Rainjoy's writings (rainjoyswriting) wrote,
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Fic: Light at the End

Light at the End
Rating: NC-17 - not worksafe, but not badly so
Disclaimer: The characters are Hiromu Arakawa's and unfortunately no, they don't do this in the series. Soon we will know all they ever will do in the series =(
Notes: Cliché!fic - sex pollen! Sort of. You know the 'at least one character gets somehow drugged and ragingly horny' cliché? I always did want to play with it. Only it ended up not turning out quite how I thought ^^; (Why don't I ever get to write pointless smut like the big kids?)

I am also still aware that I haven't replied to comments yet. I *know*. I just, swear to god, put me in front of a computer and all I want to do in the world is write. My word count is high, other responsibilities are suffering for it. *shrugs* Plus I'm going to bed as soon as I've posted this, feel like hell. Hope you guys have a good evening ^^;


Summary: Ed would find rescuing Roy a lot easier if Roy would stop trying to put his hands down his trousers.





"Shit."

Stone shifts and crunches underneath his knee, shielded by leather; his gloved hand grabs at the wall but the wall dissolves, breaking wood and dropping stone, pitching him face-down again. Coughing, sore, raw-knuckled, Ed brushes his eyes clear of grit with his sleeve, and takes a moment to just hunch there on his knees and hang his head, panting at the floor. He has to assume the floor is underneath him, because he can't see a fucking thing.

"Shit. Colonel? Colonel! - shit."

His mouth tastes of broken stone, so he spits to the side, squints ahead into the darkness and begins to crawl on. What little tunnel room there is is barely enough for him, he keeps knocking his head and shoulders, there's a pretty bad scratch running the length of his side, but what Hawkeye said out there was sickeningly and heartbreakingly true: Ed is the only soldier in this whole damn army who could fit through here.

"Shit-!"

His head jerks back so hard he hurts his neck - something's caught in his hair. He can't see in the dark, tries first just to yank himself free and after squawking in pain his fumbling hands find the catch, tug gingerly to unhook end of his braid, leaving behind a fuzzy tangle of hair and a broken red band on a splinter of wood. Ow ow fuck ow he hates having his hair pulled, and blinking back (involuntary!) tears he shuffles on, a little at a time, more slowly than he should be moving. Not just because he can't see and doesn't want to whack his head more than he can help. Not just because he could be crawling over septic nails and broken needles for all he knows. But because in this collapsed system of tunnels and cellars - what exactly of the Colonel is he going to find . . . ?

(Sticky hair and broken skin and snapped off bones, and Ed keeps having to shake his head hard away from these thoughts. They make his knees turn watery, wobbly, make his chest fill with something, make his throat constrict. He can't think about the Colonel being dead, it's - doing something to his eyes, his throat, breathing is hard down here, it's too hot . . .)

This assignment has been such shit from the beginning. Colonel Manipulation not giving Ed quite the full story - Ed still can't work out if he did that to keep Ed safe from knowing too much or specifically to make sure that he ended up in way, way over his head - and internal military wranglings, threats and dead prisoners and they don't know who they can trust, who they can bare their backs to in any second, besides Al Ed hasn't trusted anyone in days now, not even the Colonel really until -

Until he disappeared, and the whole world ceased to make sense for Ed, because the Colonel only exists behind that damn desk, he's not a human being who can really be taken like this. Does that mean he doesn't exist anymore, beyond the desk, what does that mean Ed's searching for down here in the dark?

Water bottle and radio hang heavy at his hip, bumping off his thigh as he moves. There's not much power left the radio, he's only meant to turn it on when he finds the Colonel or otherwise needs helping out of here, and then only in a low power mode so it can be traced. There's no way he can communicate with the world above, a different universe from his enclosed and jabbing and stuffy and black world. So he calls out to a corpse instead.

"Colonel!" He stops crawling to listen for a reply. "Colonel, you down here? Mustang!"

Hawkeye had been frantic, had nearly shaken him while Ed just stared dumbly at the caved-in building one of the prisoners had eventually grinned and told them the Colonel was being held in. Al had, very gently, caught her hands as they grabbed for Ed. They couldn't transmute anything, not with no idea what was down there. If a transmutation caught any remaining explosives - they didn't even know where the Colonel was, how could they transmute a way in without making things worse . . . ?

"Should've just transmuted anyway," Ed mutters, because Al isn't the one crawling through broken stone in the dark.

What is Ed going to do when he finds the body?

He stops, puts his hands over his eyes, breathes for a bit. He's dealt with corpses before. He doesn't freak out about blood anymore, he can't be precious about a little bit of blood when most of his life seems to comprise of blood now. But it's not just any blood. It's -

"Colonel!" His voice sounds higher now even to him. "You better be here!"

He doesn't know what the Colonel is to him anyway. A dick. But a dick who's been in Ed's life, steady and sure, for a few of the least steady years of Ed's life. Whatever insanity he ends up caught in, and he thinks his nightmares get as bad as they do only because they're trying to compete with the sheer lunatic headfuckery of his waking hours, he always ends up slouching back to that desk, to those amused black eyes like Ed can't do a thing that would surprise them. At least someone finds Ed's life only entertaining, at least to someone the madness of his days are nothing more than reports Ed hands in . . .

"Colonel!"

His throat clenches, feels like it's twisting inside him, undulating painfully. He slithers on shattered tiling, skids onto his side down what must have been a staircase and can't stop himself in the dust and grit and breaking wood, hits hard into the wall at the bottom and the breath leaves him with a tight, high noise. He coughs until he can breathe right again, then sits there dizzy with a hand over his side and despair clogging up his throat.

"Colonel! Fuck, don't be - where are you?" The words hurt as they come up, his eyes sting with them: he's meant to be behind that fucking desk looking at Ed like he's an almost-interesting toy, he's meant to be - breathing - "Where are you?"

No answer no answer and fighting the breakdown coming trembling through every muscle -

Ed hears a reply.

He lifts his head with a gasp, swings blindly in the dark towards the source of the noise and scrapes his cheek off some broken wood he hadn't known was there, cursing, slapping a hand to the sting. "Colonel! Is that you? Mustang-"

There's an answering call - he can't make out the words, and it sounds awfully casual for a cave-in victim but like Ed gives a fuck if he's only - and the oddest noise. A muted, hollow, metallic drumming . . .

Pipes. He's banging on the pipes.

Ed claps his hands, transmutes a blade onto his arm in case he needs to dig him out, hunches and listens. The noise seems to surround him - the pipes are maybe the only surviving part of the building's infrastructure - and he finds, fumbling with a scratched and bruised palm, a pipe running above the tunnel of rubble he's in. He puts his hands to it, and the sound muffles right down, the vibrations run down his arms, his automail feels like it's shimmering. He ding-ding-dings back with the side of his right fist and there's a pause, while he feels his own vibrations die away, and then the sound comes back. And he can feel the direction it's coming from.

One hand on the pipe, he crawl-scrabble-scrambles through the dark until he hits a wall. The pipe bends, runs down; when Ed presses his cheek to its ringing side, he can see a fine ring of light around it.

Right.

He punches through the floor, and rather more floor than he really wanted gives way with it, so he hangs off the pipe waiting for the dust and rubble to settle. Down below, after the hiss of falling dust has stopped, after there are no more crumbling, cracking noises, he sees a puddle of his debris and the sick low hum of emergency lighting.

He drops, rolls, staggers upright against the wall. There's so much more air down here to breathe, he raises his face to the cool empty space and closes his eyes, breathes, breathes, opens his eyes to the ceiling - sight and space are so strange, alien and odd and a miracle after crawling through the cramped dark - and looks again, feeling just tired now he's upright again, to the pipes running along the edge of this basement corridor. Mustang, if it is Mustang, is now tapping out a little tune against them.

Ed is going to fucking kill him if he finds him alive.

He follows, stumbling on his bruised leg, until the pipes suck in through the wall, and Ed is faced with a locked door. He kicks it in with one bang of the automail and it swings inwards, bounces off the wall, rattles to a halt.

Cuffed to the pipes in the corner of the room with dust in his hair, missing his jacket and with the top few buttons of his shirt open, Mustang - smiles at him.

"Fullmetal," he says, he purrs, as Ed just stares at him with his chest heaving. "So very good of you to come."

He's looking Ed up and down like Ed's laid out on a table for him or something, and as relief pours away Ed feels his cheeks heating. He narrows his eyes, claps his automail blade away, stalks to Mustang and staggers to sit in front of him. "Guess you're not dead then," he says, unhooking the water bottle from his belt, taking a room-temperature gritty delicious belt and passing it to Mustang, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand. Mustang catches his eye before he raises the bottle to his own mouth, drinks as delicately as if sipping good wine, and the water catches in Ed's throat as he swallows.

He's never noticed Mustang's adam's apple before.

Why is he watching Mustang's throat? Fuck, the way Mustang's looking at him is messing his head up. He swings the radio up too quickly in his embarrassment, squints in what little light they have here, switches it on like Fury showed him all the while trying to look so very professional. Then he stands it against the wall and says to Mustang, who's still watching him so fucking intensely, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Mustang says, with some weird inflection on 'fine'. "You look well, Fullmetal."

This is bullshit and Ed knows it's bullshit, because his hair is coming unravelled into a tangled, filthy hawthorn of knots, he's bruised and scratched and almost entirely covered in dust, grey as a ghost. But Mustang says it like he really means it, still looking Ed up and down, slowly, attentively, like he's savouring the view.

"You think it's fucking funny I have to drag my arse through a collapsed building to save your ungrateful-"

"I am very grateful," Mustang murmurs, his gaze lingering on Ed's throat as he swallows, feeling himself blush all the way to the skin of his chest.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're being even more weird than normal an' you're normally a fuckin' weirdo any- did you hit your head?" He hasn't even checked him for injuries, he can barely see in this light - "Did you hit your head when the building went? What-"

"I'm fine," Mustang says in that odd purring voice again. "I heard the explosions, I didn't know the whole building had gone down. I jerked my wrist a little, that's all."

"Did they - do something to you?" Ed doesn't want to look at him with Mustang looking so intensely back, but he has to squint and stare through this light to see anything of him.

"My captors did not raise a hand to me," Mustang says, stretching his legs out in front of himself, getting himself settled on the floor tiles of his prison. "They used chemical methods to try to obtain certain security codes from me. They weren't successful."

"They drugged you."

"They lowered my inhibitions quite drastically, but not, I fear, in the particular way they wanted. What are you doing?"

Ed jerks back from leaning around him. "Uh. I. Gettin' your wrist free. Must be goin' to sleep like that, right?"

He's leaning over Mustang's legs to reach for his wrist, and Mustang tilts his head down to breathe warm to Ed's ear, "You may not want to do that." Ed jumps back as hard as if shocked by lightning, stares at him dumbly. After a second he remembers to close his mouth. After another second he manages to say, "Why?"

Mustang's eyes are dangerously dark in this light. "Certain of my inhibitions have been almost entirely removed. You may want to leave my wrist bound."

Ed snorts, shuffles on his knees around to the other side of Mustang so he doesn't have to lean around him. "You think you could hurt me or something? You couldn't if you tried, Mustang."

Mustang laughs, softly. "I don't think you and I have the same sense of 'hurt' in mind right now, Fullmetal. You really might not want to - you never do follow any of my orders." Ed's already clapped, and Mustang's hand drops free. He cradles it, rubs his wrist to ease the blood. "Nor my prudent suggestions. You are quite impossible."

"Saving your butt. You could show some damn gratitude," Ed tries to sniff, tries to be superior -

Mustang's hands are on him and Ed freezes. Mustang moves with such ease like this, predator on prey, and Ed's gone prey-dumb and stiff as Mustang very calmly bumps him to the position he wants. The cold tile floor is hard against Ed's back, his wrists are held loosely back against it over his head, and he stares silent with shock up at Mustang, kneeling over his waist and bending his back to bring his face close to Ed's. Ed can feel his breath and it lances through his body like it has him by the veins, grabs him, makes every muscle ice-hard.

"-Mustang what the hell," he croaks, and he could get out of this in a fraction of a second if he could only think to move.

"Certain of my inhibitions have been removed," Mustang says, sliding Ed's wrists together above his head so that he can transfer them into the grip of just one hand. "They wanted me to talk about classified military secrets and all they managed to do was make me proposition a guard. The poor man didn't know what to do. Now, he was a decent looking man. You, Edward-" The name leaves his lips on a breath and makes Ed's heart stop for a second, because Mustang never calls him that. His heart starts again as if it's been electrocuted when Mustang's fingers skim down his cheek, back into his hair. "You are beyond words. You are infuriating, you veer violently between ridiculous immaturity and far, far more maturity than I am willing to face, you are loud and wild and utterly intoxicating," The last breathed into Ed's ear, when Ed turned so that Mustang's eyes weren't burning through his skull to his brain, and Ed gasps his breath in far too quickly. "And I can't say these things, can't let you know I feel these things, can't possibly dream of touching you because I am your superior officer and you are sixteen years old."

"Colonel, what . . ." Ed says, and has to swallow his mouth is so dry. The only parts of Mustang touching him are his hands around his wrists and against his cheek, fingers drawing through his hair, thumb stroking his cheek, and the sides of his knees warm against Ed's thighs. Ed feels like he's suffocating in Mustang, feels like Mustang's body has obliterated his own; his body now exists as a part of the voice, the breath, the body over his.

"I will get off you the second you ask me to," Mustang says, almost as an aside, as if it's just occurred to him. "I can still hear these arguments, you see. Looking down at you now - between my legs and flushed and breathless, Edward - I still understand these arguments, I understand exactly what they mean and how important they are. It's just that despite how important they are, they just don't matter. They don't matter a flicker. What matters is - this body." His hand leaves Ed's face, settles over his waist, Ed jumps but Mustang's heavier than him and holds him still while Ed stares with his entire body thrumming up into Mustang's eyes. "What matters is how long and how increasingly fiercely I've wanted you. How beautiful you are. How much you matter - you have no idea how much you have come to matter to me. I knew I was taking on a certain responsibility when I took a child into my command, but now you're not a child anymore and somehow you've come beyond a responsibility, somehow you have become precious to me. My mind is always with you. And on a purely selfish level, the thought of some greedy teenager pawing you fills me with revulsion. You deserve better than what anyone else could offer you. I believe I would rather see you die celibate than see a body besides mine against yours, because they could never treat you as well as I would like to."

Ed can't even cope with the staggering shock of what Mustang's saying, Mustang is speaking a whole new language and Ed just can't understand it, focuses instead on getting the edge of his breathing back under his control. "They'll be tunnellin' for us," he says, low and rough. "They'll be here soon. You don't wanna - don't want them to find you like this-"

"Find me like what?" Mustang murmurs, and lowers his face. Ed tips his away with a terrified squeak and feels breath touch the corner of his jaw and throat; "On top of you? Touching you? Telling you these things? Is it that you don't want me doing these things or is it that you don't want others to see it . . . ?"

And lips move on Ed's skin. Ed's eyes shoot open, his body squirms, noises leave his mouth but not ones he can control. He thinks - how hot Roy's mouth is and how the heat runs underneath Ed's skin and his skin must taste of dust and sweat and oh. Fuck. He's hard. Just like that. Oh fuck. Oh, fuck -

Mustang kisses up the underside of his jaw, kisses down his throat, around behind his ear, noses his hair and laughs there soft and low. "You don't seem to be trying very hard to get away from me, Edward."

Something in Ed twists and he writhes his body, trying to wriggle his wrists out from under Roy's hand. "You're drugged," he says, and suddenly his throat is tight. "You're drugged you stupid shit. Thanks for trying to fuck me when you're off your fucking face get off me-"

Mustang raises his head, checks his eyes to see how serious he is, and Ed wrenches his wrists out from his grip. Mustang sits back, perfectly calmly, and Ed scrambles out from underneath him, stumbles on his heels, falls backwards to sit against the wall, chest heaving, heart thrumming.

"What the fuck," he croaks, trying to concentrate between the panic of his chest and the throbbing between his legs. "What the fuck, what kind of fucked-up game d'you think you're playing-?"

"I'm not playing a game," Mustang murmurs, sitting back, propping himself upright on his hands. One shoulder is tilted down a little, and his shirt reveals - oh god the skin of his throat, pale as moonlight down here in the dark, and Ed squirms miserably on the cold tiles. "Think of it as a direct route to my innermost thoughts. I don't believe I'm capable of hiding anything right now, I'm more or less pure id, pure want with no qualms about what it takes to fulfil that want. And what I usually want more than anything else is you, Edward."

Ed can't read his eyes. He's worried, now - worried and struggling with the erection that's almost deafening it's so loud - because Mustang's eyes are too dark for Ed to tell what his pupils are doing, because Mustang is really not acting like Mustang and Ed has no idea what they gave him and he is really not ready to be the grown-up in this relationship.

Professional relationship, he corrects himself, blushing hard and knowing Mustang's noticed.

"You gotta sit still," he says roughly, trying not to squirm because all he's doing is rubbing leather against himself, making it worse. "People're coming down t'find us, all you gotta do is sit still an' wait for them, okay?"

"But they'll be some time, if the building came down. There are ways we can spend that time, Edward. You're sixteen, don't tell me you don't spend most of your days longing to be touched . . ."

"Don't - d- don't talk about touching me! Stay put!" Ed yelps, as Mustang sits up, but all he does is grin and run a hand back through his hair. He looks so much younger than he normally does; does he try to make himself look like an adult behind that desk, does the uniform do it to him . . . ? Stop thinking about him stop thinking about him -

"I'm not just offering you sex, you know."

"Colonel-"

That word, that word, hangs very heavy between them for a second. Ed closes his eyes, hunches his body smaller. "Colonel," he repeats, letting each syllable of what their relationship actually is settle between them. "Just sit quiet an' wait for Hawkeye an' the others to get here."

But Mustang says, quite softly, "I am not just offering you sex. Of course I want to have sex with you. Anyone would want to have sex with you. A human being would have to be deranged not to want to have sex with you, you're -"

"Shut up." He's a scarred-up half-automail kid. That's all he feels like in that moment, with a man like this saying all this bullshit to him.

"- but what hurts me sometimes is knowing you'll never trust me, knowing you'll never talk to me, knowing that I'll never be more to you than an irritating commanding officer. I want to be someone you think about; why do you think I drive you purposefully insane, if not to make your mind linger on me when you're gone? I want to matter to you and all I can do is annoy you . . ."

Ed whispers, "You have a really fucking funny way of trying to make me trust you."

"Usually I try to protect you more than I try to win you to me. God, I must be tired, I am saying all this, aren't I?" He laughs, sudden and soft, and Ed's head jerks up again. "They interrogated me for two hours and I managed to tell them nothing by thinking about nothing but you. Everything I wanted from you, wanted to do to you, all the things I never let myself imagine, I let my mind go rampant. And this is the outcome. Military secrets saved, and in exchange I've traumatised you. I'm sure I'll regret this when my mind is my own again."

Ed wraps his arms around his knees, mumbles, "I won't tell anyone. Just sit and wait, Mustang . . ."

"I've come so far that there doesn't seem much point in stopping," Mustang says, shrugging. "I stifle all that want down for a year and look what happens . . . and you want me too, don't you?"

"Wh- shut up! Just shut up an'-"

"I promise I would make it good for you. I promise I could make you feel so good . . ."

"God just shut up. I hate you. I hate you-"

"I know," Mustang says, and Ed has his face buried in his knees because he thinks he's going to cry in a second - all those thoughts you let your mind touch on when you touch yourself, and Ed's always had to use strange abstract images with little concrete material to work from and somehow it's thinking about Mustang's voice, Mustang's hands, that brings him over the edge every time and now Mustang is rubbing his nose in the whole sick shameful thing and making him want to die -

He hears Mustang stand. Ed jerks his head back, looks terrified up at him, the thought of giving in is alien to him and all he can do is fight back and he wants so badly - but Mustang pauses, standing over him, and says, "You're bleeding. I'm sorry, in this light I thought it was an older wound, it's still open. Please let me see."

Ed just stares up at him. "What?"

"Your cheek."

Ed stares at him, raises his white gloved hand and rubs it down the cheek he scraped over broken wood; his glove comes away streaked with what looks brown in this light. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Just a cut."

"You wouldn't have 'just a cut' if it wasn't for me."

"It doesn't matter." Ed says again, and Mustang crouches in front of him, looks at him, looks at him like he's starving for him, and Ed doesn't know how to look back at that, wriggles his knees closer and hides there to the nose.

"You have no concept of how much you have come to matter to me. I'm going to loathe myself when I come back to my right mind and I know that all I've done is hurt you by telling you this, but you have no idea, you can't . . ."

Ed stares at him, feels sick still but a very little stronger, now. He raises his head, a hand, hesitates, touches automail fingers to Mustang's mouth mostly to make sure he's not going to say anything before Ed can get this out. "It doesn't matter," he says quietly. "It's alright. We thought you were dead, no-one's gonna mind if we get you back a bit weird when we thought we'd be getting you back dead. I just, you gotta stop saying this shit. 'cause if you are gonna hate yourself when you wake up from this - then that's my fault for not stopping you, isn't it? So we'll both feel like shit. So stop it. You're drugged. I don't wanna hear this from you when you're drugged. Just sit quiet an' wait, okay . . . ?"

Mustang says against his fingers, "Does that mean that you would want to hear this from me were I not drugged?"

Ed pulls his hand back quickly. "Don't twist that, I just meant-"

"I don't know how you could possibly make my coming on to you your fault, Edward."

"'cause you're not right in the head an' I-"

"-want to hear me say these things?"

The blush hits him as horribly hard as it does because Mustang's right, isn't he? Ed's turned on and quivering and his heart's all aflutter because the Colonel is on his knees in front of him saying all this shit to him and the Colonel is not in his right mind and Ed is - fuck, getting off on this, what the hell kind of sick human being is he to -

Mustang whispers, "God I love you for your goodness," and Ed tries to pull himself away again but Mustang catches his automail wrist. "No - no - please, Edward-"

"Get off-"

"Please, please let me-"

"Get off-" He wants to cry, his throat's going, he can feel it -

"Please," Mustang says, and catches his face with his free hand, and kisses him.

As soon as his mouth lifts Ed's breath gasps in, but Mustang just kisses him again, runs a hand back through Ed's loose and ruined hair and kisses him soft, soft, and Ed's never imagined this. He's never known to imagine this. If he's ever let himself get as far as imagining Mustang actually touching him, it's never been gentle, it's been hard harsh crude fast like the argument they could never have, he hadn't known gentleness was something you could use in this equation . . .

He wants to sag into him. Everything has been too much. Everything has always been too much. He wants to wilt against him, put his arms around him and slump his face into his shoulder and let Mustang do whatever he wants because Ed can't face all the feeling he's had thrown at him today, because Mustang ought to be dead and he's not, he's kissing Ed gently, gently, now parting Ed's lips as Ed's shoulders droop; because he's so tired of these assignments, of chasing a Stone that he doesn't know for certain exists, of hoping and hoping and never letting himself look beyond the hope; because he's so tired of never, never giving in to the things he really wants, the things he can never say: Al, I don't know if I can do this. Anyone, someone, I'm in over my head, I'm scared, help me - Colonel I can't do it again, I can't keep doing this, I can't . . .

"You have to tell me to stop," Mustang says, his arm around Ed's back like Ed is his. Ed tries to summon even the want to say the words and fails.

It's not so much Mustang kissing him, now, he's learned what to do, how to respond. They are kissing. Ed and the Colonel are kissing, and Ed just closes his eyes and sinks through this, how hot he is and how he tastes, lets everything else shout from very far away. Id, he thinks drowsily. For once just take what you want. When do you ever get what you want . . . ?

Ed's watery muscles have let him down against the tiles, and Mustang shifts a leg over him, lays over him, heavy and hot and Ed's body thumps and thumps with want. He tries to kick this further along, tries to say with each kiss - do more, do more to me, I don't care, I want it, you know I want it - but as Mustang starts to respond, as his hands run over Ed's body through his clothes and Ed feels his erection reawakening bright and eager -

You have to tell me to stop.

Ed pulls his head back, whispers, "Colonel."

He can feel the Colonel's erection pressed into his leg.

"Colonel- get off. Get - can't, we can't, get - get off-"

He's panting against Ed's cheek, and Ed doesn't dare to look at him because if he sees the want in his eyes then he'll break.

"We can't, we can't, get off-" he croaks, and pushes at Mustang's chest. "Please-"

He can feel the man's arms shaking as Mustang lifts his body off Ed's and rolls to the side on the cold hard tiles, breathing hard. Ed rolls his back to him quickly, stares at the dim, blank wall opposite, swallows and presses his lips together and asks himself in a sneer if it was worth it.

Some poor helpless sick little part of his soul whimpers, Yes.

"We can't. They'll dig down and find us like this, an' you'll be drugged an' I'll just be - what the hell'll I be?"

"Incredibly sexy," Mustang offers, which is incredibly unhelpful.

"I'd be using you." Actually saying it is somehow worse and better than leaving it trapped inside, and his stomach dips and raises again. "It's wrong. I don't have the right. It's wrong."

Mustang is silent beside him for a moment, his breathing beginning to slow, before he says again, softly, "I love you for your goodness."

"I'm not good." His throat hurts again. "I'm not good-"

"If you had come to me like this, I wish I could believe I would have said no." Mustang says, quiet, thoughtful, calm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I put you in this position. I'm sorry, Ed."

"It's alright," Ed whispers at the wall.

They're both silent for some time. Ed's remembering Mustang's mouth on his and his body's all abuzz still, every surface centimetre of his skin feels really alive, and he still feels like he's going to throw up with guilt. He closes his eyes, tips his cheek to the tiles, wishes, wishes -

Mustang rolls to face his back, and puts an arm around him. Ed starts but he murmurs, "It's cold." and Ed's mouth opens to say - something, but nothing comes out. Mustang's arm is laying over his left side, his automail cold to the cold tiles beneath him. He swallows, hunches his shoulders under Mustang's odd half-hug, wonders if this could really get any worse, really . . . ?

"I'm trying to think clearly," Mustang says quietly, and since Ed hasn't knocked his arm off he shifts himself closer and rests his head on Ed's hair, cheek and nose to his neck. Ed stiffens but still doesn't move. "I'm trying to think what I'm going to regret tomorrow. I'm finding the concept of 'tomorrow' quite difficult when all I can think about is you and how you're here now."

"They'll be diggin' for us," Ed whispers, and Mustang says to his skin, "We haven't heard anything yet."

True. It could take them hours to dig down to them. Oh god Ed is doomed . . .

"Things I think I will regret tomorrow," Mustang says. He sounds so calm while he says all this, all this that Ed could never have imagined him saying - whatever the hell they drugged him with, it's managed to retain large parts of his personality and yet completely wipe out the thing that Ed knows really makes him him: that self-control like locked iron bands around everything real inside. "That I have admitted all this want to you in the first place. That you will never be able to so much as look at me again without knowing this. That you're going to believe it's just drugged lust and fuck Edward, all I want is to keep you - to make you - I am not used to finding the words for this -"

"Colonel, just - it doesn't matter, just-"

"I love you," Mustang says, sounding surprised himself by the words. "You're the best part of my life. I love you. It's not just sex, it's not just lust, I wish I could do anything - everything - for you -"

Ed, who has felt the blood leave every single cell of the skin of his face, sucks his breath in and jerks Mustang's arm as he crams a hand over each ear and hisses, "Shut up just shut up just shut up-"

"I mean it," Mustang says, his hand sliding over Ed's, lifting his palm from his ear, whispering there, "I mean every word, I can't regret you knowing this, you ought to know how much you matter - I watch you in the world and I don't think that you understand a fraction of how much you matter -"

Ed throws Mustang's arm off himself, slaps his hands over his throbbing face. "Just shut up Mustang-"

Mustang sits up, drags his hands through his hair, says plaintively, "Do you have any idea how bloody horny I am and how hard it is not to-?"

"I will kill you if you try." Ed chokes. "My fucking little brother is coming for us you retard and he is not finding me-"

"Please tell me you don't hate me. Please. The only thing I know about tomorrow is how much that thought is going to torment me-"

"Of course I hate you," Ed snarls back, "of course I fucking hate you you -" It chokes in his throat, his hands slump from his face. "Just don't talk," he croaks, and swallows. "Just, if you don't say anything it might just be okay, okay? Just don't say anything else, for fuck's sake . . ."

"Am I allowed to kiss you again?"

"No!"

"Will I ever be allowed that again?" His fingers catch the loose hair scattered over Ed's face, draw it back like a curtain and slip it behind his ear. Ed turns a terrified, trying-to-be-furious eye to him, and Mustang - grins, really quite sweetly. "It made me very happy."

Ed stares into his eyes for a long moment, stares at his charming smile, and then puts his hands over his eyes again and lays there on the cold hard tiles and says, "Sit still an' wait, Colonel."

What makes him feel worst is his own guilt, but second to that is that he has no idea how much of what the Colonel is saying he means, and how much he's saying it because he believes that this is what will convince Ed into sex. And to be known so shamefully well, because it's this promise of more that makes Ed want to melt against him, makes the tears prick at his eyelashes. He knows that he can't risk what this between them risks for the sake of sex - everything he owes his little brother, he can't walk such a dangerous tightrope just for sex's sake. But - but more -

It feels like a light expanding in his stomach. The possibility of safety, someone to fall against, someone to listen, someone to promise to try to understand, the possibility of a present more than the ruin of a life he has, the possibility of a future . . .

Mustang is, very gently, combing through the knots of his hair. Ed jerks his head and regrets it, and Roy peels his clamped-down hands off his head and murmurs, "Just relax, just relax, Ed . . ." And goes back to stroking his fingers through, carefully, carefully. Ed's eyes want to flutter, he's humiliated by how amazing it feels to have someone else brush his hair so gentle and so, so good . . .

He tries to save himself by muttering, "You are such a fucking girl. What'd they drug you with, oestrogen?"

"You've never had a lover," Mustang says, combing, combing, combing. "You don't know yet the bliss these small touches can be."

'Bliss' is the right word, Ed is swimming and drowning in bliss right now, embarrassed as hell by how fucking good this feels, almost as good as Roy on top of him and kissing him and don't think about that really really don't think about that. "'course I haven't had a - 'course I haven't. I'm sixteen, I'm busy, and it's not like I don't know I'm a wreck anyway."

"You are ungodly beautiful, no mortal should be so beautiful, no-one could manage to be so . . . my Icarus." He scoops up a handful of Ed's loose hair and kisses it. "Like an angel. So bright I can barely look at you."

"Get off my hair." He's nervous of jerking his head any more, he's pulled his own hair so many times tonight.

"I'd always wondered what it smelled like," Mustang says happily, inhaling a handful of it. Ed squawks furiously, "Get off my hair!" and pulls himself forward, rolls to face Mustang again because at least his damned hair's out of the man's hands that way.

"What the hell has Icarus got to do with anything?" he mutters. "I know that story. He got his wings melted, it was his own damn fault."

"The point of the story was rather that it was his father's fault, actually. But my point was merely that my god you terrify me, how close to the sun you skim. Every time, my heart in my throat. It's like I know I'm going to lose you, you are far too much, far too good, far too beautiful, I just know I won't have you for long . . ."

His heart has stopped. "Shut up," he whispers.

His own fear, in the darkest part of the night. He knows he'll never live long. He knows it. His guts know it, his bones know it, his soul knows it, deep down and certain. He is not destined for a long life, and if Mustang sees it too then it's true, oh shit, it's true.

"This is why I want you to be mine," Mustang whispers. "So that I can keep you. So that I know where you are, always. So I can keep you safe, I can protect you. I will, I swear I will. I will devote myself to your protection. If you would just - just let me -"

His palm on Ed's face, his eyes are so dark and with everything Ed can read in them, he trembles at the sight of them. His own eyes close as Mustang's mouth finds his, they both know the route now. All the tension and the fear is less with Mustang's mouth on his. All of it relaxes, just a little, he is safe like this . . .

He shoves Mustang off himself, red to the ears and eyes wide. "You just keep saying all this shit to make me let my guard down!"

"I promise you I'm too tired and fuddled to think so deviously right now," Mustang says.

"The hell you are you sneaky old bastard! Go sit over there!" He crams himself into a corner of the room, stabs a shaking finger at the opposite corner. "Go! Sit! There!"

Mustang sits up, but doesn't move for the other corner. "Do you really think of me as 'old'?"

He sounds actually, honestly, hurt. ". . . no. Older, but not proper-old, you're not nearly mature enough t'be proper old. An' stop doing the puppy dog eyes, it's pathetic."

"I would be a good lover for you. I would do anything, Edward."

"Shut up. No more talking, that's an order."

"I outrank you, you know."

"I reckon me pissed off outranks you drugged to the eyeballs, Mustang."

Mustang sighs, and looks longingly at him. Ed folds his arms, glares at the floor tiles. Mustang says quietly, "I hate my rank, and my age, if all they mean to you is another barrier between us. Are you ever going to say my actual name?"

"No." That idea is far too dangerous, and far too strange. "You're my commanding officer. You know you can't be anything else. That's not what I signed up for, that's not what the deal was, I do your stupid assignments and make you look good for your idiot generals an' you let me search for the Stone, try to help Al. There's nothing else between us. Nothing."

"That's all I wanted when you were eleven," Roy says. "I didn't know that you would turn into a sixteen year old I was obsessed with."

"Kids grow up, retard."

"They don't normally grow so damned lethal to me. I hate tomorrow. I hate the very thought of tomorrow, I hate that I will regret telling you these things when this is my only chance for happiness - you are my only chance for happiness - and I know I would make you happy, I would do anything to make you happy, you have no idea how utterly I would trample my own life stampeding after your slightest joy, Ed . . ."

Ed puts his face into his folded arms over his knees. "You're sayin' this so I'll let you fuck me."

Very steady, very sure, "I'm saying it because I love you."

And then they hear the crunching.

Ed raises his face - Mustang stares at him blankly - and scrambles to his feet. He runs for the door but there's a hiss, a sudden wrench of falling stone and masonry and he stumbles back from the collapsing ceiling into Mustang's arms, instantly there. He feels very big behind him, very strong and real. Ed pulls himself quickly forward, tucking his arms in close to his own body.

"Oi! Down here! Can you hear us? Down here!"

"They were fast," Mustang says, sounding softly disappointed.

"Down here!" Ed yells desperately, and he hears voices calling back, and around the hole he'd transmuted, suddenly timbers crash through and the light pours in, ghostly light of morning making the blue-tinged emergency lighting look like nothing at all. "Here!" - so happily, because he's saved, saved from his own weakness, he knows how close he's been to crumbling . . .

Confused voices and Ed can hear over them, attuned as a dog to a whistle, "Brother! Brother!"

"Al! Down here!"

As the last of the ceiling gives way there's a shriek and two flailing military boots almost come down with it. Ed runs forward - Mustang's grabbing hands just miss him - arms over his face against the falling dust; Fury scrabbling wildly with Havoc and Falman trying to drag him back up by the arms. Ed shields his eyes, squints up - the dawn is dim but his eyes are accustomed now to next to nothing - and Al cries in relief, "Brother!"

Ed waves back with both arms, grinning wildly. Al! "He's down here, nothin' else seems t'be falling in, I can transmute a ladder!"

Hawkeye says softly from up above, "Thank you, Edward."

Within five minutes they're back on street level, on top of the wreck of the levelled building. It's like standing on the end of the world, except the city stands calmly all around them, just this building crumpled almost to nothing. Al fusses over Ed's cut cheek, his multiple scratches, bruises, grazes; Ed isn't surprised that Mustang's staff are more concerned with Mustang. Mustang who, and Ed can feel his face blanching as he notices, is staring at Hawkeye's - well, at her. She's not wearing her jacket, just a high-necked black tank top for the digging. So he's staring at her. At. At her breasts.

(It is terrible for Ed to think, to admit, that Hawkeye has such a thing as breasts.)

Hawkeye's noticed it too, would have to be blind not to, appears to consider the matter for a second - her face does not change, though it is turning pink - then she slaps Mustang across the cheek with military precision. He staggers, stumbles on the uneven ground, says, "I'm terribly sorry, Lieutenant."

Ed runs forward quickly before she can shoot him or something, gets between them with his arms out. "They drugged him, he's, he's acting weird, he's not in his right, I think he needs the hospital or someth-" His breath sucks in - all those nurses. The thought makes Ed's stomach contract. Staring at Hawkeye's breasts and soon he'll be in a building full of women in nurse's uniforms, and it turns out that everything he said down there to Ed really was just the dust of Ed's dreams, meant to make him open his legs and nothing more. He thinks that he can feel the crack that's just run through his heart, and he thinks that he's going to drop where he stands . . .

Except arms close around him from behind, one hand raises his face by the jaw and Mustang breathes to his mouth, "Thank you for rescuing me," and kisses him before Ed can think to twist himself away. He hangs, dumb and limp, from Mustang's arms, and no-one says anything for what feels like about ten years, and then Mustang breaks the kiss, raises his head, says, "How about you come to the hospital with me, so they can clean up all these wounds and I can show you the depth of my gratit-"

Ed stares at him, face white, mouth open in horror, as Mustang lifts into the air like an angel with his eyes wide with the most surprise Ed has ever seen in them. Ed blinks up at him as Al holds him the air like a dangling Christmas tree ornament, a slightly swinging Mustang held by the back of his shirt.

"Ah," he says, sounding for the first time unsure.

Ed squirms. "You c'n put him down," he says to Al. "But maybe keep a hold on him . . . ?"

Havoc says, eyes alarmed on Mustang and cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, "Is he coming on to everybody?"

Ed's breath comes very slow, very quiet. "Yes." He tosses his head, affects unconcern. "You might wanna keep an eye on him, if you do put him in the hospital." Bitterly, "You know what he's like."

"Maybe you should go too, brother." Al says, while Mustang tries to keep his face very composed as he hangs from a hand that could pop his skull open like an eggshell, the hand of the little brother who saw him sucking his beloved older brother's face without so much as a 'please'.

"Nah." He turns away, puts his hands in his pockets. "I'm fine. Goin' back to the dorms, get some sleep."

"Brother!" Al looks around for someone appropriate to hand the Colonel to - puts him down in front of Hawkeye, bows, runs after Ed skidding on the broken ground - "Wait! At least let me-"

"I'll wash off in the dorms, we can stick a plaster on it, it'll be fine."

"Ed," Mustang calls after them, and Ed's hands twitch in his pockets but he doesn't look back.

"Brother . . . ?" Al says, and glances back with a scrape of metal at the group they're leaving behind. "Um . . . you were down there with the Colonel an awfully long time."

("I'm saying it because I love you.")

"I know." He kicks a stone, his face tightens, and he kicks the second stone so hard it bangs rather than skips off the ground ahead of him.



And the rest of it.
Tags: one shot, roy/ed, smuttish
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