FMA -- Today-Tonight-Now
Title: Today-Tonight-Now
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed/Al
Rating: very light PG-13
Word Count: 2,875
Warnings: brief language (thanks, boys! ♥); very mild impure thoughts (thanks, Roy! ♥); maybe minor spoilers for Brotherhood; UNREPENTANT FLUFF; wot's editing Precious
Summary: Everyone is up too late, but somehow everything's in order.
Author's Note: A homework bribe for the lovely and talented Silver, who wanted some OT3 fluff! :3 ♥ It's AU in small ways from the end of BH, so that everyone can be maximum-happy forever; no, you don't get a choice. :DDDDD
TODAY-TONIGHT-NOW
It is two in the morning, and these numbers adamantly refuse to add up.
Roy pushes his unfortunate-but, as he has on good authority, more than a little bit flattering-reading glasses up into his hair in order to grind his knuckles into his eyes. He takes a deep breath, polishes the lenses on the tail of his long-since-wrinkled and even-longer-since-untucked shirt, and puts them back on to look at the wall of unkind numerals. He’ll give it ten more minutes and one more try.
Lieutenant-Colonel Beacham’s expenses sprawl out, and he taps the end of his pen down along the column, fighting to forget how many of these miserable budgets he’s slogged through tonight, squashing the urge to skim through, sign off, and pen P.S. Like I give a half a damn; do you know what time it is? at the bottom of the page. Just one more. He’s so close he can almost taste the toothpaste; he can almost smell the pillow; he can almost feel the comforter against his cheek. He has one more serious effort left in him. He owes that much to himself, and to this idiot Beacham, and to the country that trusts him quite in spite of knowing better.
The stack of numbers, tallied together, still doesn’t match the total at the end.
Roy starts to grit his teeth, starts to collapse back into the chair… but then he starts to wonder-
He runs it one more time-as certain individuals are terribly fond of repeating, two is a coincidence, but three is a pattern; as the idiom goes, it’s also the charm.
His count still comes up to exactly fifty-thousand cens less than the total line.
He takes his glasses off and polishes them again while he weighs his options. Of all the damn habits to have learned from Hughes…
He leaves the blank line unsigned and writes beneath it-in his finest, smoothest penmanship-You seem to have failed to account for a not-insignificant amount of taxpayer funds. An itemized index of the remaining 50K is due on my desk by Mon. Jan. 15.
He thinks that’s a nice, diplomatic way of saying Take your petty embezzlement to another department, or I’ll see you in front of a tribunal.
He twirls the pen around his thumb and then sets it down. He aligns the pile of papers, slides it back into one of the thousand identical manila folders, and puts the folders into the nondescript leather bag that a certain pair of geniuses gave to him for his birthday, which can be alchemically sealed at the touch of an embossed array, “just in case you stumble on someone who actually gives a shit about all your dumbass ‘state secrets’ and whatever.”
He stands, stretches, whimpers at the flare of pain reaching around his ribcage like the greedy claws of a fiery demon, cracks his neck, sighs, and remembers in the nick of time to put his glasses in their case and the case in the bag before he scrubs at his face with both hands. Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of him, but he is getting much too old for this burning the midnight oil business; one of these days, something’s going to give.
But not today. Well, tonight. Well, tomorrow morning from the night it had been, which is technically today after all, isn’t it?
Lord, he’s tired.
He massages at the small of his back, blinking at the spots like water marks sparking and fading in front of his eyes, and hobbles over to the door. Has there ever been a more poetic tiny tragedy than the senescence of Amestris’s finest and most famous playboy? He should retire and write a book. A smutty book. A smutty, sensationalist tell-all memoir, highly-embellished, lowly-aimed; it’ll fly off of the shelves like pigeons descending onto breadcrumbs; he’ll make a fortune, and they’ll all live like kings.
But not today. Tonight. Now. Whatever it is right this second.
He tries to lighten his step as he moves out into the hall-he wonders where they ended up. There’s no bickering about arcane alchemy emanating from the kitchen, and no raging debate on whether folding laundry is worthwhile drifting down the stairs; no politics are being picked apart, and no strong opinions on the ideal level of bacon crispiness are being expounded at the top of a voice.
Which must mean…
He pads into the living room, pushing the door open as gently as he’s able; if you open it quickly, it creaks.
Sure enough, here they are-and, as expected, the only thing that could possibly instill such absolute silence is that they’re both asleep. They do try-and he knows it, and it lights yet another little flicker of knee-weakening gratitude and heart-soaring adulation in the pit of his stomach-to stay slightly more subdued when they know he’s working, but the only guarantee of true quietude is for both of them to be unconscious.
It looks like Ed dropped first-he’s lying on his back with his head pillowed on Al’s thigh, loose hair splayed out over his brother’s knee and gleaming silken-bright in the firelight; his right arm dangles over the edge of the couch, a thick book open on the floor beneath his shining fingers, and the left is bent to let him spread his flesh hand on his own stomach underneath the hem of his sweater.
Alphonse’s book lies forgotten, too-carefully bookmarked but set aside on the arm of the couch, the better to let him bury one hand in Ed’s hair and settle the other on the curved back of the gray tabby he has incomprehensibly christened Violet. He’s going to have a crick in his neck tomorrow from falling asleep sitting upright, with his head leant against the couch back; odds are he’ll spend half the time complaining about the pain and the other half marveling at the opportunity to experience it.
Roy stands in the doorway for just a moment-all right, for just a rather long moment-to take it in. For all the myriad stresses; for all the little woes; for all the huge, heavy debts draped across his shoulders, painted on him like a target; for all the bloodstains in broad red strokes-for all of the downsides, and the low days, and the darkness of the nights, he is happier now than he ever has been. He is happier than he knows how to be, and sometimes it feels like an avalanche, and he can’t even sort out how to breathe. It’s a hundred times more than he ever dreamed of and a thousand times more than he deserves.
So it is that he smiles, takes a breath, sighs his contentment despite the hour, and crosses to the couch. He’ll have to take Ed first-even now that there’s over a foot separating the top of Ed’s head (not counting the indefatigable upflick) from his brother’s, Edward is still heavier by far from the weight of the automail. There are other factors, too-Alphonse curls in towards a source of warmth like a moth to flame, as though the novelty won’t ever wear off; whereas Edward, once thoroughly crashed out, is completely insensible to the universe and seems to sprawl all the wider the harder you try to contain him. If a miracle of sleep patterns leaves a gap, and he does awake, the surprise sends him into a thrashing fit, and certain distinguished generals of the Amestrian military are left with the unsavory challenge of inventing a non-humiliating lie to explain a black eye left by flailing automail.
The point is, Roy’s getting a touch too old to be carrying lovers up the stairs on a regular basis, and if he doesn’t get the difficult one out of the way, there’s little chance he’ll have the stamina for a second round.
The first order of business is to extricate Al’s hand from Ed’s hair without waking either of them; fortunately, as the designated detangler when automail joints catch scarf and sweater knits, it’s not too troublesome for Roy to put his famed fingertips to good use yet again. Shortly-nearly as shortly as particular individuals in the room who will here go nameless-Alphonse’s hand is unencumbered with ribbons of bright gold hair; Roy has picked it all free and swept it all around over Ed’s left shoulder. Briefly he wonders what happened to the tie-presumably he’ll find the cat chewing on it later. (Violet, in typical telepathic style, senses the uncharitable thought and gives him a dirty look.)
In the meantime, he crouches, hearing Riza shouting Lift with your legs! in his head, and slides one arm under Ed’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees.
This is going to hurt.
But it’s worth it.
Unsurprisingly, Ed doesn’t so much as flinch as Roy gathers him up in both arms, cringes heavily, and starts the long stagger towards the staircase. His spine is already cursing him to a billion separate hells, and Ed’s leg-fortunately the right one-keeps swinging out and back with the motion of Roy’s stride and thumping Ed’s heel into Roy’s hip. The things he does for love astound him sometimes. Perhaps he should splurge and furnish this damn house with an elevator.
For the moment, though, the stairs pass in a haze of aching misery and sheer pigheaded determination (a trait he has honed over the years by pitting it against the owner of the limp body in his arms) until he reaches the bedroom, backs through the door, and deposits a still-insensible Edward Elric on the mattress. He earns a single snore and then an unceremonious burial of Ed’s face in the pillow for his pains.
Funny how breathtaking the brat looks all the same.
Deliberately avoiding a glance at the clock, he heads down the stairs again, bracing himself on the banister this time. One more, and Al might well wake up partway through the journey, insist on walking, and spare Roy a not-inconsiderable amount of agony…
…or he might already be stirring on the couch, stretching both arms over his head and arching his back so that his shirt rides up, and pink flesh and an unjustly cute bellybutton show.
Violet kneads at Al’s thigh with both paws, and he covers a yawn with his forearm. The bleary smile he turns on Roy is nothing short of heart-rending.
“Sorry,” he says. “We were waiting up for you, only I think we were a little more tired than we thought.”
“There’s really no need to apologize,” Roy says, hearing his own voice emerge scratchy after the hours of silence. He crosses the room again and leans down to kiss Al’s forehead before offering both hands; once Alphonse is on his feet, he’s too high to reach.
Al takes the assistance gratefully-two warm hands, two smiling eyes; Edward, in constant contrast, has to be tricked into acknowledging the delicately-balanced beauty of what they’ve built, because he’s waiting always for the other shoe to fall-and then collects the cat in his arms. Roy would get clawed six ways to Sunday for manhandling the house’s feline Führer so casually, but Violet immediately snuggles up against Al’s chest and starts purring. Roy could try to resent it, but in a matter of minutes, Alphonse will be tucked under the covers and wrapped up in Roy’s arm, doing the exact same thing.
Roy touches the small of Al’s back as he ushers him out, rather unnecessarily on both counts; Al leads the way up the stairs. “I think I know the answer to this, but did Brother brush his teeth?”
“No miracles tonight, I’m afraid,” Roy says.
Al sighs feelingly. “Maybe if we’re loud enough, he’ll wake up and get the hint.”
They pause on the landing. They share a look. Roy raises an eyebrow very, very slowly, and Al starts to laugh.
“Good point,” he says.
“Now,” Roy says, “if we wrote ‘brush your teeth or no one will kiss you for a week’ on a piece of paper and placed it directly in front of his face, then made enough noise to wake him…”
“I see why they pay you so much to strategize,” Al says. He steps into the bedroom, goes to the bed, and deposits the cat directly in the middle, which will make it impossible for any of them to position themselves without disturbing the sacred fluffball. “Brother, get your cute butt up and practice some dental hygiene.”
“Can’t hear you,” Ed mumbles into the pillow. “’M asleep.”
“Evidently,” Roy says.
“C’mon, Brother,” Al says. “Or Roy’ll have to carry you. Again.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Ed says, still speaking more to the pillow than to the pair of them. “I got up here by magic, not ’cause I got honeymoon-lifted like some fuckin’ kid.”
“You know you like it,” Roy says.
“Everybody knows you like it,” Al says. “You, him, me, the cat, the neighbors…”
Would it be cruel to high-five? Roy hesitates just long enough that the moment passes.
“Hate you,” Ed mutters into the pillow.
“No, you don’t,” Al says. “Come on, Ed.”
Perhaps another tactic is in order. “Edward, you hate sleeping in jeans. It’ll only be five minutes. I’ll brush your hair.”
One yellow eye appears above the curve of the pillow to assess his sincerity. Then two mismatched hands apply themselves to the uncomfortable clothing and try to peel it off of Ed’s legs without him having to get up from the bed. If anyone can manage it in jeans that tight, it would be Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Contortionist, but even he’s struggling a bit.
Also, the slightly feral growl resonating from deep in his throat is doing unseemly things to Roy’s desire to drop onto the bed and slip into slumber.
Al rolls his eyes and goes over to grab Ed’s right ankle with the speed and precision of a striking cobra. “Come on, Brother. Don’t make me drag you. The bathroom tile is going to be very cold.”
Roy considers his options and then lays his trump card flat on the table:
“Just five minutes, cupcake,” he says.
Both eyes crest the edge of the pillow this time, inflamed with fury, which is not helping Roy’s untimely attraction problem in the least. The flailing starts almost instantly. “Who the fuck you callin’ so small he’s not even a proper fucking pastr-”
That’s when Ed falls off the bed. Loudly. Taking Al, who is still holding onto his ankle, to the carpet with him.
Roy pities their neighbors sometimes.
“Look!” Al says brightly. “Now we’re halfway there. Come on, Brother. Clean teeth feel so nice.”
“You say that about everything,” Ed says. “Including bug bites.”
“No,” Al says. “I said bug bites were ‘interesting’. That’s not even in the same category of adjective as ‘nice’.”
“Is so,” Ed says.
Roy clears his throat meaningfully.
“Slave-driver,” they both say at once.
But then they’re helping each other up, and then the teeth-brushing commences in earnest, and then Ed is fighting his excellent jeans off of his excellent ass, and Al is drawing the latest cat-print T-shirt off of the long, lean frame punctuated by those staggeringly perfect hipbones, and Roy thinks he almost doesn’t care what time it is, because there are really no improvements left to make from here.
Well… hardly any.
They try to settle in the bed, are unsuccessful, and wait while Al moves Violet to his side, duly permitting Roy to occupy the center of the bed with an Elric on either side. Each of them reaches a hand across Roy’s chest-Ed’s left, thankfully-and they knit their fingers together, laying the whole warm knot on Roy’s sternum. Ed’s going to be drooling on his shoulder in T-minus twenty minutes, and Al’s hair is so soft that clouds must be terribly envious.
“Do I even want to know what time it is?” Roy asks as Ed hums a soft sigh of delight against his arm, commentary on which would be the death of all of them.
“Probably not,” Al says, craning his neck. “Nearly three.”
“Lord,” Roy says. “I hope you won’t think less of me if I weep openly when the alarm goes off.”
“Nah,” Ed says. “Pretty good chance I’ll laugh in your face, though. But then I’ll go put the coffee on.”
“I think I can live with that,” Roy says.
“Both of you hush your cute mouths and go to sleep,” Al says.
“Yes, sir,” Roy and Ed say in unison.
“Eugh,” Al says. “G’night. Love you.”
“And you,” Roy says.
“Ditto,” says Ed.
There’s a premonition of tomorrow’s headache pattering in the front-left quadrant of his brain, and he’s not sure if there’s enough coffee in the world to get through this week, and yet…
And yet, if he was gifted with infinite power and means, there’s not a thing he’d change.
Roy smiles, and lets his eyes close, and drifts to sleep.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed/Al
Rating: very light PG-13
Word Count: 2,875
Warnings: brief language (thanks, boys! ♥); very mild impure thoughts (thanks, Roy! ♥); maybe minor spoilers for Brotherhood; UNREPENTANT FLUFF; wot's editing Precious
Summary: Everyone is up too late, but somehow everything's in order.
Author's Note: A homework bribe for the lovely and talented Silver, who wanted some OT3 fluff! :3 ♥ It's AU in small ways from the end of BH, so that everyone can be maximum-happy forever; no, you don't get a choice. :DDDDD
TODAY-TONIGHT-NOW
It is two in the morning, and these numbers adamantly refuse to add up.
Roy pushes his unfortunate-but, as he has on good authority, more than a little bit flattering-reading glasses up into his hair in order to grind his knuckles into his eyes. He takes a deep breath, polishes the lenses on the tail of his long-since-wrinkled and even-longer-since-untucked shirt, and puts them back on to look at the wall of unkind numerals. He’ll give it ten more minutes and one more try.
Lieutenant-Colonel Beacham’s expenses sprawl out, and he taps the end of his pen down along the column, fighting to forget how many of these miserable budgets he’s slogged through tonight, squashing the urge to skim through, sign off, and pen P.S. Like I give a half a damn; do you know what time it is? at the bottom of the page. Just one more. He’s so close he can almost taste the toothpaste; he can almost smell the pillow; he can almost feel the comforter against his cheek. He has one more serious effort left in him. He owes that much to himself, and to this idiot Beacham, and to the country that trusts him quite in spite of knowing better.
The stack of numbers, tallied together, still doesn’t match the total at the end.
Roy starts to grit his teeth, starts to collapse back into the chair… but then he starts to wonder-
He runs it one more time-as certain individuals are terribly fond of repeating, two is a coincidence, but three is a pattern; as the idiom goes, it’s also the charm.
His count still comes up to exactly fifty-thousand cens less than the total line.
He takes his glasses off and polishes them again while he weighs his options. Of all the damn habits to have learned from Hughes…
He leaves the blank line unsigned and writes beneath it-in his finest, smoothest penmanship-You seem to have failed to account for a not-insignificant amount of taxpayer funds. An itemized index of the remaining 50K is due on my desk by Mon. Jan. 15.
He thinks that’s a nice, diplomatic way of saying Take your petty embezzlement to another department, or I’ll see you in front of a tribunal.
He twirls the pen around his thumb and then sets it down. He aligns the pile of papers, slides it back into one of the thousand identical manila folders, and puts the folders into the nondescript leather bag that a certain pair of geniuses gave to him for his birthday, which can be alchemically sealed at the touch of an embossed array, “just in case you stumble on someone who actually gives a shit about all your dumbass ‘state secrets’ and whatever.”
He stands, stretches, whimpers at the flare of pain reaching around his ribcage like the greedy claws of a fiery demon, cracks his neck, sighs, and remembers in the nick of time to put his glasses in their case and the case in the bag before he scrubs at his face with both hands. Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of him, but he is getting much too old for this burning the midnight oil business; one of these days, something’s going to give.
But not today. Well, tonight. Well, tomorrow morning from the night it had been, which is technically today after all, isn’t it?
Lord, he’s tired.
He massages at the small of his back, blinking at the spots like water marks sparking and fading in front of his eyes, and hobbles over to the door. Has there ever been a more poetic tiny tragedy than the senescence of Amestris’s finest and most famous playboy? He should retire and write a book. A smutty book. A smutty, sensationalist tell-all memoir, highly-embellished, lowly-aimed; it’ll fly off of the shelves like pigeons descending onto breadcrumbs; he’ll make a fortune, and they’ll all live like kings.
But not today. Tonight. Now. Whatever it is right this second.
He tries to lighten his step as he moves out into the hall-he wonders where they ended up. There’s no bickering about arcane alchemy emanating from the kitchen, and no raging debate on whether folding laundry is worthwhile drifting down the stairs; no politics are being picked apart, and no strong opinions on the ideal level of bacon crispiness are being expounded at the top of a voice.
Which must mean…
He pads into the living room, pushing the door open as gently as he’s able; if you open it quickly, it creaks.
Sure enough, here they are-and, as expected, the only thing that could possibly instill such absolute silence is that they’re both asleep. They do try-and he knows it, and it lights yet another little flicker of knee-weakening gratitude and heart-soaring adulation in the pit of his stomach-to stay slightly more subdued when they know he’s working, but the only guarantee of true quietude is for both of them to be unconscious.
It looks like Ed dropped first-he’s lying on his back with his head pillowed on Al’s thigh, loose hair splayed out over his brother’s knee and gleaming silken-bright in the firelight; his right arm dangles over the edge of the couch, a thick book open on the floor beneath his shining fingers, and the left is bent to let him spread his flesh hand on his own stomach underneath the hem of his sweater.
Alphonse’s book lies forgotten, too-carefully bookmarked but set aside on the arm of the couch, the better to let him bury one hand in Ed’s hair and settle the other on the curved back of the gray tabby he has incomprehensibly christened Violet. He’s going to have a crick in his neck tomorrow from falling asleep sitting upright, with his head leant against the couch back; odds are he’ll spend half the time complaining about the pain and the other half marveling at the opportunity to experience it.
Roy stands in the doorway for just a moment-all right, for just a rather long moment-to take it in. For all the myriad stresses; for all the little woes; for all the huge, heavy debts draped across his shoulders, painted on him like a target; for all the bloodstains in broad red strokes-for all of the downsides, and the low days, and the darkness of the nights, he is happier now than he ever has been. He is happier than he knows how to be, and sometimes it feels like an avalanche, and he can’t even sort out how to breathe. It’s a hundred times more than he ever dreamed of and a thousand times more than he deserves.
So it is that he smiles, takes a breath, sighs his contentment despite the hour, and crosses to the couch. He’ll have to take Ed first-even now that there’s over a foot separating the top of Ed’s head (not counting the indefatigable upflick) from his brother’s, Edward is still heavier by far from the weight of the automail. There are other factors, too-Alphonse curls in towards a source of warmth like a moth to flame, as though the novelty won’t ever wear off; whereas Edward, once thoroughly crashed out, is completely insensible to the universe and seems to sprawl all the wider the harder you try to contain him. If a miracle of sleep patterns leaves a gap, and he does awake, the surprise sends him into a thrashing fit, and certain distinguished generals of the Amestrian military are left with the unsavory challenge of inventing a non-humiliating lie to explain a black eye left by flailing automail.
The point is, Roy’s getting a touch too old to be carrying lovers up the stairs on a regular basis, and if he doesn’t get the difficult one out of the way, there’s little chance he’ll have the stamina for a second round.
The first order of business is to extricate Al’s hand from Ed’s hair without waking either of them; fortunately, as the designated detangler when automail joints catch scarf and sweater knits, it’s not too troublesome for Roy to put his famed fingertips to good use yet again. Shortly-nearly as shortly as particular individuals in the room who will here go nameless-Alphonse’s hand is unencumbered with ribbons of bright gold hair; Roy has picked it all free and swept it all around over Ed’s left shoulder. Briefly he wonders what happened to the tie-presumably he’ll find the cat chewing on it later. (Violet, in typical telepathic style, senses the uncharitable thought and gives him a dirty look.)
In the meantime, he crouches, hearing Riza shouting Lift with your legs! in his head, and slides one arm under Ed’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees.
This is going to hurt.
But it’s worth it.
Unsurprisingly, Ed doesn’t so much as flinch as Roy gathers him up in both arms, cringes heavily, and starts the long stagger towards the staircase. His spine is already cursing him to a billion separate hells, and Ed’s leg-fortunately the right one-keeps swinging out and back with the motion of Roy’s stride and thumping Ed’s heel into Roy’s hip. The things he does for love astound him sometimes. Perhaps he should splurge and furnish this damn house with an elevator.
For the moment, though, the stairs pass in a haze of aching misery and sheer pigheaded determination (a trait he has honed over the years by pitting it against the owner of the limp body in his arms) until he reaches the bedroom, backs through the door, and deposits a still-insensible Edward Elric on the mattress. He earns a single snore and then an unceremonious burial of Ed’s face in the pillow for his pains.
Funny how breathtaking the brat looks all the same.
Deliberately avoiding a glance at the clock, he heads down the stairs again, bracing himself on the banister this time. One more, and Al might well wake up partway through the journey, insist on walking, and spare Roy a not-inconsiderable amount of agony…
…or he might already be stirring on the couch, stretching both arms over his head and arching his back so that his shirt rides up, and pink flesh and an unjustly cute bellybutton show.
Violet kneads at Al’s thigh with both paws, and he covers a yawn with his forearm. The bleary smile he turns on Roy is nothing short of heart-rending.
“Sorry,” he says. “We were waiting up for you, only I think we were a little more tired than we thought.”
“There’s really no need to apologize,” Roy says, hearing his own voice emerge scratchy after the hours of silence. He crosses the room again and leans down to kiss Al’s forehead before offering both hands; once Alphonse is on his feet, he’s too high to reach.
Al takes the assistance gratefully-two warm hands, two smiling eyes; Edward, in constant contrast, has to be tricked into acknowledging the delicately-balanced beauty of what they’ve built, because he’s waiting always for the other shoe to fall-and then collects the cat in his arms. Roy would get clawed six ways to Sunday for manhandling the house’s feline Führer so casually, but Violet immediately snuggles up against Al’s chest and starts purring. Roy could try to resent it, but in a matter of minutes, Alphonse will be tucked under the covers and wrapped up in Roy’s arm, doing the exact same thing.
Roy touches the small of Al’s back as he ushers him out, rather unnecessarily on both counts; Al leads the way up the stairs. “I think I know the answer to this, but did Brother brush his teeth?”
“No miracles tonight, I’m afraid,” Roy says.
Al sighs feelingly. “Maybe if we’re loud enough, he’ll wake up and get the hint.”
They pause on the landing. They share a look. Roy raises an eyebrow very, very slowly, and Al starts to laugh.
“Good point,” he says.
“Now,” Roy says, “if we wrote ‘brush your teeth or no one will kiss you for a week’ on a piece of paper and placed it directly in front of his face, then made enough noise to wake him…”
“I see why they pay you so much to strategize,” Al says. He steps into the bedroom, goes to the bed, and deposits the cat directly in the middle, which will make it impossible for any of them to position themselves without disturbing the sacred fluffball. “Brother, get your cute butt up and practice some dental hygiene.”
“Can’t hear you,” Ed mumbles into the pillow. “’M asleep.”
“Evidently,” Roy says.
“C’mon, Brother,” Al says. “Or Roy’ll have to carry you. Again.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Ed says, still speaking more to the pillow than to the pair of them. “I got up here by magic, not ’cause I got honeymoon-lifted like some fuckin’ kid.”
“You know you like it,” Roy says.
“Everybody knows you like it,” Al says. “You, him, me, the cat, the neighbors…”
Would it be cruel to high-five? Roy hesitates just long enough that the moment passes.
“Hate you,” Ed mutters into the pillow.
“No, you don’t,” Al says. “Come on, Ed.”
Perhaps another tactic is in order. “Edward, you hate sleeping in jeans. It’ll only be five minutes. I’ll brush your hair.”
One yellow eye appears above the curve of the pillow to assess his sincerity. Then two mismatched hands apply themselves to the uncomfortable clothing and try to peel it off of Ed’s legs without him having to get up from the bed. If anyone can manage it in jeans that tight, it would be Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Contortionist, but even he’s struggling a bit.
Also, the slightly feral growl resonating from deep in his throat is doing unseemly things to Roy’s desire to drop onto the bed and slip into slumber.
Al rolls his eyes and goes over to grab Ed’s right ankle with the speed and precision of a striking cobra. “Come on, Brother. Don’t make me drag you. The bathroom tile is going to be very cold.”
Roy considers his options and then lays his trump card flat on the table:
“Just five minutes, cupcake,” he says.
Both eyes crest the edge of the pillow this time, inflamed with fury, which is not helping Roy’s untimely attraction problem in the least. The flailing starts almost instantly. “Who the fuck you callin’ so small he’s not even a proper fucking pastr-”
That’s when Ed falls off the bed. Loudly. Taking Al, who is still holding onto his ankle, to the carpet with him.
Roy pities their neighbors sometimes.
“Look!” Al says brightly. “Now we’re halfway there. Come on, Brother. Clean teeth feel so nice.”
“You say that about everything,” Ed says. “Including bug bites.”
“No,” Al says. “I said bug bites were ‘interesting’. That’s not even in the same category of adjective as ‘nice’.”
“Is so,” Ed says.
Roy clears his throat meaningfully.
“Slave-driver,” they both say at once.
But then they’re helping each other up, and then the teeth-brushing commences in earnest, and then Ed is fighting his excellent jeans off of his excellent ass, and Al is drawing the latest cat-print T-shirt off of the long, lean frame punctuated by those staggeringly perfect hipbones, and Roy thinks he almost doesn’t care what time it is, because there are really no improvements left to make from here.
Well… hardly any.
They try to settle in the bed, are unsuccessful, and wait while Al moves Violet to his side, duly permitting Roy to occupy the center of the bed with an Elric on either side. Each of them reaches a hand across Roy’s chest-Ed’s left, thankfully-and they knit their fingers together, laying the whole warm knot on Roy’s sternum. Ed’s going to be drooling on his shoulder in T-minus twenty minutes, and Al’s hair is so soft that clouds must be terribly envious.
“Do I even want to know what time it is?” Roy asks as Ed hums a soft sigh of delight against his arm, commentary on which would be the death of all of them.
“Probably not,” Al says, craning his neck. “Nearly three.”
“Lord,” Roy says. “I hope you won’t think less of me if I weep openly when the alarm goes off.”
“Nah,” Ed says. “Pretty good chance I’ll laugh in your face, though. But then I’ll go put the coffee on.”
“I think I can live with that,” Roy says.
“Both of you hush your cute mouths and go to sleep,” Al says.
“Yes, sir,” Roy and Ed say in unison.
“Eugh,” Al says. “G’night. Love you.”
“And you,” Roy says.
“Ditto,” says Ed.
There’s a premonition of tomorrow’s headache pattering in the front-left quadrant of his brain, and he’s not sure if there’s enough coffee in the world to get through this week, and yet…
And yet, if he was gifted with infinite power and means, there’s not a thing he’d change.
Roy smiles, and lets his eyes close, and drifts to sleep.