It was a bit of a stretch to get to his glasses on the nightstand, but although he grumbled under his breath, Ed didn't mind particularly. As usual, a pile of books that he (or the Major General) had been digging through rests in a precarious pile next to the bed, and Ed grabs the first three so he can get at the fourth one. That done, he settles himself, chin pillowed on his flesh arm, on the bed, flipping to the page he had marked the night before as his stopping place.
"Mm," rumbles the chest draped across Ed's back.
"Go back to sleep, Mustang," Ed answers absently, flipping the page.
He'll complain about the large body laying over him when he starts to feel like both his legs are made of metal. For now, the warmth is inviting, the theory is fascinating, and sometimes, even music isn't as good a background sound as Mustang's light snore.