Alphonse wakes him in the grey hours before dawn, voice warm against his ear, and Ed shifts just slightly under the gentle pressure of fingertips tracing along his ribs.
The smaller boy doesn't respond at first, burrows deeper into the soft folds of his pillow and mumbles sleepily that it's far too early. But then the words come, low and pleading—"Brother… you promised!"—and a single eye cracks open to peer blearily at features touched with shadow in the still-dark room.
"Fine," Ed tells him after a moment, and the joy that lights his brother's face is absolutely breathtaking.
The sunrise is spectacular, and it is the first that Edward has been awake to see in years; he's resisted this for longer than he can remember, protesting always that it is too much trouble, sleep too precious, a sunset is just as good.
Al knows better.
Grey fades to pink, a lovely, fragile glow of a color that reaches out its fingers to light up clouds hanging low in the early morning sky. They watch together as the streaks of rose give way and the horizon fades out to delicate eggshell blue, brightening.
Ed seems incapable of looking away.
The day is warm and heady, thick with the smell of growing things.
It is a good heat, and Ed breathes it in slowly, loving the way that he can taste summer in his lungs. If he's still, nothing aches, and that is a rare occurrence indeed—because there are so many old wounds, and harsh weather is cruel to him.
But lying here, slatted wood of the dock solid beneath him, Edward can't bring himself to worry about old pains.
Beside him, his brother draws back to cast again; the lure sails out to the middle of the lake.
They are both filthy with half-dry lake mud, but neither cares; their hands are much too busy, and their mouths.
They act as though it is the first time—golden skin not quite the same shade all subject to the glide of searching fingers. The grass is cool beneath them, soft enough to cushion when clothes fall away.
The touches become more focused as urgency escalates; the smaller boy pants unabashedly, begs for harder, faster, more.
When a single leave drifts from the branches above to settle in Ed's hair, neither notices—but Al will tease him, when they've finished.
They watch the sun go down together, sated and drowsy; neither has bothered to pull his shirt back on, and Ed is content with merely boxers, lounging stretched against his brother's seated form.
The sky burns bright with oranges and reds, enrapturing two sets of wondering eyes. But it is Ed that looks away first, mind still full of the paler colors of morning.
And as he turns, he pauses, golden eyes catching something on the other horizon.
"Al," he says. "The moon."
It rises round and pale and full; they stay to watch until it is high above them.