Three Kinds of Love

Ed disliked taking off his prosthetic arm and leg for bed. It was a way, Hohenhiem supposed, of having to bow to the realities of a world where there was no automail—a world which he had not yet entirely deigned to accept. If he didn't take them off, though, he'd wake up in pain, skin chafed raw at his thigh and shoulder.

Hohenhiem took to removing them quietly if Ed forgot (or ignored them), while he was in his deepest sleep.

They were sharing a bed by necessity that winter, piling all the quilts onto one bed and hiding under them while the little radiator struggled to warm the small room. Ed had been angry about it at first—"Old man," he threatened, "If you so much as elbow me, I'm gonna punch you right out of the bed!"—-But soon enough he settled into the idea. It was warmer when Hohenhiem spooned around him from behind, anyway.

Male anatomy being what it was, there were mornings with erections on both their parts, something which left Ed furiously angry with himself as he yanked his prosthetic leg into place and stormed off to a cold shower.

Hohenhiem usually settled his more pleasantly, thinking of Trisha alive and warm in his arms.

But he suspected it was inevitable that things went the way they did, and he could never, ever blame Edward. The boy never thought of him as 'father', and Hohenhiem was egotistical—his fatal flaw. It had been a late night, and Hohenhiem came to the bed and found Edward asleep. He slipped into the covers, and his foot bumped hard material; Ed's leg was still attached to his stump. Hohenhiem slid down, breath against the base of Ed's curled spine, and brushed his fingers up Edward's thigh, carefully unstrapping the prosthetic.

He jumped when Edward's hand covered his own and dragged it upwards over hot skin, catching his fingers on the material of Ed's boxers and finally pressed them to his groin, awkward. He was aroused, and Edward's fingers mashed down on Hohenhiem's own, demanding.

"I hate it," Edward breathed raggedly, "when you do that." He squeezed, and Hohenhiem exhaled, eyes closed. "Shit! Don't just lay there," he hissed.

Was it wrong, Hohenhiem thought, that he couldn't deny his own son even this? But Edward was never looking for a father. "Let go," Hohenhiem whispered. "You don't have to fight for everything." And Edward's grip lessened so Hohenhiem's fingers could ghost upward, tracing the line of Edward's length through his boxers before he pressed the cotton down past his son's crotch.

Ed's breathing quickened. Hohenhiem touched Edward naked for the first time, barely a caress. His fingers tangling in Edward's pubic hair, he wrapped his fingers around the base and pulled gently, squeezing his son's cock.

Edward let out a sound somewhere between a whine and a gasp. "Fuck! Don't you dare stop," he panted. "Don't you fucking dare-!"

"I'm not," Hohenhiem promised against Ed's spine. It was wrong, it was wrong—but Hohenhiem didn't want to stop. I can give him this much, he thought, and then, This is narcissism in practice. He wrapped his fist around Edward's length and stroked him, gently and slowly at first, then faster, and harder.

Their body heat warmed the blankets until Hohenhiem was suffocating, and Edward's hips bucked into every stroke. He didn't last long—-he was too young, and Hohenhiem feared the boy was a virgin until that moment when he came warm and wet into his father's hand with a groan.

Hohenhiem held him until he had softened, and then he wiped his hand on his own boxers. He would wash them in the morning. He slid up Edward's sweat-slicked back to the surface of the covers as his son lay lethargic against him.

"Shit, you're hard, too," Edward said after a short silence, and Hohenhiem sighed over Edward's head.

"It would be impossible to do that without being affected, Edward."

There was no immediate response, and Hohenhiem could imagine Ed's face reddening. Ed flushed in embarrassment and anger, just as Hohenhiem did. My son, my beloved second-born, he thought. My survivor.

"Did you want me to do something about it?"

It was such a loaded question. No, and yes. Please, and never. Don't make me make this decision for you! But Edward was never so roundabout, and Hohenhiem suspected he should have known. Edward twisted on the bed to look up at Hohenhiem.

"I never want to be like you," Edward said, and then his hand snaked down into Hohenhiem's underclothes and wrapped around Hohenhiem's length. His fingers were calloused and rough.

There was no going back. Hohenhiem didn't do Edward the disservice of asking him if he really wanted to do this. Edward never did what he didn't want to do, unless it was for Alphonse. His rough hand jerked at Hohenhiem's length almost too fiercely as Hohenhiem wrapped his arm around Edward's shoulders, pulling him close.

It had been so long since he had been touched so intimately, and Hohenhiem couldn't honestly say he cared that it was his son. Or perhaps the knowledge that it was Edward's hand around him, Edward's breath warm against his chest, drove him to completion more quickly. He tried not to crush Ed to his chest as he panted, spreading his knees and resting one leg over Ed's thigh.

Ed's thumb passed over the head of Hohenhiem's cock once, then again, and Hohenhiem could see in his mind's eye Edward doing the same to himself when he was alone in the shower. He didn't know quite what to think when it was enough to send him past the brink. "Edward," he breathed as he shuddered and came, fingers squeezing to the point of bruising into Edward's shoulder and collarbone.

His hand never stopped moving, expertly taking his father through the aftershocks until he was too sensitive for handling. As Edward withdrew, he wiped his hand on Hohenhiem's boxers thoughtlessly, as if uncaring. But Hohenhiem thought he detected a slight tremor in his son's hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked while Edward situated himself in Hohenhiem's arms, turning over so he could nestle in the curve of Hohenhiem's chest.

"Don't ask stupid things," Edward said loftily, and Hohenhiem wondered why Edward always had to be so strong. But he knew; Edward couldn't stop to relax until he'd returned to Alphonse. No one could ask for a better brother. Or son.

He waited until Edward was asleep to whisper "I love you" in his ear.