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It just appeared, without warning. Roy had had a few marks before; one when he was very young, which had faded within a year, and one on the cusp of his departure for Ishval which had been all but ripped from him within a week on the front lines. And then there was this: messy, scribbly, with the letters half crowded together and half spaced awkwardly far apart. At first, Roy didn’t understand it. And then once he did, he tried to burn the damn thing off.
After all, when he meets Edward Elric, he’s twelve years old and only has one arm.
---
It’s Riza who finds him. She’d seen his mark before; she knew what this meant to him, to come out here and find what they found. The expression on her face as they’d left Elric’s room had been far too close to pity for his taste.
Now, though, there’s none of that. He hears a sharp intake of breath, but that’s all; he’s slumped over the mess of his wrist, the skin seared and oozing and cracking, his face a wreck of tears and saliva. He’s shaking. She crosses the floor of his quarters quickly, efficiently, and pulls his arm toward her, examines it with a calm and unflinching resolve that could only have been born on the battlefield. It’s an awful burn -- he doesn’t have even the slightest idea how long it will take to heal, but it will be a long, long time -- but the mark is still there, not even a little distorted, the skin around it hot and angry. Ed Elric. Not Edward, but there’s no hope he’s mistaken nor doubt in his heart that he has the right, fuck, the right boy.
“Roy,” she says as she cradles his wrist in her own hands. The fact that it’s Roy and not Sir or Colonel is probably the only thing that keeps the last shreds of him held together. “It’s not your fault. These things are known to happen; it’s not anything wrong with you. You met him too early. But it’s how you handle it now that counts.”
He manages to look up at her. Inside him something is screaming that this is just another life the military is taking from him. He says, “I can’t just let him walk away.”
There’s that look again. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to pretend he hasn’t seen it on her face. “Of course you can’t,” she says. “But there’s middle ground between ignoring him completely and…”
Roy shudders, and then moans when that sends a fresh wave of pain arcing through what’s left of his wrist. “Riza, I would never,” he says, horrified, a sick pull in his stomach. “I would never -- you have to know --”
“I know, Roy,” she cuts in, soothing, and braces him with an hand on one shoulder. “Of course I know that. And so does anyone else who’s ever met you. Having his name on your wrist doesn’t reflect your character. What you do about it does.”
He realizes suddenly that if he’s going to make it out the other side of this horrible fucking revelation alive, he’s going to have to believe that. So he instead of doing any of the things he wants to do -- instead of snapping his fingers again, for example -- he gets unsteadily to his feet, allows her to help him wash the burn and put salve on it and then bandage it, until it’s presentable enough to be written off as a minor accident and nothing more, and goes to fill out the paperwork that will begin the process of recruiting a child to the military.
And life goes on, and Roy tries to pretend Edward Elric isn’t out there in Resembool learning to walk again, and some desperate, base part of him can’t help but be sickeningly grateful that Ed lost the arm that would have born his mark. His own self-loathing he has long since learned to live with, if in other forms; this is, in some ways, merely another avenue for it to burn down every time he closes his eyes. But Edward’s genuine disgust would be…
He can’t even complete the thought.
Of course, he’s too young to have his mark anyway. The appearance of one’s first -- and, in many cases, only -- mark is a turning point, a coming of age, and Edward, well. Edward Elric is a powerful alchemist who has spurned the laws of life and death and touched the face of god, but he’s also twelve years old.
God. Roy hates himself. He buries himself in his work, but that hardly helps; his work, after all, has now grown to include the Elric boys. Besides which, work means Riza, who is a stalwart and steadfast pillar in his life but whose every action is now colored in Roy’s eyes by the fact that she knows, and Maes, who dragged the story out of him after taking one look at him and knowing that something was desperately wrong. And, eventually, work means the Fullmetal Alchemist, who is blisteringly smart and terrifyingly powerful and whose voice sometimes cracks when he speaks.
Perhaps his only saving grace, in his own eyes, is that he doesn’t love Edward. There’s none of the soul-deep, world-shattering love that pulp romances and society gossip would have him believe come with finding one’s soulmate. There’s not even the half-interested hint of something he gets when he sees a beautiful person from across the room. It’s not as though his better angels and the fear of retribution are the only things holding him back from some horrifying desire; there is no desire. This -- discovery, of the life behind the name on Roy’s now-scarred wrist, has not suddenly turned him into the kind of man who feels hunger for pubescent boys. He watches, from a distance, as Edward joins the ranks of the blue and gold, and he continues seeing women as he’s able, and for this small and yet monumental concession on the part of the universe, he thanks his lucky stars.
---
Eventually, he reaches the point where he is capable of looking in the mirror and telling himself If we had met just six or seven years later, this wouldn’t have been nearly the problem it is.
It isn’t unheard of, after all, for soulmates to have even larger age gaps than his and Edward’s. Granted it often causes a minor scandal, but it’s not as much of an event as all that. The difference, though, is Roy heavily suspects those people meet as adults. He would gladly have gone another ten -- hell, another fifteen or twenty years dating casually and keeping his mark well-concealed at military functions without knowing who Ed Elric was if it were an alternative to… this. Maybe the mark would even have faded, the way his others had, and by the time he met Ed -- if he had ever met him at all -- he would have been able to look at him without any of the tightness in his chest.
He watches the Fullmetal Alchemist grow and learn and make a name for himself and do far too much property damage and thinks a little morosely that this is all Edward’s fault, anyway. If only he hadn’t decided to commit the single greatest alchemical tabboo, maybe he never would have gotten the military’s attention -- or at least not until he was something resembling an adult -- and Roy wouldn’t be in the position he’s in now. And then he promptly feels awful, because there are, of course, myriad far more important consequences of what the Elrics did, the loss of Al’s body being chiefly among them. Roy is not even close to being on level with that.
Still. He says as much to Maes one night, half-drunk and half-asleep and slumped at the Hughes’ kitchen table while Gracia puts Elicia to bed, and his best friend cocks his head and says, “Well, I don’t think the fact that there are other concerns -- even one that are more important -- means that that one isn’t valid.”
Roy can’t manage to do much more than stare at him, and Maes just gives him that fond, gentle smile, the same one he gives his wife and daughter when he thinks no one is actually looking.
“You do have some right to be bitter about it, you know,” he says, infinitely patient. “Not that I think you need any excuses to be bitter. But you’re suffering through this thing all alone, Roy. And it’s a pretty big thing.”
“I brought it on myself,” Roy mutters, and then “Ow!” as Maes smacks his head.
“That’s a crock of shit and you know it,” he says sharply. “I said I thought this was a fair time to be bitter, not that you got to sit around and drown in self-pity any more than you already do. You didn’t choose this. I know you a damn sight better than that.”
Roy is silent again, can’t quite meet Maes’ eyes, but when Gracia comes back downstairs he manages to stand up, say goodbye, and walk home more or less normally, which he thinks ought to count for something. He still isn’t entirely sure he believes them, but the fact that the two people who know him best in the world are both genuinely staunch in their belief that this thing is not the final nail in the coffin of his morality is… well. At least it’s something.
Maes is killed only a few months later. Another part of Roy seals off and shuts down.
---
Time marches on, Edward Elric saves the country and possibly the world, and Roy’s mark doesn’t fade.
If anything, it only seems to get more glaring when he looks down at it -- once he can look down at anything, that is, recovering from what most of the doctors are chalking up to a minor miracle -- and realizes that Ed has his own arm back. Which means -- well. He doesn’t actually know what it means, yet. But he has a sneaking suspicion it probably isn’t good.
In some ways, the magnitude of the situation seems somewhat lessened in comparison to all that happens. It’s not that he doesn’t care anymore, and, yes, Edward is still a) his soulmate and b) his subordinate and c) not of age, and Roy is still a) nearly 15 years his senior and b) aiming for the highest office in the land and c) not in love with him, thank hell, but also, Edward gave up his alchemy but brought back his brother, Ishval is going to rise from the ashes of Amestris, and many, many people have lost their lives -- but not as many as would have if Ed hadn’t struck down a de facto god. Amongst all that, Roy comes very, very close to feeling trivial and silly.
Still, though. The knowledge is there, at the back of his mind, and he takes great care not to run into Ed and Al after all is said and done. He aches to -- he has yet to meet Alphonse in person, after all -- but his brain, and specifically the part of it that controls fear, wins out. It’s easy enough, to use the excuse of both his own recovery and the Elrics’, not to mention the utter chaos of sorting out exactly what they do now, as a means to fade out of the boys’ lives, at least for now. He doesn’t labor under the misconception that he can do anything more than put off the inevitable, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least do that.
The Elrics go home to Resembool soon enough, anyway, and Roy and his forces once again roll up their sleeves and get to work in Central, in the East, in the South, wherever they are needed. There is, unsurprisingly, quite a lot to be done in the weeks and months and years following the Promised Day. Setting up an entirely new military regime was never something that was going to be easy, and Roy maintains no false hope that it is a task which will be over soon, either. Still. It does a better job of distracting him than anything else he could have hoped for, especially at first, and for that, amongst everything else, he is grateful.
The first year goes by shockingly quickly, with both the physical and bureaucratic restructuring of large swaths of the country completely absorbing Roy and everyone else. By the second, much of the physical, structural repair is complete, and the process begins to stall and drag. The third is better, smoother, but with the familiar threads of doubts and guilts too long shuffled off to the side beginning to tangle once more in the back of his mind. By the fourth year, it is almost -- almost -- as though nothing had ever changed at all. Roy is still a Colonel, and, with one notable absence, he still commands the same group of men. He still reaches for the Fuhrer’s chair. There is, thankfully, much less bloodshed, and this Fuhrer at least is someone he personally knows and trusts. But much of the work remains the same, and Edward Elric remains far away and yet permanently etched into the background of his thoughts.
---
Central Command is, if nothing else, a hotbed of military gossip, but even for Central, news travels uncharacteristically and unreasonably fast when the Iron Wall of Briggs comes to town. Fast enough, thankfully, to give Roy some warning, but never fast enough to fully prepare him.
“Sir, there’s someone here to see you,” Riza informs him from the doorway, then stands aside to admit a different blonde woman who he is significantly less fond of.
“General Armstrong,” he says, surprised, his heels snapping together. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You’re still a shit liar, Mustang,” she informs him, and there’s something balefully knowing in her eyes that informs him that this is going to quickly lower the quality of his day. “Take a walk with me. I’m only in Central for a couple of days, and it’s been far too long since I had a chance to have a proper chat with you.”
Roy is fairly certain her idea of a proper chat is his idea of hell, but he follows her anyway. It’s not like he can refuse, and, damn him, she might be the most enormous pain in his ass, but he does still respect her.
For someone who only ever seems to leave Briggs when she’s dragged, she certainly seems to know the ins and outs of Central Command quite well. It’s barely minutes after they’ve left Roy’s office before the corridors they’re walking through are completely deserted, the windowless stone walls revealing that they’re deeper inside the compound than most people realize it’s possible to go. Roy can’t help it; he’s impressed. Armstrong doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Roy honestly can’t be bothered to try and pick her apart just yet. He waits.
“Heard anything from Fullmetal and his brother lately?” she asks suddenly as they walk, and he nearly flinches. “They haven’t come around to fuck up my fort lately. I’m almost worried.”
“No, nothing in quite some time,” he replies shortly, hoping that will be the end of it. Trying to steer a conversation with this woman is foolhardy and futile at best, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try. Walking down the hallways of Central Command with an officer who is still, regretfully, his superior is one of the contexts in which he is least inclined to discuss Edward Elric.
“You know,” she says casually -- insofar as Olivier Armstrong can say anything casually -- and Roy feels the shiver up his spine even as every fibre of him dreads whatever’s coming, “I think Edward is much more fond of you than he lets on.”
Roy very, very carefully does not spit out his coffee, does not let his eyes flare wide, does not so much as breathe sharply. He raises one eyebrow in a way that questions her sanity and absolutely refuses to accept her premise, carefully sets the cup back down on the saucer, and says “General, I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap,” she says, and not for the first time Roy finds himself almost, almost wishing that her temperament were more like her brother’s; the only thing that stops him is the fact that two of Alex would almost certainly result in the destruction of the entire country, and they’ve gone to great lengths to stop that in the past few years. “The Elrics are in town, as I’m sure you know. So I thought I should mention something.”
Roy hadn’t known that, which is… a bit disconcerting. It’s got to be the first time the boys are back in Central since everything, and he had no idea. It’s been more than four years; he had heard they were both travelling. He’s still not used to the idea that they can move around without his knowing it, but he doesn’t dislike that nearly as much as he dislikes the idea that Olivier Armstrong does know about their whereabouts. Or the idea that she’ll hand that knowledge out like favors.
“Why would you feel the need to bring it up?” he asks, glancing sideways at her. “I can’t imagine I’ve done anything lately to merit tips from you.”
She smirks in that way that sends a blast of cold Briggs wind right down one’s spine, then says frankly, “I figure maybe if you get your shit sorted out with Elric, you’ll retire to go be soft and married in the country or something. It’s worth a shot, anyway.”
Roy really, really does not have the patience to deal with this today. Or, possibly, ever. At least, he reminds himself, this is among the least dangerous ways a potential rival could use knowledge of his mark against him. Then again, classifying anything General Armstrong does as low-risk seems like a danger all its own. And he still doesn’t have any actual idea how she knows, except for the fact that she seems to know everything.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” he tells her flatly. “Is that all, General?”
She snorts and comes to a stop, and it’s with a sudden shock that Roy realizes they’ve come full circle and are standing outside his office door. “Yes, Colonel, that will be all. Lovely talking to you. Dismissed.”
He snaps her a salute half-sarcastically as he watches her walk away.
---
It’s not that evening, but several days later, when Roy’s doorbell rings, which is the only reason he doesn’t immediately assume that the surprise visitor will be Ed.
It’s been nearly a week since General Armstrong gave him her odd/intimidating little message, and at this point he’s more or less decided the boys must have gone home. It’s not all that unreasonable, after all, that Ed might not want to see him either, that they might have slipped in and slipped out without stopping to say hello. But there are, to be quite honest, relatively few people who would drop by without calling first, so he doesn’t have much of an idea who it actually might be. Riza might not call, if it’s not a work-related visit. Could be a neighbor. Could be Grumman, who doesn’t always do him the courtesy of a warning before coming over to kick Roy’s ass at chess and drink all his good booze. Whatever he’s expecting to find on the other side of the door, though, it’s somehow not Edward Elric with two flesh hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression sullen and unreadable.
“You gonna let me in?” he asks, and Roy steps aside numbly.
The fact that Ed’s never been here before doesn’t stop him from waltzing in like he owns the place; he only looks around briefly before making his way to the living room. Roy follows, because what else can he do, only to stop in the doorway when Ed spins around on his heel and stares him down.
He doesn’t say anything -- and, Roy thinks with a dry, weary humor, it’s a bit of a miracle all its own, isn’t it, that he’s finally managed to find something that will shut Ed up -- and the silence stretches between them like no man’s land, peppered with potential landmines. Even this kind of warfare is something he wishes he could keep Edward away from, something he wishes he’d never done to him, and he tries not to think about it as he cautiously says, “I heard you and Alphonse were in town earlier this week, but by this point I’d assumed you’d already left.”
“Al has. I stayed longer,” Ed admits, his right hand fiddling obsessively with the hem of his shirt, a nervous tick Roy had never noticed back when that arm was cold and metal. He can’t help but stare, watching Ed’s wrist with morbid curiosity, hoping and yet dreading the moment when the fabric will flip back as Ed moves and he’ll see a glimpse of lettering dark against his golden skin.
Roy doesn’t respond, just slowly, carefully moves into the room with him, feeling silly for being a little intimidated in his own home. Ed seems to suck up all the space and leave nothing for him; for the first time in his life, Roy looks at him and thinks that he’s beautiful. The fact that Edward is an adult now -- he must be twenty now, Roy realizes, nearing twenty-one; god, but it’s been a long time -- doesn’t, it turns out, actually make him feel any less guilty. But Edward looks like something ethereal here in the relative dimness of Roy’s living room, a band of sunlight pushing against a room done in muted blues and grays.
The air seems to have completely abandoned his body. Ed snorts at him, his expression not quite derisive, but then he seems to soften, sagging in on himself. “I can’t believe you never told me,” he says, quietly. “I mean, obviously I can, but I would have thought you would have found some way to use it, if not against me than against Bradley or some shit.”
Something in him freezes. “I wouldn’t,” Roy chokes, horrified, and it’s only sheer force of will that keeps him from physically staggering a half-step back, “Edward, you were a child. I could barely acknowledge it myself, let alone...” The fact that Ed thinks he’s the kind of person who would use this -- it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, he supposes he deserves all of this and more, probably, but it takes the wind out of him all the same. He stares at Ed, completely at a loss, and Ed seems to feel at least a flicker of regret for suggesting it, looking away uncomfortably.
“I know. And I know that must have been -- I was pissed, honestly, when I got my arm back and it had you on it,” he says, and that, at least, Roy can believe. He shuts his eyes tiredly and wishes he could sink down onto the couch, but Ed is between him and the furniture.
“I spent a lot of time trying my best not to think about it,” Ed continues, when Roy opens his eyes again he looks less like sunlight and more like fire, his eyes molten. “And then I spend a lot of time thinking about it really fucking hard. And then Al kicked my ass and dragged me to Central to -- to see you, mostly.”
Which, Roy assumes, is why Edward has evidently spent most of a week doing exactly the opposite. “I don’t blame you for being upset, of course,” he says, his voice unbearably soft to his own ears. “This isn’t what I would have wanted for myself, were I you. And it’s not what I would have wanted for you, either.”
“Bull fucking shit,” Ed responds flatly, and so brutally it actually takes Roy by surprise. He crosses back across the room in quick, aggressive steps, until he’s standing close enough that Roy can feel the heat from his body and suddenly realizes that in four years, he’s grown quite a bit. Roy barely has to look down to meet his eyes, which is an action he ends up regretting. “I won’t take that kind of -- self-pitying crap from you, of all people. Yeah, it fucking sucks that we met when I was, like, freaky young. But you never tried to pull any shit with me. You didn’t treat me any different. And that’s all the proof I need to tell that it doesn’t fucking matter to me how old you are. At least not anymore.”
“Of course I didn’t try to pull anything, Edward, I would never --”
“A lot of people would have,” Ed cuts him off sharply, eyes glinting. “Maybe not when I was fuckin’ twelve, but. A lot have people would as soon as I was legal. Goddamn, you ass, we’re soulmates. Most people wouldn’t have held back.”
“Ed,” he says slowly, like the words are being torn from him, “I wasn’t -- I wasn’t holding back. There wasn’t anything to hold back, I didn’t -- I didn’t love you, there was never any…” He trails off, at a loss for words. You were so young, he wants to say, but he’d rather not remind Edward of that. Really, he’d rather not even remind himself.
“Of course there wasn’t.” It’s a scathing mutter, and Ed rolls his eyes and throws his hands up as though in surrender. “Becuase Roy Mustang is too damn noble to love his soulmate.”
There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, he finds he can say to that. He turns away, and he has to walk a couple of paces from Ed before he can breathe properly again. There’s a tch sound from behind him, and then the ungainly fwump of Ed throwing himself down on the couch.
“It’s not an issue of nobility, Edward,” he manages finally, turning back around, and his own voice is so cold it shocks him. “When I met you, you were twelve years old. Of course I didn’t love you. If I had, I have no idea what I would have done to myself. As it was, I tried to burn my mark off.” He turns around sharply, and some part of him is at least a little mollified by the fact that Edward looks torn between guilt and horror, eyes wide. “You can ask Lieutenant Hawkeye about it if you like. Her timely arrival was probably the only reason I didn’t keep trying until the entire room was in flames.”
Ed takes a deep breath. He looks -- god, he’s grown in more than just height. Somewhere, out of Roy’s sight, he’s matured, too, more even than he did in the search for the Stone, or in the events that followed. The Edward Elric who had been his subordinate -- who had been the Fullmetal Alchemist -- was not someone Roy would have ever thought possible of the quietly sorrowful expression this Ed is wearing. “I didn’t mean that, Roy,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I -- I know. I know you never could have. That’s what I’m trying to say. The fact that you couldn’t is why I...”
It’s Ed’s turn to trail off and shut his eyes, and Roy feels his shoulders release several degrees of tension. The room is quiet; outside, he can hear the soft sounds of the day. It’s late morning, and the birds are still singing. Roy carefully, carefully makes his way across the room to sit down next to Edward.
He’s broader than Roy remembers, too. His taste in clothing hasn’t changed that much -- the red coat is a bit more muted now, a more tasteful burgundy, but his boots are the same as ever. His hair is in a low ponytail now, not the chunky braid Roy is used to, but still kept efficiently back from his face. No beard, but Roy is struck by how much he’s grown to resemble is father, even without one. He wonders if that’s still as much of a sore spot as it once was. He wonders a lot of things.
It’s at that point that something begins to dawn on him. He’s wondered, all this time, why the mark hasn’t faded. He’s spent nearly a decade being not in love -- not being in denial, but being genuinely not in love -- with his soulmate. His previous marks had faded… relatively quickly. But this one, this one had stayed, despite everything, despite how much Roy had wished it would disappear. But of course it didn’t -- he was never going to love Edward before. He was always going to love Edward now. The damn thing just showed up years too early.
“My mother was young when she met Hohenheim,” Ed says suddenly, and Roy startles. “Not -- as young as I was, when we… But young.”
He clears his throat. “How old was she when they married?”
“Nineteen. She always told me she -- had this thing for him, they met when she was fifteen, right, and she had this huge teenage girl crush on him and he was totally oblivious. Because he was, like, actually ancient, and even without that he looked at least twice her age, but she.” He waves a hand. “And then when she was a little older, they started -- and then they got married. And she was only a few years older than that when I was born.”
“What are you trying to say?” Roy asks, even though he already knows. His mouth is dry, and he thinks, Is it okay to want this? Even now, is it okay to look at Edward, who is stunning and aureate and sitting just inches away from him and who, even without his alchemy, exudes more quiet power than it seems his body should hold, and want him?
His salvation is the fact that Ed looks at him like he’s wondering the same thing. “I’m trying to say I think these damn things are here for a reason,” he says, and finally, finally pulls up his sleeve and shows Roy his own name -- Roy Mustang inked in the loose penmanship he only ever uses in personal correspondence, because Riza would destroy him if he wrote so messily on official documents -- tucked up right next to his pulse, and something inside Roy shifts, his heart lurching in his chest. “And I’m trying to say Al was right to make me come, and he was right to leave my sorry ass here with the warning that if I came home without talking to you he would personally knock my lights out. And I’m trying to say I’m -- sorry. For what this must have meant to you all these years. And I’m trying to say… I’m trying to say… Will you -- would you please fucking kiss me or something me before I have to rip out my own vocal chords?” he finishes desperately.
There is a split second in which Roy hesitates, in which eight years of guilt and horror press down on him one last time, all at once, and then relent. And then he slowly, carefully reaches out to catch Edward’s chin and tilt it forward so that he can catch his lips in a chaste, cautious kiss.
Ed doesn’t move, though Roy can practically feel him vibrating with nerves; then, all at once, he melts forward, scrambling to close what slight distance there is between them and reaching forward to grab Roy by the collar of his shirt and kiss him back with a ferocity that could not possibly come from anyone but Edward Elric.
They come apart, and Roy’s head is spinning, and Ed says, “Okay, yeah, this could. This could work. That went a lot better than I was expecting,” and all Roy can manage is a dry, “Romantic.”
Ed falls forward, leaning against his shoulder, and Roy’s hands fly up to hover around him automatically. “Shut up, bastard,” he mumbles into Roy’s shirt, and the fact that Ed calling him a bastard makes something in his chest flip over is, at best, deeply concerning. Still. He hesitantly strokes a hand over Ed’s upper back, marvelling at the solid warmth of him.
They sit like that for god only knows how long, both of them, Roy suspects, learning how to breathe without the weight on their chests. It’s the stillest he’s ever seen Edward; he hardly moves at all, and when he does it’s only to press further into Roy. Then, slowly, slowly, he sits up, and Roy accepts the simple gift of being able to look him in the face and feel soft, gentle things and only a last lingering whisper of something darker.
“We should,” Ed says suddenly, then licks his lips as though uncertain. “We should -- is there anywhere good to eat around here? That’s, like, a date thing, right? We should go out to eat. I kind of skipped breakfast ‘cause I couldn’t keep anything down this morning.”
All Roy can do is shake his head and laugh softly. “I think we can manage something like that. I know a place or two we can walk to.”
“Great,” Ed says a little awkwardly, standing abruptly and hovering over the couch, then shuffling a couple steps away. Roy stands more slowly, and Ed studies him carefully, face unreadable. Then, seemingly, he reaches a conclusion, nods decisively to himself, and says, “Okay. Yeah. Okay, let’s go.”
“All right,” Roy agrees softly, a slightly bewildered smile tugging at the corners of his lips. This is something I want, and something I can have, he reminds himself, and it feels -- it feels. Edward is someone who wants me. Someone who is capable of wanting me. Someone I am capable of wanting.
“Get a move on, jackass, I’m hungry,” Ed gripes good-naturedly, stretching and making his way towards the door. He keeps talking, but Roy only haf-listens, instead just watching the way he moves, as completely at home in Roy’s home as he might be in his own, his hair swishing behind him and catching in the light. He turns back, one eyebrow quirked, and says, “You coming or what?”
Roy smiles and goes.