all of that depressingly pent-up frustration start to leak out of Edward's frame, and thinks perhaps that it might be worth it.
And he is forced ever-backwards, passing Edward's coat from where it hung at the edge of the woodland, passing row after row of soldier's memorials. He ducks a high swing, crouching down on his knees, and at the same time, swings the point of his javelin up, towards that insufferably skinny neck, and at the same time, he feels the edge of a similar steel blade resting dangerously on the Adam's apple of his own throat. In that instant, in response to their inevitable standoff, Edward's face goes from pleased, to immediately chaotic.
"Not a draw!" he yowls as though in pain, grabbing the two javelins and accidentally nicking he and his companion's throats as he throws the objects behind another row of headstones, the rain streaking his face as though it was tears. "Not in this."
And as he pushes Roy down, and his hands find the collar of the man's coat instead of his throat, and his lips swing down to crush the other's in a heartbreakingly needy kiss, the older alchemist is not in the least bit surprised.
And he is not in the least bit inclined to push away, either.
"Think carefully, Fullmetal," Roy advises almost paternally as the blonde abandons his mouth for the lines of his throat, biting and gnashing his teeth together in a way that is full of more anger than it is full of ardor. "Assure yourself that this is absolutely everything that you want, and not a childish leap for equality...before you do anything rash."
"Sh-Shut up," Edward demands, words muffled by the older man's neck, and bites harder, pressing close enough with his body that the act is unbearably uncomfortable, and damned near suffocating, as well. "D-Don't say a fucking thing, unless i-it's to tell me h-how much you l-love me."
He is shaking, with either effort or uncertainty, and his arms keep the colonel's arms pinned and spread out to the side, like they are both martyrs on some unholy cross. They are muddy and filthy and disgusting, spattered with dirt and rain, and each time Edward groans, and pushes down with his hips, Roy can feel himself sinking even farther into the ground. That fact is only made more discomfiting by the marble gravestones not two feet from his head, and the knowledge that lifeless husks are buried beneath him; he doesn't want to die, doesn't want to be buried alongside with them by an overexcitable blonde.
So he arches up, ignoring the painful—not a single form of pleasurable, either—bites that are being carved into his neck, and responds in juxtaposition, gently kissing Edward's collarbone before skirting around the automail and laying his lips on that (boyishly skinny) neck.
At the contact, the blonde starts, and stiffens, jerking back to regard the older alchemist with a baleful glare that is just short of terrified. "Wh-What are you doing?" he queries loudly, words nearly lost in the rage of the storm, and when Roy doesn't answer, he lets out frustrated and almost mournful sort of baying sound before shrugging his shoulders out of his jacket violently and throwing it into the air, where it was lost completely by the gale. "This is hell, you know!" he shouts miserably, letting go of the dark-haired man's arms to slam his palms wetly into the ground, sending mud splattering in every direction. His face is close, now, too close, and Roy can see that yes, rain is not the only liquid that is pouring down the boy's face. "I really, really don't like you, but every time I think about how much I want to bash your face in, I...I—!" Lacking words to properly describe it, the blonde gestures downward, to the obvious bulge in his tight leather pants, before snarling most viciously and lowering his head again.
The boy's teeth are formidable weapons, as Roy finds out over the next few minutes, as his lips are gnashed and gnawed upon until they bleed, and his earlobes feel like they have nearly been pulled down to his shoulders, but he grits his own teeth against the pain and lets Edward have his way with him, lets himself be used and abused and noosed thoroughly by a rope made out of mud-spattered blonde hair. There is nothing particularly arousing about the situation, and it's something that seems to be universal, not something that is brought about the situational dislike of pain, and he figures that, rhetorically, arousal is simply one of those things that he'll never feel towards Edward, any other emotion on the physcological scale notwithstanding. But this is something that the blonde seems to need, a need greater than the need for food or drink or any other existential requirement, and so the older alchemist beats his morals down, tilts his head up, and captures softly snarling lips with his own.
Edward starts again, and twitches, and seems uncomfortable, but as his lips are nudged open by a gently explorative tongue, he opens his mouth, loosens his grip a bit on Roy's shoulders, then finds his aggression again and takes initiative, deepening the kiss and rallying with his own tongue, though thank God he'd finally given it up with the teeth.
His aggression seems to be fueled by arousal, now, instead of that strange mixture of agony and contempt, and the soft noises he makes from his throat strike a chord from somewhere deep within the colonel's chest that sends sparks shooting through his stomach and all the way into his groin. He wants the freedom to move, suddenly, and breaks away for a moment, flexing his hands a bit and rolling his shoulders upward.
The point gets across to Edward, who braces himself on the ground instead of on the older man's shoulders, and glares down at him momentarily before kissing him again, inadvertantly slipping a bit with his boots in the mud, nose a little bit red, and a little bit drippy from the cold.
"We should...get out of the rain," Roy murmurs against insistent lips, and all he gets in return is a growled "no" for an answer. He wriggles around for a bit, squirming out of his greatcoat, and Edward squirms as well, in response, hasty and harried and almost sort of heckled, from the way he seems so annoyed and embarrassed all at once. He snarls again, in impatience, as Roy unearths his muddy, yet still warm, greatcoat out from underneath his legs, and throws it protectively over the blonde's back, thinking through his haze of pain and occassional pleasure that it would be a terrible thing if Edward were to catch a cold from this encounter.
"All of it," the boy hisses, and tugs at the lapels of the colonel's uniform to elaborate. He even sits up on his knees, for a moment, to assist with the clothing removal, and whips his own belt free carelessly, flinging it to lay, in a leather stripe, across a fallen soldier's tombstone. His hands are cold and he scratches with his fingernails as pushes Roy's jacket off of his shoulders, and he doesn't bothering with undoing the buttons of the man's shirt, simply rips and pops them all with arduous abandon.
"You're warm," he breathes smolderingly, and runs his hands over the older man's chest, shoulders, stomach, everything. "Fucking warm—it burns like fire." It seems to incite him even further, and he lowers his head to use his goddamned teeth again, nipping at ribs and nipples and the ridge of a narrow navel, and tattooes kisses all over the place, leaving sticky lines of spit to get washed away in the rain. "This—fuck! Having you. Still and warm and entirely in my hands." Edward breathes out, harshly, and trails his cold nose up and down the line of Roy's abdomen, creating goosebumps in the flesh of it's wake. "All I ever wanted," he sighs, in that moment sounding so close to contentment that it makes the older man want to cry.
Instead, he reaches up and straightens his coat from where it had begun to fall off of the blonde's shoulders, and smooths his hands gently down that muscled chest, quiet and soft in the face of the boy's almost enraged attentions. "Then take it," he says solemnly, eyes serious, but it only seems to make Edward angry again, as opposed to appeased.
"Don't fucking patronize me!" he roars, slamming his head down to connect their lips in a kiss that is hard and bruising, and causes their teeth to clink together audibly. "I've earned this, after all these years of putting up with your bullshit! I don't need your fucking permission for anything!" he adds at the end, and it makes Roy's blood run cold; didn't need permission, and he finds himself wondering, dizzily, how much longer it would have been until the blonde had simply snapped and taken what was his, had he not allowed the continuation of that very first kiss.
In a way, he does not mind this situation, though of course he is terrified at the implications of it all; however, he thinks that it's simply another thing Edward will do in excess, venting his frustration in the most extreme way possible, and though he cannot shake that feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, Roy decides, at last, that the least he can do for the boy is to respond in kind, and let himself enjoy it.
He lifts his head a little bit, and bends his neck down to nuzzle at the junction of a skinny neck and an automail shoulder, and uses one hand to steady himself in the mud, as the other works a black button open and a silver zipper down, and then he slips his hand inside of those tight leather pants, feeling the blonde's cock hot and hard against the flat of his hand.
For a moment, Edward freezes and whimpers above him, then buries his face into the older alchemist's neck as though ashamed, but there is no shame in the frenzied way his teeth have started up their biting again. His hand, previously tracing circles around the other man's nipple, drops for a moment to land on the button of standard-issue military trousers, but it is his automail hand, and Roy growls out a wordless warning, tightening his grip on the boy's shaft to get the message across. If Edward wanted to take a chance at emasculating himself every time he jerked off, then fine; it's a pain he's not willing to endure, however.
For a moment, he stays motionless and prone, simply marveling at the feel of the younger alchemist's cock beneath his hand—hot, huge, alive. He hears in his head a plea for attention reverbating off of sterilized bathroom walls before he circles his thumb and middle finger around the base and strokes.
"Mmmmph!" Edward groans, with feeling, and accidentally latches his teeth onto the pulsepoint of Roy's throat, biting hard enough to draw blood. His hands clench against the older man's shoulders painfully, and his hips stiffen and jerk forward of their own volition, bucking into a broad chest.
The dark-haired man leans back a bit, laying flat in the mud again and keeping his neck out of biting range, and keeps the rhythm going, slowly and smoothly, hmmming to himself a bit and feeling the first stirs of arousal pulse within himself in the face of the boy's red-faced frenzy.
"Faster," Edward half-orders, half-begs, attempting to speed the rhythm up himself with his hips, but the colonel gets a knee up, effectively pushing him back in place, and even smirks unforgiveably, just to rile the blonde up a little bit more. "No, dammit—!" A shriek, and the thrashing of limbs, which subsides into panting breaths and half-sobs. "F-Faster...!"
The rain splashes onto Roy's upturned face and he speeds up a bit, moving his thumb and forefinger up the blonde's cock, in a motion similar to that of pulling, or jerking, rubbing underneath the foreskin and thumbing the slit, thinking then of automail clenched into a fist that was far too tight to bring more pleasure than pain, and a rhythm that was grotesque and out-of-synch as though it was a punishment, and he barely manages to hide a grimace.
"Harder," Edward pleads, trying half-heartedly to pull away, but Roy's grip on him is iron, and his flat stare even more so. "C-Come on, you j-jackass... L-Like in my fantasies... For fuck's sake, be cruel to me," he pants out in an agonized whisper, eyes screwing shut with both effort and embarrassment, cheeks crimsoning from something other than the cold, teeth showing in an animalistic snarl.
It's monstrously pathetic, and it breaks something within the older alchemist, who swears then that the only way he will be cruel to this guilt-ridden young man is through his inability to be cruel; he will be the first person in this world to grace Edward Elric with sexual pleasure, and goddammit, he will be the best.
"Fullmetal," he says aloud, quietly, and with infinite patience, "to do that would turn this not into sex, but into...an act of violence." He takes a deep breath, and meets, unflinchingly, those desperate eyes. "And I will not make this rape." He offers up a strained smile, like offering up a steak bone to a teething labrador. "I'm afraid I'm much too fond of you to do that."
For a moment, Edward's eyes grow wide, and he breathes out the word "F-Fond?", high-pitched and gaspingly, before Roy's fingers fist around his cock entirely, jerk twice, and send him spiraling off into climax. He lets out a childish sort of wail before sucking air into his lungs, raggedly, and letting out a cry that, Roy is fairly certain, is loud enough to wake the bodies of the dead beneath them.
It's meant to be the end of the argument, and though Edward collapses against the older man's chest, breathing hard and letting his eyes sink closed slowly, he does not sleep, and speaks after a minute or two goes by.
"W...Wow," he pants, with all the eloquence and elegance of a child, his expression oddly solemn, his shoulders oddly tense. "Better than...I expected."
"I'm glad to hear it," Roy replies, quiet and dry, and notes that the wind has died down a bit, and that the rain is falling gently now. He starts to relax, in increments, and just as his arousal is finally starting to ebb, the blonde shifts against him, and murmurs:
"...There's more to this, isn't there...?"
Though his cock jumps traitorously at those words, Roy shakes his head. "Not today; I think we're finished here. You're cold, and wet, and exhau—"
His words are cut off as an automail hand slams gracelessly over his mouth, and Edward uproots himself from afterglow to glare at him disdainfully.
"If...If you're going to take me," he says slowly, clearly and distinctly, "then you'd better take me, goddammit, and that means all of me. It's... It's all right," he adds, and flushes a bit from embarrassment. "Maybe...I'm relaxed enough, now, t-to...take...three fingers, instead of just two. I-I mean! Of mine, that is, yours are—"
"You've been...practicing?" Roy coughs weakly, batting the blonde's hand away, eyebrows threatening to climb up into his scalp at the sheer surreality of it all. That's..." He doesn't know what the hell it is, so he shrugs helplessly, and figures that to go this last step probably wouldn't mean much of anything at all. He's already thrown away his integrity; it can't hurt, not really, to give Edward his last bit of self-control. "If you're sure," he says at last, still slightly doubtful, but there is no hesitance at all in the boy's nod.
"This is something that was also in all of my fantasies," he admits sheepishly, with a relaxed grin on his face, and Roy swallows a disgusting taste that has suddenly formed in his mouth.
"Well, then," he croaks, pushing himself at last to a sitting position, "why don't we turn that fantasy into a reality?"
Up in the air, one hand in the mud, and the other buried in a blushing and somewhat uncomfortable-looking Edward, Roy becomes frightfully aware of the smooth stone of the gravestones around him. A cemetery seems to be the most morbid and tawdry place in the entire world to have sex, and yet they are doing it, as surely and as certainly as the gray stormclouds are dropping rain onto their clenched fists, into their open mouths. It desecrates the dead, even, and makes their memories even more envious of the living—the ultimate act, meant to spurt forth and spawn new life (though of course, in their case, it wouldn't)—to be carried out in such a dreadfully dismal field of death.
There is a poeticism to it, as well as an irony, that is nothing short of comical.
"Ooh, there," the little golden seraph beneath him purrs, a bit more lucid and awake than he had been earlier, but his eyes are still glazed with the post-coital glow of a first pleasure, and when he arches his back up and clenches down on those stroking fingers, there is a languidness to his frame that had not been there before. "You're... You're not half-bad at this, y-you shit."
"I'll take that as a compliment," the colonel replies sarcastically, and pauses for a moment to retract his fingers, cover them again with a bit of the oil that had coincidentally been crammed into Fullmetal's pants pocket earlier that day (he refused to believe that the 'coincidence' was indeed one, and not something purposefully planned), and reinsert them as gently as he could, wincing a bit and murmuring something both reassuring and apologetic at the answering hiss.
Second Lieutenant Charles Wellington, the tombstone directly in front of Roy's eyes reads, devoted father, soldier, and brother; and he snorts darkly, without amusement—add a 'lover' onto the end of that, and one would have a list of all of the societal figures that he glorified and personified to Edward Elric, though they were not all necessarily by choice. He rubs along what he supposes is the prostrate—he has no fucking clue! it was actually Fullmetal who had to tell him what to do, in the first place, like he was some pimply-faced virgin again!—and listens to the sighs, the sharp inhalations, and even the occassional squeal that rises up beneath him, a symphony of sound that was perfect to accompany the falling sky.
"Do it," he hears from below, and as he takes his fingers out, lines his cock up against the edge of the boy's muddy little hole, coats himself shakily with oil, and pushes in, he can't be sure whether the voice he hears is coming from Edward, or from the very depths of hell.
It is something that, he had thought when this encounter had first began, he would never be able to derive any pleasure from, but the rain has slowed to a feathery drizzle and Edward groans and squirms in the mud beneath him, all tight heat and childish glee, and it's all the older alchemist can do to keep his head. He goes slowly, despite insistent pleas that he pick up the pace, and each stroke is another nail in his coffin, where he will join the brave souls of the dead who gather to form a wall of rock around them in this cemetery of the deceased.
He bends over, making the angle uncomfortable for himself, but it doesn't matter, because all he wants to do is throw his arms around that pathetically skinny neck and pull a mud-splattered blonde head to his chest, which he does, breathing rough and ragged, hips arching and accelerating, involuntarily going against his word and making the act violent, to which Edward breathes out a heady stream of encouragement and digs his nails into the other man's back, matching each stroke with one of his own, rolling and riding and taking his superior officer's self-control and running with it, fucking running—
There is an image of a firebird on the tombstone of Second Lieutenant Charles Wellington, and it is that image that Roy's eyes fall upon as he comes, choking on his words and his disgust, seeing that fabled phoenix blur and refract as the rainwater from his hair comes dripping down into his eyes, gasping aloud hoarsely as though he is a diver who has just spent too much time underwater. His eyes widen for a moment—see that phoenix as clear as day, or as clear as the dead—and then he screws them shut, falling forward as his muscles are released as well as his pleasure, noting with some idle dismay that he has just squashed the body beneath him even further into the muddy ground.
Edward pulls his head out from underneath the older man's shoulder with a wet popping noise, twitching and looking somewhat irritated, but at the hazy look on his companion's face, the look softens quite a bit, and he wriggles the automail free to brush dark bangs out of a placid face. "Mmm..." he starts uncomfortably, shifting a bit in the mud, and Roy cracks an eye open blearily.
"...heavy?" he queries listlessly, waiting for his heartbeat to slow to normal.
"No, but I'm..." Another shift, and Edward sighs, damned near long-sufferingly. "Never mind; just...don't move—"
Dimly, Roy feels a warm hand and an even warmer erection press up against his stomach, but he doesn't move, instead listens half-heartedly to Edward's gasps and grunts and stifled little noises as the boy uses a well-toned abdomen as a sort of personal self-gratifier, creating friction between the colonel's skin and the flat of his own hand, closing his eyes and biting down on his lip in an attempt to be quiet. After a few minutes, there is a particularly hard rub, an almost surprised exclamation of "Ah—!", and a splash of hot liquid against the older alchemist's chest, and Edward goes still and impressively limp beneath him, betrayed from sleep, however, by that omnipresent quickness of his breath.
A breeze blows hollowly across the cemetery, and the rain has stopped entirely.
After a time, the breeze grows colder, and Edward starts shivering. He asks, once, "J-Just h-how long a-are you p-plannin' on l-lying there?" but doesn't speak again when he gets no answer, instead shakes and lies otherwise still, as though he is afraid to move, afraid to break this one and only moment of mutual understanding that the two of them will ever have between them, and Second Lieutenant Charles Wellington is probably glaring down on the two of them from his spot in the afterlife.
Eventually, when the blonde's shivering grows enough to make Roy feel concern for his physical health, the contact is finally broken; the colonel pushes himself up, grimacing at the almost startling revelation that he is caked and covered with dried mud, utterly nude in a cemetery from where he had just had sex with the Fullmetal Alchemist for...well, virtually no reason at all. To make the kid feel better, he supposes, though he doubts either one of them feels good about this situation at all.
"Hold on," Edward says as Roy reaches for his muddy and ruined pants. The blonde claps his hands and alchemizes the mud off of their bodies, off of their clothes, and the two of them get dressed in an almost awkward silence. They have to make a little trek through the cemetery to retrieve Edward's red coat, still hanging valiantly from it's spot on the tree; it takes them a bit longer to find his black jacket, which is discovered halfway across the field blackening the tombstone of one Captain Sheldon Mariott, and they can't find his tank top at all, a fact which the blonde shrugs off carelessly and says isn't anything for him to buy another one.
In silence they walk up to the cemetery gates, and as Edward creaks open the rusty metal and is about to walk on his way down the street, Roy lunges forward and grabs him by the arm.
"Edward," he asks, and he is the one who is slightly out of breath, and the boy turns to look at him with a flatly inquisitive stare that is terrifying: "Would... Would you like to stay the night, perhaps...? I'm...sure it's been a while since you've had something real to eat, and..." He takes a deep breath, and hates himself for sounding so childish. "..and I'm certain that...you and I could find...quite a lot of things to talk about..."
And the boy grins at him, with that same eerily insane calm, that same pyschopathic relaxation, and tugs his arm relentlessly out of the older man's grip.
"Nah, I don't think so," he says, then shrugs, still smiling slightly. "I'd probably just get angry at you, like I always do."
And he jogs light-heartedly down the street, stops at the corner of the block, and waves cheerfully before turning behind a wall and disappearing out of sight, leaving Roy left to purge a firebird from his head and a fresh wound from his heart.