Little White Ears

Whatever grip Ed had once held on his heart, Al had him ten times tighter, simply because of his gentleness, simply because he became some small sweet creature he could hold close when they were alone. Because Al when he was awake was all sweet determination and intelligence years beyond his age, but Al sleepy, Al relaxed and safe and uncaring, was a kittenish bundle of soft half-grown limbs and golden hair, nuzzling against Roy's chest in blind search for comfort, mewling dozy, moaning soft in the back of his throat like a purr if Roy stroked his hair or the strong narrow curve of his back. Oh, he teased him about it; but he loved it.

Sometimes Roy would just hold him for an hour or more, late at night, blind comfort. Just the warm weight of the boy, the smell of him, unlatched things normally lashed down tight within him; he opened, murmured, stared into the night with irrational warmth, almost cried. Sometimes, sometimes, he'd even dare take off the eyepatch, lay it aside, because in Al's half-lidded golden eyes there was no fear, no disgust; sometimes fine fingers would trace the curve of his temple, the sunken mess of scar, gentle exploration, just because it was a part of him.

Sometimes, even, they both dared strip away their gloves.

Al, at midnight, stole Roy's handkerchief from his pocket, folded and twisted and tugged until he had a little floppy white bow, and when he snugged it round his head with alchemy, it looked remarkably like a pair of cat ears. Roy laughed—because, well, he'd teased him, he was entitled. Silly boy mischief glinted in whiskey-gold eyes. Al draped over him, kissed him slow and sweet and endless, tongue lapping at his lips, until they were both too hungry to stand it.

And then Al disentwined, stripped, tossed his shirt over Roy's head and laughed as if that would make him miss the aching, possessive, wanting haze to his stare.

Roy's gloves fell to the pillow, tugged off with Al's teeth. Al burrowed into him like a stray animal looking for love, nibbling, squirming, guided a naked hand to his ass. "Get me ready, pleasegodnow, I want you..."

Because Al could be a naughty, vicious creature too; Al would ravish him with little pink tongue, strip him naked and gasping, because somehow Al had decided that this old man was his. And who was he to question him?

Roy worked him until he was writhing, gasping, until he expected Al to beg for it—because Al, perversely for a teenaged boy, liked to last it, liked Roy to fuck him for as long as he could stand it and only then reach for his cock, liked Roy to take him and conquer him until he pleaded for release, unhindered and squalling. But Al, too, had the mischievous streak, and instead of spreading himself, he turned, tugged Roy's fingers out of his ass, pushed him down flat on his back, and transmuted the headboard around his hands.

Only then did his gloves come off.

Roy strained, squirmed, almost tried to turn his head away when Al gently slid the eyepatch aside, both of them buck naked now but for his erstwhile handkerchief. "I want you," he whispered kitten-soft, one hand on the soft skin of Roy's stomach, and the fact that he couldn't stop him stood little hairs on end, made his cock twitch, made him shake with arousal. "All of you. I want you to be mine."

Belatedly, Al ran fingers down his legs, black hair tickling under his palms, tugged his ankles into place, touched an array on one crumpled glove to activate it, and secured his feet, too.

"Oh, god," Roy whispered, fervent, all one long exposed nerve, and he was helpless, and he was Al's, and Al lowered himself slow and slick and panting onto Roy's cock, tightened wiry knees round Roy's waist, rode him endlessly, excruciatingly patient until Roy's fingers clutched helpless in empty air, until his toes spasmed, until both of them were begging with every gasp to come, until Al was the most beautiful thing in the world, splayed out above him naked strawberries and cream and Elric gold, with those crazy little white ears drooping sweaty over his head.