Dance the Dead Awake

Night stretched long and blue and shadowy over Dante's parlor, and cooling blood and melted Stones pooled round Ed's boots and soaked the knees of Greed's pants, and the array—transmuted from crucified serpent to the seven-point phoenix Ed had almost used in the Lab—glowed dim and gathering bloody red, the coiled power of alchemy, ready to spring, awaiting the substitute death that would come to it in sacrifice.

It had been Ed's idea to start with, as Greed slid slow and choking off the blade that had punched through his gut—because Ed had missed, spun too low, struck away from heart or lungs or ribs, leaving Greed the slow, agonizing death of a stomach wound. Because Ed was boiling sick with guilt, screaming that Greed couldn't die—because there had been the monster in the array when he was eleven, there had been his brother's empty clothes when he was eleven, and he couldn't be worse, he couldn't let himself be worse, but Greed was dying on the marble by his hand, he was going to be a killer. But Greed a homunculus with the potential for resurrection—but all his lives were sloshing on the floor, and they needed to be put back into him; and he needed, for a little healing, a little death.

Ed's hands, still charged from when he'd clapped them, were white-knuckled on Greed's shoulders, a thumb over each node of the array that wrapped close to his neck, and one of Greed's hands was carbon black and planted on his bare ass, bracing him, and the other was clamped round the base of his cock because he was already too fucking close to coming, and Greed, lips wrapped over jagged teeth, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, had closed the circle between them by swallowing him hard and sweet and deep into his throat.

Ed wobbled—that was what the hand was for, holding him up with homunculus strength. Ed closed his eyes and saw sparks, because he was a virgin—that was part of why Greed had thought this might work—because he had never, ever felt anything like this before, because he'd known just his hand and Greed had centuries of practice. Greed hummed, salacious contented, vibrating softly around him, and Ed bit back a howl of pleasure, automail fingers drawing the tiniest trickle of blood.

"You're crazy," Greed had whispered, "but you're my kind of crazy, and this might not work, but what the hell?"

It would figure, Ed thought, that he'd lose his virginity in the middle of a half-Ishbalan array for the Stone, to an ancient homunculus, still bloodstained and stinking from a pitched battle, with dead bodies in the corner of the room. It was just the kind of madness his life would give him.

"Transmute me," Greed had whispered. "Transmute me when the array flares, when you come. No soul to get in the way, after all, no chance of you fucking up, right?"

Ed had suggested it, groping madly for some kind of salvation; Greed, dying with the wry acceptance granted only to the ancient, threw a few suggestions in from curiosity, but it wasn't until Ed impatiently clapped his hands and transmuted all his own clothes to shreds that Greed's eyes sparked, raked over scars and automail and compact muscle, the sudden and painfully embarrassed flush, curling stiff golden hair, cock limp but that could always be fixed...

"Don't worry," Greed had whispered. "I'll take care of your little death. You just transmute me..."

Greed could have this boy—even if the transmutation didn't work, well, it was a hell of a way to go out, with a beautiful, brilliant, powerful, virgin alchemist moaning his way to orgasm in his mouth, learning, shaking with pleasure, becoming his. And Ed, Ed was losing it fast, only Greed's hands keeping him from bucking wild into his face, and his own hands were twitching, locked in place over the array nodes only by implacable Elric will, and Greed, if he could, would have smiled, would have whispered, "So beautiful, so mine," as sweat glinted between flesh and automail and golden bangs fell into eyes screwed shut, but he was too busy working up the underside of Ed's cock, meticulously hunting for the most sensitive spot—

And Ed lost it entirely, screamed like a hawk, came so very hard, and Greed swallowed it all down to torn stomach, milking him as Ed shuddered against him, and alchemy flared, and the circle sheeted in red light, and by some blind twitch of instinct in the post-orgasmic haze Ed seized at the surging transmutation, directed it, hauled Greed's cells back into place with that painstaking knowledge of the human body he'd drilled into his head when he was but a child—

The light faded. Greed pulled away from Ed's cock and crowed with laughter as his hands found the smooth restored skin of his stomach, and Ed's knees buckled and he slumped into the homunculus' arms, red and limp and slippery with sweat, swearing weakly as Greed patted him on the back—but at least, at least, he'd saved himself from one more sin.