A/N: Full version on my lj, which is on my profile. Warning: this is an Ed/Hohenheim pairing involving non-explicit sex...I'm not really sure what I was thinking, but here it is. Enjoy at your own risk!

Here, take this gift,

I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,

Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;

But I see that what I was reserving belongs to you just as much as to any.

Excerpt from "To a Certain Cantatrice" by Walt Whitman

Two of a kind. Two blond ponytails; two pairs of sharp gold eyes; two living bodies, one missing pieces, the other a decaying host of an ancient soul; two aliens. One bed, one apartment, one miserably grey world.

Winter in London was not a pleasant experience. Even the snow knew that its cool beauty could not contest the incessant, tireless beat of the city dwellers' boots. It knew it woudn't even have the chance to whisper the promise of a white Christmas, instead slush, grim and slippery and prone to turning to ice, coated dirty streets and foolish pedestrians slid and skid. Hohenheim watches his son watch the doomed snow at the window of his little library and thinks that someone so bright has no business being in this world.

He thinks he must send his boy home because he has so much of her in him, if for no other reason.

...

Out of necessity (for times are hard and it is best to save what fuel one can for the waking hours), father and son share a bed meant for one, but cozy for two.

Despite the mess of their bodies, they were still human and it was only a matter of time.

One pale grey morning (it seemed all things in this world were painted in shades of grey, depressing, really), Edward found himself like he had nearly every morning for the past eight months: curled under the heavy weight of his father's arm like a kitten. He snorted contemptuously at himself and began trying to shift out from underneath the older man's embrace. Was he really so weak? The cotton of his sleep pants bunched and tautened in uncomfortable places as he moved and made Ed immediately aware of a heretofore absent problem. He stilled his whole body, even slowed his breath to keep from moaning in pleasure at the friction or screaming bloody murder on the way to the bathroom. Why now? Dark, slanted eyes and a cool smirk flit across his mind, sending another jolt of desire to his cock.

Oh.

He hadn't dreamt of the Colonel since crossing the Gate. In all honesty, he was grateful for the man's absence from his thoughts because he was desperately, guiltily, shamefully in love with him. As he lay on his back contemplating his (former) lover, his body cried for that skilled touch. Those seeking fingers that stroked him until he felt consumed by bonfire, that greedy mouth to devour his every utterance, those black eyes that were a complete seduction all on their own, that delicious cock to erase his own existence from his mind, and all of that pale, pale skin that begged to be marked, kissed, sucked, bitten, and licked in return.

His fantasies dispersed when his father began shuffling in a manner that suggested he was waking up. Maybe it was because all the blood in body had rushed south or maybe it was that he had begun to accept that he might be in this dreadful place for a long time yet and should take what comfort he could, either way, Ed didn't run from the bed when his father opened his eyes.

The arm around his waist tightened seemingly unconsciously. "Good morning, Edward," his father said, voice still smoke-rough with sleep. Hohenheim resisted the urge to nuzzle into his son's soft hair. Why must he be like her in the most inconspicuous ways?

Edward turned to face the older man again and spread his left hand over the broad chest in front of him. "I dreamt about him last night." The teen's voice was thick with too many emotions to read from such a simple statement. Fingers curled into the older man's pajama shirt.

Hohenheim reigned in a grateful sigh because his son wasn't being tiresome, but that is how it would be interpreted. When Edward said nothing else, Hohenheim pulled his son closer (he was so small, was he really his son…?) and tucked the blond head under his chin, feeling mildly surprised that he was being allowed so much. "Who was it? Alphonse?"

"No...he was...my After. Maybe not always Happily and maybe not Ever, but it would've been real and...it would've been mine." A bitter huff of laughter. "So what do you think of that Dad? Your son's a fag."

Long inured to his son's foul mouth, Hohenheim ignored the boy's attempt to bait him. He was about 380 years too young for it to work. "Son, it isn't my place to judge and even if it were, I would be a terrible hypocrite."

Abruptly, Edward leaned away to meet his father's gaze, his large eyes searching Hohenheim's face. Memories kaleidoscoped into one and Hohenheim found himself looking at his wife and not his son.

Then Edward kissed him.

It was nothing more than a simple brush of lips against his own, but the older man's body was already responding.

"Your eyes and hair are too light. He never wore a beard and kept his hair short. You're too tall. You aren't him." The boy's broken whisper against his mouth paused as his voice began to shake. "But I….won't mind if you call for her."

Hohenheim looked into his son's eyes and knew the pain that fractured his soul to glittering shards in his eyes, had tried to excise it from himself at the bottom of many a bottle. She had always said 'Love is love. It doesn't matter what we think.' He loved his son, possibly much more than he ever intended to, and if this was what he needed, he couldn't deny him. Though, he wasn't so deluded as to pretend that the texture of Edward's hair, the way he pressed his hips up against his own, and the taste of his mouth were all too hurtfully familiar to ignore. Slowly, so as to give the boy time retreat, Hohenheim lowered his head and covered his son's mouth with his own.

Ed closed his eyes and accepted him hungrily, tugging on his shoulder to pull the older man on top of him. He needed to be touched and moaned softly when a large hand (could he pretend it was his?) slid up his loose tank top and caressed his stomach. A part of him knew that this was wrong, wondered how his own father could agree to this, but his need was greater. He always had time for self-loathing, right now he just wanted to forget. Firm lips broke from his own and trailed hard, scratchy kisses along his jaw and down his throat. His father pulled away and Ed allowed himself to be bared, his cock jutting glistening and flushed from a bed of gold curls. When Hohenheim only removed his pajama pants, only half-erect himself, Ed didn't say anything. Everyone had something to hide after all; he knew that better than most. Instead, he reached over for the jar of lotion on his bedside table, used to rub aching muscles around throbbing ports, and held it out for the older man.

"Are you sure about this, Edward?"

A warm, calloused grip on his member was his answer. Hohenheim closed his eyes and let himself simply feel, ignoring the voices in his head telling him this was wrong, wrong, wrong. She would understand, wouldn't she? His son asked for so little and needed so much. Opening his eyes again, he admitted to himself that Edward was beautiful and objectively desirable and let his hunger grip him, amplified by each stroke of his cock. He let his son lead him down.

...

After, for a moment, just for a moment, both father and son found peace. All the voices were quiet and all the guilt, fear, and anger shut up. Another moment and Hohenheim pulled free, pressed a fatherly kiss to Edward's forehead and went to the bathroom to begin the morning routine.

Ed had never loved his father more.

A/N: Yeah...I know, review please?

Tl; dr: There is a lot going on in this story and from the beginning, I knew this was more than just sex. Arguably, there isn't a plot, just a simple set up, event, and not even true closure on the matter for the characters even if it's there for the reader. I really agonized whether to even publish this or not. I was trying to get into the characters' heads and try out a new writing style, among other things. Now, I'm rambling. Anyway, as you can see, I still have mixed feelings about this piece and I hope you get something out of it.