OF PIGS AND POETRY: A 5/20 DAY FIC

BY The Binary Alchemist, 2014

(passages quoted from "The Passionate Shepherd To His Love" by Christopher Marlowe and several poems from Jalaldin Rumi, freely adapted for this story)

"Men are pigs."—Tim Allen

"Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove…"

"That's my side of the bed."

"Huh?"

"I sleep on that side."

The thin, cynical mouth arched at the corners. "When you were alone, maybe. I got automail. I sleep on the right side. I'm a kicker. Get hot, kick the covers off. You want holes kicked in the wall?"

"But-"

"You want holes kicked in you?" He slapped his knee. There was a muted clang! "You want to wake up and pry my foot out of your ass every morning? Shove over and quit bitching."

"By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals…"

"You drool in your sleep, old man. Like all over my head and on the pillow. You ever see a doctor about that?"

"You ever see a doctor about your snoring? Seriously. I've been around construction battalions on the war front that didn't make as much noise as you do."

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies…"

BANG! BANG!

"Heyyyy! Hurry up in there! I gotta use it too!"

"Right. And I'm damned if I'm going to use it after you."

"What's the matter, Mustang? You think your shit don't stink? I got news for you, buddy-"

"I don't blister the wallpaper or dissolve the grout around the tub!"

Ed gave the door an angry boot, yelping, since he'd swung out with his right foot. "If you're such a damn pussy, why not light a match—hell, snap a flame. You got the skills—"

"And blow the roof off? Not a chance." Roy shook himself, flushed and began to scrub his hands. "I don't know if this was a side effect of having your intestines skewered by Kimblee in Briggs, but you either need more fiber, a change in diet or….eat some damn charcoal or something so I don't have to fear for my life every time the Trumpet of Doom erupts." He rinsed and began carefully toweling his hands. "And while we're on the subject of annoying bathroom habits, why have you got the toilet paper backwards on the holder? It should hang in front, not behind. "
"Mom always hung it like that so Al wouldn't pull it off the roll and drag it through the house."

"Ed, your brother is on his own and keeping company with at least a dozen lovely young women at last count. If you're worried he's likely to come crawling and goo-goo-ing around our bathroom floor and try to redecorate our house with two-ply extra absorbent paper, get over it." Roy hung up the hand towel, turned around and flipped the toilet roll around until the free end of the paper hung facing front. He neatly creased the end into two perfectly folded corners. "Exactly so." He'd always gotten full marks for neatness whenever he had to clean the barracks before inspection as a cadet. He unlocked the door and strolled past a fuming lover who shot past Roy and rushed inside, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

There was a curse and the crash of an oak seat against china.

"GODDAMNIT! Seat DOWN, asshole!"

"A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold…."

"You've got polish on your nails."

"Huh?" Roy's coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.

Ed pointed at the hand that grasped the cup, one eyebrow arched in suspicion. "You've got polish on your nails."

"You're imagining things." Roy glanced at his other hand, which was as impeccably manicured as the one curled around his mug of morning brew.

Ed snorted in derision. "Bullcrap. They sparkle. You trying to impress people when you snap off a shot?"

"I buff, damn it!" Roy snapped back. "Pyrotex gloves are rough, in case you never noticed. Inside and out. Calluses and hangnails can snag and tear. Besides," he inspected his cuticles and noted with satisfaction that there were no flaws, "I think you of all people would be the first to complain—loudly, I might add—if my nails were not smooth and well groomed."

Ed mulled that statement over. "Oh." He flushed to the tips of his ears and quickly turned his attention to his scrambled eggs and toast.

Roy smirked and sucked down another mouthful of coffee with the same self-satisfaction as when he sucked down another mouthful of his lover. Well, that's one MORE way to shut him up for a while….

"The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning…"

"You know," Ed murmured drowsily against his lover's belly, "you've got so many men kissing your ass I'm surprised I don't have to take a number when we go to bed."

"You're the only one that leaves hickies."

"Just marking my territory." He nipped Roy playfully on the navel, his tongue skidding down and down and down further until it slithered around something that rose and saluted like a good soldier which eventually fired off a single, impressive volley and collapsed, vanquished, at the back of Ed's throat.

Afterwards, Ed burped.

Loudly.

"You know….back when we were cadets they told us 'men are pigs'."

"Granny Pinako used to say the same thing. Great minds think alike, I guess."

"Yeah…all men are pigs-but I've eaten yogurt more cultured than you."

Ed squirmed up the mattress and burrowed his head into the pillow beside the man who was as much fun to fuck as he was to infuriate. "Betcha the yogurt never ate you back, huh?"

"If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love…"

Ed closed the book of love poetry with a snap. "Utter crap."

"Works for some people. Hell, Hughes had that old chestnut copied by a calligrapher and framed it for Gracia on their anniversary. And of course he had to bore me to death with the details of how she expressed her appreciation in the bedroom." Roy shook his head, frowning a little at the awkward memory.

"Had a bad habit of broadcasting from Radio Station TMI—Too Much Information, huh?"

Roy nodded. Then he pulled out a slim volume bound in stained camel hide, the cover lettered in Ishballan script. "See what you think of this, then." The old vellum of the pages, painstakingly illuminated by some long dead tribal scribe, crackled, tiny bits of the pages crumbling onto the library desk. "These were the words of the great Desert Poet Rumi to his companion, Shams:

"When the strong glance of my Beloved caught my eyes
Like alchemy it transformed the base metal of my soul
It is said that Love is the window from one heart to another
Since we embraced, friend of my heart
How can there be any windows, for all the walls have come crashing down?

The minute I heard my first love story I began looking for you
Not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
They were in each other all along…"

After a long silence, Ed cleared his throat. "That…doesn't suck." He reached for the old volume, taking it with care from his lover, recognizing that the book was as cherished as it was rare.

There was a much-folded piece of foolscap marking a page, a scrap Ed had torn out of his travel journal and scribbled down before taking off an another journey—one that had led him back one final time to Resembool to stand with his childhood friend as the gavel in the magistrate's chamber banged down and their names were no longer entered into the registry as man and wife. In time, perhaps, they would be able to talk to one another without awkwardness about something other than the two children they had made—the two children neither of them would ever regret. Roy had not been the cause that ended their marriage—no, they had managed that quite well enough on their own. But it was Roy that had unwittingly turned Ed's heart around to at least entertain the possibility that someone could understand his restless spirit and love him in spite of himself.

"Love you, Bastard."

He had written it. Roy had kept it here, marking a specific passage that went straight to Ed's cynical soul:

"Let us love in such a way that it frees us both

From daily misunderstanding.

Love is no 'me', no 'we', no claim of being.

Our petty words and arguments are the smoke the fire gives off as it

Burns away our little defects…

"Our eyes meet in silent understanding. Love is beggared by our attempts to put it into words…." Roy's voice trailed off, reading over Ed's shoulder, one arm around his mate's waist, his breath soft in Ed's ear.

Ed leaned against the man he had chosen, feeling once again that peculiar sensation of contentment that he had not quite yet gotten accustomed to. It was strange to have someone—anyone other than Al—get this close to his soul AND drive him crazy at the same time. This was a different kind of closeness, one he and Winry never quite managed. It was strange….but it was good and he wanted more of it.

Roy frowned. He'd been at the helm of this country for three years now and the quality of his office coffee was still only marginally less toxic than the swill he used to choke down at Eastern Headquarters. "Who do I have to fire, fuck or blackmail to get a half-decent cup of coffee around here?" he groused. His finger punched the intercom, but before he could bark out a complaint the doors to the presidential office opened quietly—a little too quietly, considering it was Edward and not Hawkeye bringing in the mail and-oh, if Roy believed in a god he would have shouted a hymn of praise!—a carafe of something that smelled of the heavenly brew from the bakery down the street and quite possibly something fresh from the ovens, drizzled with icing and lethal in calories.

Ed snagged Roy's mug, swung open the windows and dumped out the contents, causing irreparable damage to the flower beds below. There was a fragrant cloud of steam as the mug was refilled, two lumps of sugar dropped in without having to be requested. A cinnamon laced pastry appeared beside it.

So did a scribbled note, torn out of Ed's journal.

Ed ruffled his lover's hair affectionately- "Later!" -and he was gone.

Mystified, Roy unfolded the page. Seconds later, a mouthful of hot coffee and half-chewed cinnamon bun was spewed all over it and most or Roy's desk…

Come live with me and be my love

And we shall all the pleasures prove

I'll also prove that guys are pigs

When we commence to share our digs

My snores will drive you from our room

My farts as loud as ten bassoons

I slam the lid up when I piddle

My half-the-bed is in the middle

I'll gripe and bitch—I cannot stop

And frequently I wanna TOP

I'm sure there's more that drives you nuts

But that won't keep you from my butt

If there was only SEX between us

You'd swap me for a bigger penis (yeah, asshole. I'm man enough to own up to that. But if my dick was as big as your ego you'd choke to death.)

With all the hell I put you through

You still love me. I still love you.

What's done is done, and all's been said

…come home for lunch and give me head…

"Ed"