... Yeah, I really felt like writing some RoyEd. This was originally a drabble, but it started getting steamy, and I couldn't stop myself... so now it's a short oneshot, and the closest thing to a lemon (excluding RPs) I've written to date.
...Needless to say, I am proud. I experimented with a new writing style here- sorry if all the parenthesis and italics bugged anyone. I think it made the text flow better, especially for the *ahem* scene-- there, I felt it gave a really frantic and heated effect, like Ed is trying to think all this stuff at once, but his train of thought just crashed and all the cars are piling up behind the engine. (Wow, I should use that somewhere...)
Simple things were [more or less] stupid things to Edward. As far as he was concerned, his life had stopped being simple when he had gotten the notion of human transmutation into his head. [It had seemed like a good idea at the time.] From there on out, things just got more complicated, and he could hardly remember what he found 'simple' anymore. [With the exception of other people, intellectually speaking.]
The throbbing headaches provided unto him by the constant [and growing] stress of his gnarled life failed to stop him from heaping [yet] another problem on his plate. He'd watch Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye move about the office. [In those rare moments when the Colonel could be assed into working.] They moved perfectly together [like clockwork] ; seldom needing any communication beyond a nod or a shake of the head. So the dance went, with Edward feeling like little more than an ornamental piece; only there to watch without ever slipping in with the cogs of the Mustang Machine.
[Needless to say, he was jealous.]
And of course, jealousy was never a simple thing.
Not that he hated Hawkeye or anything. What he hated was the burning in his throat when Roy spoke like that, the pounding of his heart when their hands were [that] close to touching, and the knot in his chest when that mask slipped for [a fraction of] a second and he was forced to watch the man he loved fall to his knees on a floor of broken glass. With all that in mind, he should have been more disgusted than he was [not at all] when Mustang grabbed his forearms and kissed him roughly. It should not have been so easy to let himself fall onto the bed [oh god, Roy was on top of him now] and kiss back to the best of his [breathless] ability. [He was by no means experienced, but he was a quick learner.] Those [half-educated, half-spontaneous] fantasies had always stopped just short of the part where Mustang's hand slid up his shirt [fuck, it was so warm] and those [bloodstained] fingers traced along his automail scars. [He had always thought the tissue was dead up until then.] Edward found all his retorts and [snappy, drenched in denial] words flung to the wind [burning up like his house, those Ishbalans, and oh, god; his body] and replaced with throaty moans.
[-Say my name,- Mustang had panted, and oh his eyes were so dark, but Edward could feel them setting his heart on fire.]
Automail surgery had hurt more, he [stubbornly] maintained, biting his lower lip. [Trying not to scream- who came up with this, anyways?] Ed moved first, [awkwardly; follow that instinct] wincing slightly and trying to gasp in [complete and utter] ecstasy at the same time. When Mustang chuckled, he glared up at [his lover? commander? ...friend?] the older man, trying [and failing] not to pout.
[-You do it, then!- he challenged-- and fuck, Roy did.]
When Edward woke up the next morning, [feeling like someone had shoved something-- oh, someone had] tucked [oh so securely] into Roy's arms, he began to believe [again] in simple things.
[At least until Mustang woke up.]
