LOVE ( AND ALL THAT OTHER CRAP):

A 520 Day Special

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

Hey—

Saw the pictures from the Drachman summit over there at Brigg's in the Times tonight. Quit shaving again, didn't you? All right, if you I start referring to you in the press as "His Excellency Fuhrer Shitlips" again, it's your own damn fault. Looks like something crawled over your lip and died, moron. Get your ass to a barber. Lips that look like fuckin' dead caterpillars will not touch mine—or anything ELSE of mine I know you're fond of putting your mouth on.

The Drachman summit. The treaty with Creta. The developments in Ishbal and you spending a week in Aerugo and not once threatening to have someone rearrange his face 'cause he's still better looking than you…times are changing, eh? Either that or they are getting sick of shooting each other's nut's off over the littlest insult they can think of. Of course, WE were the ones stirring up the shit over here, Bradley and his gang of fuckin' 'Live-Forevers'. You went a step further than Grumman did—about twenty steps further than Gen. Armstrong would have done: You told the world the truth—that we were the aggressors and that if you can't change the past you, Roy Mustang, would try to heal the future. To build bridges, not burn cities. I'll be damned if I'll ever know how you've gotten this many of the world's leaders to believe you, and despite what Olivier A. says, I don't think you did it by blow-jobbing your way across boarders. Man, you're good—but you're not THAT good.

Aw….that was a shot to the ol' ego, wasn't it? You deserve it. Been too damn long and I'm gonna end up with some sort of repetitive stress damage to my right wrist. If I still had automail, I don't know, maybe I could have gotten a custom jerk-off attachment. Y'know—pull out some of those dirty pictures of you and those letters that are probably illegal in at least three regions under the 1864 pornography statutes—lube up the ol' bad boy and then flip the "WANK" switch to one of three speeds: low, medium and 'oh-shit-make-it-stop!'. Nope, I gotta make do with a hand, spit and a really perverse imagination when it comes to what I wanna do with you—and TO you—soon as you get back.

May 20th. That's the day things either changed or got really damn clear for me. You too. We should be home tonight back at the Presidential Palace or in one of those private dining rooms at your Aunt Chris' restaurant, licking chocolate rum mousse off of places chocolate rum mousse doesn't normally get smeared and putting creamery butter to uses that would give your average dairy farmer a heart attack from shock. I want you to twist me up like a goddamn pretzel and remind me why a wild Mustang is still the hardest and wildest ride in Central. I wanna roll around like—what was it Doctor Knox called us? "A couple of greased weasels in heat who break so much furniture and so many bed slats we'll never run out of furnace kindling…" I wanna suck everything suckable and I want you to bang me hard enough to knock the screws right out of my toes. Cross circuit my wiring until my brain lights up and you've got automail-shaped foot prints all over your ass cheeks and I've sucked so hard on your neck you'll need Maria Ross to lend you her makeup kit to cover up the hickies running all the way up to your ears.

But SHAVE THAT GODDAMN MUSTACHE OFF—or you can wank your own crank, asshole/ I hate that thing. I mean it.

I'll call you tonight. Make sure you got a private line. I remember the LAST time we had one of our little 'chats' and the General tapped the line…how it 'accidentally' got routed through the PA system of the Briggs mess hall and Non Commissioned Officer's Club is one of those Great Mysteries that will either take blackmail or high explosives to get out of the Ice Queen…

It's May-fucking-twentieth and the world is calming down and we are damn near a democracy. Years ago, when we were both younger and fuckloads stupider and full of dreams, I borrowed 520 cens from your stingy ass and told you I'd pay it back the day Amestris became a democracy. You've come as close as we're likely to get—so I got another challenge for you, jerk:

I'LL PAY YOU BACK THE DAY YOU TELL ME IT WAS A MISTAKE FOR US TO…aw, shit—do I HAVE to say it?—FEEL….YOU KNOW…LIKE WE DO AND DECIDE TO SAY FUCK TRADITION AND HAVE A LIFE TOGETHER. Love and sex and how good it is together…all that crap, y'know? Even Winry's happy for us—and if that ain't proof that SOMETHING is working here, I don't know what the hell is.

So, skinflint—you want your 520 cenz? Keep the mustache, dump my ass and let me beat the crap out of you. Might want to think about it, heh heh heh…

….on the other hand, If you're a little short of money…I wanna see you on that old red velvet chaise in the private dining room at Aunt Chris. Naked and generously buttered and your ankles somewhere in the general vicinity of my ears. I'm not adverse to you taking a loan out in trade…

Love—and all that other crap—

Edward