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The alarm blares, and Roy opens his eyes to midnight.
Well—to six in the morning, but they look the same.
“Nooooo,” mumbles the warm, wonderful body squirming in closer to his. “Don’ leave m… nrgh.”
Further piteous and hilarious noises emanate from the direction of the radiating warmth as Roy sits up and feels for the edge of the bed and then for the button to silence the clock.
“Call in sick,” Ed says. “Call in dead. Call in horny. I’m sorry, Councilmen; I can’t possibly come in and do Führer-y shit today. All this fantastic sex isn’t going to have itself.”
“You know me far too well,” Roy says, gingerly setting his feet on the floor. He swears the little rug creeps around in the middle of the night in order to elude him in the mornings. “Out of—aha—morbid curiosity, how exactly would one go about calling in dead?”
“S’easy,” Ed says. By the muffled quality to his voice, he’s buried his face in his pillow again. “You start out by calling in sick, and then you cough like you’re hacking up a lung, and then you go quiet and drop the phone.”
Roy feels his way around the edge of the bedside table and reaches up to shoulder level, where his bathrobe is hanging on its hook. “I like to think there would be a fairly considerable brouhaha if the newly-elected Führer of Amestris suddenly dropped dead.” He shoulders the robe on and fumbles for the loose ends of the tie. Where are those little bastards? “I imagine that his ostensibly ambitious, notoriously hot-tempered, significantly-younger lover might be suspected of foul play.”
Ed snickers. “You ’n I both know that if you did anything worth murdering you for, Al’d get you first, and they’d never be able to prove a thing.”
Roy pauses. “What a propitious conversation to start my morning with.”
There’s a bit of rustling, and a whip of sheets, and then the clink-pat of Ed hopping down off the bed. The lapels of the robe rearrange themselves against Roy’s collarbones, and the belt cinches in around his waist. “Can’t believe you just said ‘propitious’ at six in the fuckin’ morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Roy says.
He can hear Ed’s grin. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“All right,” Roy says, flattening his hands on Ed’s chest, dragging a fingertip down the automail scars, savoring his heartbeat. “In absolute sincerity, I am almost measurably penitent.”
“Fuck you,” Ed says warmly, fussing with the collar of the robe.
“Hold that thought until this evening,” Roy says, and leans in and down to kiss the closest bit of forehead. “I can’t afford to be late today.”
“You should instate a law to make the workday start later,” Ed says. “I swear, you are fucking wasting the real opportunities of the whole supreme dictator thing.”
“That may be tangentially related to the fact that I’m not a supreme dictator,” Roy says, kissing a little lower and finding an eyebrow, which quirks at the contact. “In either case, I’m going to take a shower. Go back to sleep, dear heart. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Too late for more sleep,” Ed says, and a not-especially-mysterious force starts tugging Roy towards the bathroom by the robe’s belt. “I’m working on the best ways to abuse unlimited executive power. You could dedicate a national holiday to us spending the whole day in bed.”
Roy’s raised hand grazes the doorframe, and Ed releases him. “Every time we attempt that of a weekend, you fidget and whine for half an hour, and then we have to leave the bed for food.”
“I do not,” Ed says. “Twenty minutes, tops. And it’s not whining if I’m actually liable to starve. How about a holiday for a whole day in bed—with an endless supply of pancakes?”
Roy is losing shower time at a precipitous rate, but he finds that he doesn’t particularly mind. “Whence exactly will these self-replenishing pancakes originate?”
“Again with the words… well, fucked if I know. You should have flunkies for this sort of thing.”
“Pancake flunkies?”
“They’re the best kind.”
“I will suggest to the Council that we open a few employment requisitions.”
“You mean to tell me you busted your ass—and your eyes—getting all the way to Führerdom, and you don’t have any flunkies?”
“Define ‘flunky’. Do you want Captain Havoc waiting outside with the emergency pancake reinforcements?”
“You’re sick,” Ed says. “It’s kinda weird that I love you.” He pushes Roy gently in the direction of the shower, not seeming to notice that Roy’s heart has exploded into glittering confetti. “Go get clean; you really need it now.”
“Yes, sir,” Roy says.
“Shut up,” Ed says. “I’m going to go burn you some eggs.”
“Can’t we have pancakes?”
“Holiday first. Then pancakes.”
Ed drives a very, very hard bargain. On the upside, they use the same soap, which consistently tricks Roy’s brain into thinking he can smell Ed on his skin all day long.
“Damn.” Roy’s hands are still shaking just a little from the nail-biting, blood-pressure-destroying, down-to-the-wire tiebreaker vote that finally came out in favor of reinstating full Ishvalan citizenship. It’s only been an hour since the decision; his body seems to be having trouble accepting the fact that it’s all right to calm down, and his heart and brain alike are still racing in anticipation of damage control. An unfortunate side-effect of supreme executive power is apparently that one’s housekeys will try to jitter their way out of one’s hands after every major democratic initiative.
Roy draws a deep breath, touches the lock mount with his left hand, and grips the key again in his right. Over Hitomi’s soft breathing at his side, he can hear the tip of the key connecting with the setting of the lock—brass on brass; that’s a start; where’s the hole? Ed would have a field day if he said that aloud; he’d better not mention…
The end of the key scrapes and slides off the beveled edge, his fingers slip, the whole keyring jingles, and then his grasp’s failed entirely, and his keys are… clattering onto the front step.
“Damn,” Roy says, somewhat emphatically this time. There’s some commotion indoors; the Elric brothers are evidently being their indomitably enthusiastic selves, and they won’t hear him. Hitomi noses sympathetically at his unsteady hand.
A car door slams fifty or sixty feet away, and Roy can’t help it that he jumps. But then he recognizes Havoc’s almost undetectable limp coming up the walk.
He stands up a little straighter and tries to look dignified while he waits stupidly for his left-hand man to approach and retrieve his keys. The faint scoffing noise that Hitomi makes must just be a coincidence.
“Here, Chief,” Havoc says, and the keys jingle, and the lock grinds. “Take it easy tonight, wouldya?”
“I will make every effort, Captain,” Roy says. “You do the same.”
“Sure thing,” Havoc says. “Thank you, sir.” He takes Roy’s hand gently, deposits the keyring in Roy’s palm, and claps Roy’s shoulder as he starts to walk away.
Roy pockets his traitorous keys, touches the nearer of Hitomi’s soft ears to ground himself, and pushes the door open.
“—d enough that you collect the fucking things; do you really have to leave them where I can’t avoid seein’ ’em?”
“You know you love it,” Al says.
Ed’s voice gets louder, and there’s a grin in it—he’s turning towards the door. “Hey, gorgeous. Al bought all the stupid gossip rags again. I think this qualifies as an addiction now.”
“Oh, hush,” Al says. “There just happened to be a few today with gushy interviews.”
“Gushy interviews,” Roy says slowly.
“Yeah, get this,” Ed says. “Hang on—c’mere. Park your ass and stay a while.” A warm hand clasps his elbow and starts drawing him forward. Hitomi makes a querying noise. “Hi, girl. You bark at any bad guys today? Lemme borrow this hot hunk of Führer from you for a sec.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Roy says, allowing Ed to tow him across the carpet and guide him down onto the couch.
“Except if you’re Leticia Garwin, apparently,” Ed says.
“That name sounds vaguely familiar,” Roy says. Ed plops down onto the couch cushion beside him and rattles some flimsy paper. “Oh,” Roy says. “The young woman who wanted an interview last week.”
“How did she get past Major Hawkeye, anyway?” Ed asks.
Roy crosses his legs and does his very best not to look embarrassed. “It was later discovered that Sergeant Callay has been romantically involved with her and was convinced to sneak her into the cafeteria.”
There is a pause. It is often possible to gauge the tone of pauses by auditory cues and instinct, and Roy hazards that this one is startled with an edge of bewilderment.
“You still eat in the cafeteria?” Ed says.
“People are more honest with food in front of them,” Roy says, stroking gently at Hitomi’s back as she takes up a vigil by his knees.
“That’s an interesting observation,” Al says thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s Brother’s insatiable appetite that makes him so amazingly tactless.”
“Excuse you.”
“I’m a bit hurt that you didn’t appreciate my vision impairment pun, Brother.”
“I’m not speaking to you anymore. Listen to this, Roy. Eye on Amestris reporter—‘reporter’; that’s some creative license for you—Leticia Garwin recently sat down with newly-minted Führer Roy Mustang for a cozy meal… and boy, did Roy dish! Wow, I can’t decide whether this shit is hilarious, or it makes me want to vomit.”
More paper crinkles from Al’s direction. “A bit of both, I think.”
“Multitasking,” Ed says. “Anyhoo—Leticia: ‘Thanks so much for making the time, sir!’ Führer Mustang: ‘Certainly.’” Ed’s grin is almost bright enough for Roy to see. “That’s you-code for ‘Fuck you; I’ve got five minutes to eat this sandwich before I have to go suffer the generals again’, isn’t it?”
“You’re getting quite fluent in me-code,” Roy says.
Ed lays his head on Roy’s shoulder for one very lovely moment before he shifts away once more, clearing his throat. “Leticia: ‘I know you’re a busy man, so let’s get right down to it—what’s all this about Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist?’ Führer Mustang: ‘He hasn’t actually been affiliated with the State Alchemist program for several years. It’s a bit of a pity; we’ve made numerous improvements to the vetting and examination processes, and we’re reorganizing the whole system to maximize the benefit to the public, as befits the original intention.’ Leticia: ‘That’s really great, sir, but I meant what’s all this about the Fullmetal Alchemist being your boyfriend?’ Führer Mustang: ‘Like I said, he’s not the Fullmetal Alchemist anymore.’”
Al gives a low, faintly menacing laugh.
“Leticia: ‘All right, well… there are rumors flying everywhere that you share a home—and a bed—with Edward Elric.’”
“I object to that, by the way,” Roy says. “It’s hardly ‘sharing’ the bed when you consistently hoard all the covers.”
“It’s the law of the jungle,” Ed says. “And it’s equivalent exchange for the way you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
Ed clears his throat again, even louder this time, and snaps the paper imperiously. “Führer Mustang: ‘There are also rumors that I’m planning to start a war with Aerugo to boost production of heavy industry and stimulate the economy. Which, of course, is simply untrue.’ Leticia: ‘Sir… are you with Edward Elric?’ Führer Mustang: ‘I’m with him on occasion. Just last week we had a very interesting discussion over coffee about Agathodaimon’s impact on my work.’” Ed’s elbow nudges Roy’s arm. “You’re such a shit.”
“Conceded,” Roy says.
“Leticia: ‘I’m so sorry, sir—I think I’ll have to be pretty frank. Is Edward Elric your beau?’ Führer Mustang: ‘I beg your pardon?’ Leticia: ‘Your—paramour. Your lover, sir.’ Führer Mustang: ‘Are people really saying that? How curious.’ Leticia: ‘Don’t you share an address with him, sir? You live in the same house—that caused quite a stir, actually; that you wouldn’t move into the traditional Führer’s manor.’ Führer Mustang: ‘I should hate to think of taxpayers having to support me living in luxury I don’t need, and I much prefer to have my finger on the pulse of Central City. Besides, those big old houses are terribly drafty.’” Ed sighs. “Drafty, he says. The free perk-of-the-job palace-mansion is too drafty.”
“You’d be cold,” Roy says. “And then we’d have to have twice as many blankets for you to steal from me in the middle of the night.”
“Whatever,” Ed says. “Leticia: ‘But you do live with Edward Elric, don’t you?’ Führer Mustang: ‘I have learned to put up with him over the years, yes.’ And I am so totally withholding sex for a week for that, by the way.”
“That’s cruel,” Roy says. “I was defending your honor. In a… roundabout… fashion.”
Ed growls in the back of his throat, and Roy resists the urge to jump him in front of his precious purportedly-angelic brother. “Shut up and let me finish. Leticia: ‘Sir, are you or are you not having an affair with Edward Elric?’ Führer Mustang: ‘Wouldn’t one of us need to be married in order for us to have an affair?’ Leticia: ‘Forgive me, sir, but I’m just going to take all of the evidence as a yes.’ Führer Mustang: ‘That seems a bit illogical—rather like the previous plan for alterations to the healthcare system, which I intend to reorder entirely in the coming months.’ Leticia: ‘Thank you for your time, sir!’ Führer Mustang: ‘You’re very welcome to it. And to a briefing on this quarter’s revolutionary alchemy-driven public works projects, if you like.’”
This silence seems to be slightly reverent, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking.
“Roy,” Al says slowly, “you are masterful.”
“Thank you, Alphonse,” Roy says. It’s sincere, too; a compliment on subtle wit from Alphonse Elric is like a compliment on self-grooming from one of his cats.
“Still no sex,” Ed says. Pages rustle. “Whoa, holy shit, there’s one with me. When did that happen? Oh, right. This is the asshole who ambushed me in the library. Is nothing sacred anymore?”
“I found another one,” Al says.
“Jeez.” Ed leans against Roy’s arm. “I don’t remember saying any of this. ‘What do you think of the Führer?’ ‘I think his alchemy’s pretty hot—get it?’ ‘By most accounts, he’s a very attractive man.’ ‘Yeah, but looks don’t matter—’cause he’s blind, get it?’ ‘Rumor has it that his sexual preferences are fluid; do you know anything about that?’ ‘Yeah, I hear he’s pretty loose… on immigration. Get it?’”
Al’s cough sounds suspiciously similar to his laugh. “Were you sober when this exchange took place, Brother?”
“Not especially,” Ed says.
“You’re the only person I know who gets drunk and goes to the library.”
“You obviously don’t know the right people.”
“Edward,” Roy says.
“Eh?” Ed asks, turning towards him.
“I love you,” Roy says.
He can almost hear the blood rushing to Ed’s cheeks. “Shut up. I love you, too. You should get drunk and come to the library with me sometime. We can give practical demonstrations in the anatomy section.”
“Bingo!” Al cries.
“Holy crap!” Ed says. “Which one is that? What’d you get?”
“It’s another of yours,” Al says. “It’s a diagonal—‘No fucking comment’, ‘forbidden romance’, free space, ‘Get a job’, and implication of objects being thrown.”
“They shouldn’t make potted plants so aerodynamic if they don’t want me to use them as projectiles,” Ed says. “Is that the one that intimidated my receptionist?”
“Possibly,” Al says.
“He’s lucky I didn’t throw the desk.”
Roy tries to sort backwards through some of the Elricking. “Is there a prize for winning at gossip column bingo?”
“I dunno,” Ed says. “Maybe you should instate a national holiday celebrating Al.”
“That’s absurd, Brother,” Al says. “He should make one celebrating cats.”
“Whatever it is, it should end with us getting drunk in the library this time. S’more efficient.”
“I always feared that what your drunkenness lacked was efficiency, Brother.”
“Knew you’d understand,” Ed says. “Hey.” Roy gets another elbow nudge. “You hungry? We kept dinner warm.”
Roy catches the intrusive elbow and uses it to reel Ed in closer, the better to lay insistent kisses all over his face. “Have I told you today that you’re wonderful?”
“Yes, actua—that tickles!”
“It bears repeating,” Roy says.
“C’mon,” Ed says. His weight leaves the couch, and then his hands catch Roy’s and start tugging. “You get cranky when you haven’t been fed.”
“You’re very fortunate that you’re adorable,” Roy says.
“You’re blind.”
“Conceptually adorable.”
“How fuckin’ romantic.”
Al sighs happily. “If only Leticia Garwin could see you now.”
“The seeing would be rather one-sided,” Roy says, at the same moment Ed says, “We’d see her to the door, figuratively speaking.”
“Be nice,” Al says, “or I’m going to have to eye-solate you two.”
The soft huffing noise Hitomi makes sounds distinctly unimpressed.