First FMA fanfic! Never thought I'd see the day when I'd finally be able to write for more than one fandom at a time. As the summary suggests, this is slashy - although the focus is more on Roy than a relationship - and the timeline in which it's set is ambiguous so you may interpret it as you choose.
Roy awoke abruptly, snapping his fingers amidst cries of pain and agony. There was war raging all around him and broken bodies on the ground, but the fire would not come to his fingertips. Panic hit him like a bullet in the gut, and he struggled to fight down a scream (because he was a good soldier and he could not be scared), but why wouldn't his fire come? He needed it. He saw the blood so vividly, heard the clash of weapons so clearly, and yet—
—and yet, as his vision began to clear, he realized there was no battlefield at all, but simply his small, familiar bedroom. That was a red coat thrown carelessly over his armchair, not blood, and the only sound was his own choking gasps. Roy touched his brow and felt sweat at his hairline. A nightmare, he thought, disgusted. I haven't had a nightmare about Ishval in years. I thought I was past it.
Wishful thinking, that, for he would never get past that war.
Beside him, Edward mumbled a sleepy protest at the disturbance and rolled over onto his stomach, but did not wake. Roy stared down at him, struggling to anchor himself to the here and now. He splayed his hand across the hard planes of Ed's bare back. There was an odd comfort in the warm skin beneath his fingers, the feeling of something tangible and real when he still thought he was half-caught in another time, another place. This is not Ishval, Roy thought. It's not Ishval. He slowly lay back down without removing his hand. This is not Ishval.
And Ed's presence, volatile and explosive, eased his torment, at least for tonight.
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