To say that Roy was concerned would be an understatement. He really couldn’t be held to a promise made when his twenty-two-year-old lover’s very splendid cock was buried balls-deep in his ass, could he?
And yet here he was, pacing the living room floor in coat-tails and a rather jaunty top had that Riza and Fuery had assured him was more rakish than nancy, dangerously close to being late for his own Inaugural Ball—and Edward was upstairs in their bedroom, getting dressed. Without help. Without, in fact, any input from Roy at all.
It was sure to be a disaster.
True, gone were those early days when Ed was even younger and more nubile and could still squeeze himself into those leather pants, and so wanted to wear them everywhere, including formal affairs. Luckily he’d grown out of them—and was so proud of the height he gained that Roy convinced him to pick out new clothes to celebrate his new taller self rather than simply tailor the leather with alchemy.
Still, as Roy looked at his watch for the eighteenth time in the last seven minutes, he couldn’t help but remember the last Inaugural Ball they’d attended together, when he’d let Ed dress himself and come downstairs to find him waiting in a fire-truck-red suit with shoulderpads almost twice as broad as Ed’s actual shoulders, and a tie clipped with a three-inch flaming skull. Or that dinner with the Aruegan ambassadors, when Roy went straight from work and found Ed arguing politics with his mouth full, still wearing the coffee-stained white coat and chalk-covered trousers he’d left for the lab in that morning.
Still, Ed was a grown-up now, in many respects; his temper had cooled a fraction, he’d learned not to swear so much in public or show the masticated contents of his mouth to anyone but his brother, and yes, his wardrobe had been toned down little by little. It had been years since Roy let Ed completely dress himself, though, and he was being so secretive about his “special outfit” for Roy’s “special night” that really, anything was possible.
He was still fretting, and definitely at least two minutes late, when Ed’s familiar tread sounded on the stairs. It wasn’t the usual galumphing of when he was in a rush—rather, the distracted, uneven sound of when Ed was unsure about something.
If there is a God…please let Edward at least be presentable...!
Roy turned as his lover paused at the foot of the staircase, face open and eager, and heartbreakingly hopeful. Oh, how Roy loved him when he tried so hard, no matter what he was actually wearing...
He was wearing...
An extremely well-tailored suit, wine-dark red and edged in muted gold, with a high Xingese collar that he’d left open to flare out away from his neck, lengthening the already blissful expanse of his throat. Gold fastenings down the front, just three of them; the jacket tapered in at the waist and then flared just barely again, the bottom open just enough to show a sliver of a black shirt beneath and frame, subtly but in a way that was making Roy sweat, the fly of his pants. Very well-fitted, immaculately pressed pants. Ed didn’t have to turn for Roy to know what his ass would look like in those pants.
And, Heavens above, dress shoes, shined until they gleamed, the sort of fine leather Roy knew must have cost a fortune, the sort Roy knew Ed always groused about him spending money on.
“Is it...is it okay? It’s not too much color, right? Al picked out the jacket, sent it from Xing, he said it was the most understated thing he could find that would suit me...”
Roy gaped open-mouthed, and did a few fast calculations in his head. Oh, fuck it, he thought as Ed watched him with those hopeful eyes, waiting for the okay. I’m the Fuhrer now. I can be as late to my own party as I damn well please.
“Roy? What are you—mmmph—does that mean you like—hah, mmmm—we’re gonna be la—ah, don’t, don’t wrinkle it you pervy bast—ahhh...”