Roy's personal library is big and metallic and dark, lit by high fraught windows and dusty old lamps. Ed loves the way their voices crack and echo off the ceiling, the solid, curved weight of the book spines pressed against his back and how he can follow the faint lines of their handprints all over the shiny wood tabletops in the morning. They don't talk about it—they don't need to—because it's still there, in a brush of fingertips in a hallway or while Ed leans his forehead against the cool shower tile and just. Remembers.
"It's good to know I can still catch you offguard," Roy says and his lips twist sardonic, linger against his own.
Bastard, Ed thinks, only half-heartedly, because well. Yeah. Get it right and be honest, it's a little too good, a little too everything to let go of just yet. He rolls his hips in lieu of an insult, a slow slide of fabric that sparks stars behind his eyes and cages a sharp exhale at the back of Roy's throat.
"There was a distinct lack of 'catching', Colonel, the books and I could hear you coming a mile away," Ed hisses through his teeth, hopes it sounds frantic-angry and not frantic-desperate, "it was a blatant attack—" Roy hums, amused, his tongue tracing the curve between Ed's ear and jawline, "underhanded," stray hands scorch up Ed's spine, twist under his shirt, "...and totally unfair."
Roy grins faintly, presses Ed harder against the edge of the table and drags a slow, shaky index finger along the heated swell of Ed's pants, "I'm having a really hard time believing you have a problem with it, Fullmetal."
Ed's hands reach over the rough cotton of the dress shirt (a debauched sort of wrinkled now) to tangle in Roy's collar, wrenching them together, nose to nose, just close enough for Ed to sweep his lips down the curl of Roy's ear, "If you ever stopped being so damned irritating I'd start to worry. You have a," he flails a illustrating hand, "Colonel Mustang image. Thing. To maintain." Kisses him again. Hard. Nothing slow and sweet about it this time, all teeth and desperation, with a hot slide of tongue that makes Ed's knees want to buckle and his head spin.
Roy's leg comes up in response, destroying Ed's tenuous balance and as he tumble-falls-sprawls onto the table he wraps his fingers around the back of Roy's neck, drags him down in a flurry of limbs and frantic hands. He laughs as he goes, tightly hysterical, because he knows this is ridiculous. They both do. Black and white and wrong all over. There are explicit rules about it; fra-tern-ization, section c, sub-section 356 in the Big Book Of What Not To Do To A Superior Officer (Or Vice Versa). They were both ignoring the tiny postscript that states this infraction would strip them of their pretty silver watches and their eternal souls.
He wonders if it's wrong that he's more concerned about the watch.
Ed doesn't feel the emphatic snap of his head and back hitting the wood, just hears the echo of it shoot off the walls and pool on the ceiling. He stares up after it for a second, up there at some point he can't even see, and drinks in the sensation of Roy's body pressed along him and the hammering skip of their heartbeats thumping deafening in his ears. Roy feels like he always does, heavy and warm and somehow, Ed waxes delirious, full of tea.
The heel of Roy's palm starts pushing up at his shirt and Ed comes gasping uselessly out of his stupor just as Roy's lips begin to trace a wet and feverish-hot path up the uncovered skin. Ed lets his hands slide up to flick and curse their way along Roy's shirt, and he hates each button passingly as he fights them free. Pauses, trembling, to hate the military even more for their ugly foresight. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his own shirt tossed wide to the left, swallowing up the "Morals Of Alchemy" text lying on the floor while his pants land to the right, pooling around the thick black volume simply labeled "Logistics". Gone (in more ways than one). Forgotten to the teeth now stinging across his collarbone.
Roy has scars, twelve of them, Ed has counted them with his tongue before, has lifted his eyebrows at Roy's muted expression on the matter whenever he baits; "Mine are bigger." He runs his thumb down the one that stretches across Roy's hipbone and Roy shivers, arcs his flushed skin up into an unsteady thrust of movement, forces them into syrupy momentum; a slow, lazy rocking of limbs that punctuates the rising throb of heat that mumbles down Ed's spine and collects there. Ed's fingers scramble white-knuckled along the table as the tempo begins to pick up, shattering straight through need into mounting desperation with a sharp push and catch of hips. The lights throbbing blue and bright behind his eyes begin to flicker intense as a hand slides up between his legs, drifting up his thigh, and stroking until his mind begins to blur. Soon. He presses that fact onto Roy's skin; soon. Lets his eyes roll to the ceiling to tell it too; soon. He leans in hopefully when Roy grazes his cheek with a quick sloppy kiss, but then—
the hands are gone, all too gone, suddenly, and there's nothing. Ed feels Roy's weight lift off of him and hears him thud away with winding, uncertain footsteps.
"Where'd you?" Ed looks up, addled, and his teeth click together when he sees Roy hovering nearby, tiny tube in hand and standing haloed bright with lines of sweat and angry red daybreak. Ed feels a groan rumble in his chest and he flails an arm out pathetically, croaks, "Roy." Then clears his throat and tries again in unfocussed frustration, deliriously searching for words. Language. Something vaguely demand like. Get your ass back here now.
Roy sways back, all in the hips—because simply walking isn't Roy enough, oh no—and Ed drops his hand suddenly, swiftly catching Roy's fingers just as they move to brush over him. Roy's eyes snap up in surprise, "You sure know how to ruin a moment, Fullmetal."
Ed rubs a thumb along the fragile skin on the underside of Roy's wrist, and squeezes tight, his smile rare with edges, "No." He reaches out and pops the lube lid with a flick of a thumb, "I can do it."
He dribbles a bit of it over his palm, lets it run cool and shiny and slick along the pads of his fingers as he twines his hand into Roy's with a smooth, wet caress. Ed's lifts his gaze, searches out Roy's ("watching?") as he guides their hands down, down, down over shivering skin and Roy's pupils are widening, soaking black and dancing wild as—slowly, deliberately—Ed leads Roy's fingers inside him. Ed's neck stretches back at the familiar burn, the smooth slide of movement, and he purrs (Roy following the vibration with his tongue), shoving his hips up and driving deeper in a silent, breathless coax.
Something incoherent begins to rage at the back of Ed's mind as the pressure suddenly changes, becomes thicker, and Roy mutters "stay with me" against the skin of his shoulder as he pushes, slides in, slides down, in one smooth movement that causes a strained stream of obscenties to roll from Ed's dry lips and bounce ad infinitum off the ceiling.
"Hmmmm," Roy mumbles and tips his forehead into Ed's temple, breathes against his cheek. Ed presses his head back into the wood as he pulls in a long shuddering breath, whispers "now" and shifts his hips. Just. There. And it's more than before, much much much more, a twisting imperfect rhythm that burns behind his eyelids. Ed's back arches up from the table as the blood pounds in his ears, boom boom boom, and Roy's hands twitch and grip feebly against his hips. Roy reaches down between them, frees Ed's hand from its death grip on the table edge and brings their fingers together around Ed in an uneven, desperate upward stroke of onetwothree. Rough and hard, just enough. It's anticipation, the worst kind, shiny and tight and right there and Roy's thrusts are becoming staccato, frenzied, pushing again, hard, one last time and—
—somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, it's enough, it's everything all at once, finally, and Roy suddenly stiffens above him, tightening in a sweat licked slide. Ed clings as hard as he can because he's falling, lost in the static and the light and the absolute shattering behind his eyes. There's a wild cry ripping up the back of throat but it misses the air, gets caught up in Roy's wordless, open kiss that is shaped like Ed's name and then tangles in the big, messy descent of It's Over.
Roy lands beside him with a slick flop and Ed breathes, really breathes, to the lowest depths of lungs, blinking furiously as the light above him swims in and out of focus signaling The End in its own bright, intrusive way.
It's too quiet now, Ed thinks and closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of a moth clinking against the light bulb, once, twice, again and loses himself in the heavy slow exchange of their breathing, back and forth, forth and back. It reminds him of the ocean. He feels, somehow, that he should be babbling now, or something, because he's starting to dwell on useless, fuzzy things like happiness. Because he is. Happy, that is. And god, Roy would be appalled.
There's a glide of sweat-sticky lips across his forehead and Ed opens an eye, makes a bunched up expression of distaste when he realizes Roy is staring at him. The furrowed anxiety lining Roy's face seems to soften for a moment and his eyes drop, lips opening in empty sound and back stiff with intention. It flounders around for a beat, or two, until Roy shakes his head and his mouth snaps shut, curling up into an ironic grin.
Ed snorts, "You weren't about to say something sappy were you?" he flops his automail arm across the table with a heavy rattle, fingers twitching towards the window and its sunset of violent red and red on orange, head and body stretching to the warmth of the fading day, "Something about how great I look sprawled out all over your ugly, expensive furniture?"
Roy laughs and rolls on top of him, "Absolutely not."
"Alright," he presses his nose and hands into Roy's neck, tangles his fingers in the damp hair and inhales the smell of him, "Good." Hesitates then, because it sounds weak and his throat feels strangely thick, "neither was I."