Chapter 4: Vices

The clock struck ten, chiming entirely too loudly for Edward Elric's sleep-addled mind. Last night had been a complete and utter disaster. There was only one thing Ed could do at this point: avoid General Roy Mustang for the rest of his natural life (which, if Winry was to be believed, would be quite short). Ed buried his face into the slightly lopsided pillow, bemoaning his idiocy. How the hell could he go and do something as inconceivably stupid as tongue-fucking his straight, drunk, commanding officer?

The feel of Roy's lips beneath his own—made soft and pliable with booze—was better than any fantasy his imagination had, or could, fabricate. But therein lies the problem: he was shit-faced drunk, so beyond the level of acceptable inebriation that there wasn't a single doubt in Ed's mind as to the wrongness of his actions.

No excuse could be made, Ed was in full control of his faculties and had just taken Roy's kind, friendly words to mean something different than what they were. Bitter humiliation settled low in his stomach as he recalled the way Roy's hands came up to rest on mismatched shoulders—the tightening of his long fingers a prelude to his inevitable rejection. And frankly, Ed just couldn't handle that. Not that he had never been rejected before, but rather a rejection from the man that had awoken his awareness of sex, who had sparked fumbling desire every time he walked into the room.

Even if sex itself was an impossibility, Ed thrived on those moments spent in his commanding officers proximity, relishing the sharp lines of his silhouette and the commanding grace of his comportment. Now? Now he'd just have to transfer to Drachma, sub-zero temperature be damned. He couldn't show his face in Central again. Roy was, of course, not known for being a gossiper; Ed was not worried in the least about his transgression becoming public knowledge, it was the knowing, judging look that he'd find in his object of affection's eyes that would slowly rot Ed from the inside out.

And yet he couldn't stop thinking about how everything had been perfect for a single, warm, frantic that's what really hurt the most—that it felt so damn right. Another groan broke through Ed's teeth, muffled by the pillow. If only he could curl up under these sheets and and never leave his room, maybe then—if shame and regret didn't kill him first—he could die in peace and just forget all about taking advantage of the one man that had ever merited more than a passing thought. Fuck.

"Brother?" Al's quiet voice was accompanied by a soft knock on the thin wood of the door.

Ed lifted his face out of the pillow, "Fuck off," he grumbled, fully intent on seeing no one for the rest of forever.

"Open the damn door, Edward," nope. Nope, nope, nope. This was not happening, Roy Mustang was not standing outside his bedroom door, Ed was clearly having a mental breakdown. In shock, Ed had bolted up, staring at the offending piece of carbon fiber standing between him and the man that would surely be the death of him.

"Fine, I'm coming in then—"

"No!" Ed scrambled out of bed to barricade the door with his body. "I—uh—give me a minute for fucks sakes," harsh words were made unbelievable by the uncertainness of their delivery. The blond alchemist snatched a pair of sleep pants off of the floor, glancing around at the disarray of his room—nothing to be done about it now. He shrugged on a white button-up shirt that had been hanging off the back of his chair, hoping to god it was clean, before opening the door a fraction of an inch.

"What do you want?" Ed snarled into Roy's chest, unable to meet his eyes. Al looked like he was caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement; he shook his head, turning on his heel to return to his own bedroom.

"I want to talk. Can I come in, please?" Roy's voice was soft, Ed glanced up, gauging his mood—little good it did, the bastard had an impeccable poker face—before stepping back to make room for his broad form to step through.

"Look, I already apologised for last night, I'm not saying it again." Roy made his way to the still-warm bed, perching easily on the crumpled sheets and looking entirely too good to be true.

"I'm not here for an apology," his head tilted, Roy's words were slow and gentle, as if comforting a scared animal. Ed leaned back against the wall next to the door, propping one foot up on the desk chair next to him. "Then what are you here for? Don't tell me it's about the damn surgery," because I swear to all that is holy if Alphonse called him down here for that bullshit he'll wish he was still made of metal.

Roy's face was inscrutable. He was quiet for several long breaths, and Ed felt the awkward silence pull at his nerves. That perfect alabaster mask cracked and Roy-General Roy Mustang—sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.

"I'm here for you, you infuriating, horrible, obstinate, beautiful man."

"I—wait, what?" Ed's mind blanked, his jaw dropped open in stunned shock. He couldn't mean—he couldn't possibly be—... could he?

"Last night," Roy held his hand up, cutting off Ed from interruptions (like he had the presence of mind to form a proper sentence anyway), "your actions were not... unwelcome," cryptic sonofabitch.

"What are you saying exactly?" Ed's voice was low, needing to be absolutely fucking positive before attempting another scene like last night.

"I'm saying, Edward, that I very much so enjoyed that entirely too short kiss," the smile that graced Roy's lips was the most genuine, open thing he'd ever seen on his superior's face, and Ed couldn't not touch him.

The small distance between the wall and the bed was closed in an instant, though when Ed was within reach he found that he didn't know what he wanted to do first. He settled for raising his human hand to run his fingers over Roy's strong jaw, brushing his thumb over silken lips. Looking down at Roy's impossibly blue eyes, time seemed to stop. Warm fingers clutched at his bare hips, sliding easily between the unbuttoned cotton shirt, Roy turned his head, nuzzling into Ed's hand, peppering light kisses onto trembling fingers. His head bent slightly, resting on the smooth planes of Ed's torso, and he was left savouring the warmth of it all—the skin, the moment, the simple feeling of Roy. The young man shifted his grip on Roy's chin, tugging his face up to look at him. Painfully slow, Ed lowered his face to that of his commanding officer's, intent on rekindling the contact he had too hastily abandoned the night before.

"Wait," the quiet interruption shot daggers through Ed and he moved to pull away, yet was thwarted by the strong hands that hard circled around his back, pulling him closer into the overwhelming heat that was Roy.

"I have a few conditions—" Ed snarled, his glare a mixture of hurt and apprehension. "Of course you do, you sack of—" Roy cut of the expletive with a brief press of lips upon lips, chaste in its action, but with all the promise of what was yet to come.

"I don't do casual. Not with you. But if you up and die on me then long-term isn't really an option," calloused fingers caressed the marred skin of Ed's back, and he found it increasingly difficult to pay attention to the content of Roy's words, focusing rather on the timber of his voice as it vibrated against his flesh. "If you want to pursue anything, you have to to promise me you'll go through with the surgery," Ed frowned.

"Don't go thinking this changes anything, bastard. I won't be ordered around by you," his sneer held no venom, and he was positive that Roy easily saw through his uncooperative façade. A smile tugged at the elder man's lips—disgustingly charming—putting Ed off-kilter.

"I never ordered you to do anything. I'm trying to strike a deal. You take care of yourself now, and I'll take care of you later," innuendo dripped from his honeyed words, and the growl in response was one of lust, not anger. Ed tangled one hand in dark hair, running his fingers through silken strands before shoving Roy's body into the downy mattress and sliding gracefully to straddle his thighs.

"Fine, you manipulative asshole," teeth nipped at pale delicate skin, "I'll do the goddamn surgery, but you better be worth it," Ed felt a sigh tickle his neck neck as Roy's hands shifted to shove him down into the crook of his arm. Ed's lithe body wrapped around the object of his obsession, not quite believing just yet that this was in fact real, and not just a cruel dream conjured up by his damaged mind.

"Oh, it will be," the quiet assurance was punctuated by another soft, short kiss—one that this time, did not end in loneliness and regret. Roy's tongue ran probingly over Ed's bottom lip, he took no more convincing to deepen the kiss and the taste was not of alcohol, but of bitter coffee, biting lust, and fragile hope—the only vice Ed would ever need.