In the spring, they celebrate their one-year anniversary. The air in Germany is damp, as per usual, but Alfons has lived with dreary weather all his life and after living here for over a year, Edward has grown used to it. They don't go out; it is a private affair, a secret shared between just the two of them and not meant for other ears. Even if they had wanted to publicly celebrate, they could not afford to.

Alfons doesn't mind in the slightest. He light candles and cooks the best meal that their budget will allow and Edward seems overly affectionate, teasing him as he stands over the stove. A heavy hand wraps around Alfons' waist and he feels the smaller boy rest his head on his back, right between his shoulder blades.

He does protest, however, when Ed tries to pull him away from the meal his is cooking. At first he simply refuses Ed's advances, but as the hand grows more insistent and starts straying lower than Alfons' waist, the younger boy is forced to take more drastic measures. He smacks the fingers pawing at his shirt away with a spatula and Ed makes a sound like that of a wounded animal. Alfons turns around and fixes Edward – who is sucking on his assaulted digits and looking, for all the world, as if someone has just run over his puppy- with an exasperated quirk of his eyebrow.

"Don't be dramatic," Alfons tells him flatly, offering the blonde no sympathy in the matter. "Do you want the food to burn?"

Edward drops his eyes to the side and offers no reply and Alfons recognizes this as Ed's way of admitting defeat. He presents a smile in lieu of a peace offering and tells the older boy to go find something to occupy himself with while he cooks. Ed sulks out of the room, just to maintain the illusion, and Alfons turns back to the stove, smile still in place.

When the food is prepared and placed out on the table, the younger boy goes in search of his dinner date. He discovers a mess in the living room, papers and books and charts scattered about in little flurries of white. And there is Edward, sprawled out amongst all of it, nose buried deep into a book and Alfons frowns at the way he is squinting at the print.

"You need glasses," He informs the boy, crossing the room in just a few steps. He holds out his hand to help Edward up and the older boy scowls as his takes it. He staggers to his feet, taking a long moment to secure his balance before he allows Alfons' hand to slip from his. He sticks his tongue out at Alfons in response to the remark about his vision, but follows his lover obediently down the hall for dinner.

There is nothing romantic about the way Ed eats. It is almost mesmerizing, the way he can inhale a meal, and Alfonse thinks it would be a hypnotic experience if not for the fact that Edward always finished almost as soon as he'd started.

In the bedroom, however, it is a different story. There, Edward possesses all the poise and charm that he lacks at the table. How he manages it, even as he allows himself to be made helpless - lets Alfons strip him of his prosthetics – bare and broken and he is still beautiful. Alfons bends forward and presses saccharine lips to Ed's collarbone. He licks and sucks and tongues his way down Edward's torso, leaving wet trails across the boy's skin. Edward gasps and whines and writhes beneath these ministrations, but Alfons does not relent. He demonstrates, to Ed, how one can use his mouth without words.

Summer is bittersweet; like not-quite-ripe raspberries growing in the sun, tantalizing with the promise of sticky sweet flavor and the possibility of pies. They are not quite the right shade of pink, but near enough that you can't resist trying a few. It is hot and humid with the rain that visits frequently, but not as often as it had a month before.

Alfons' cough, no longer irritated and exasperated by bitter chills and constant nasty weather, eases a bit. He feels better than he has in a long time, his senses alert, eyes shining and he laughs. He laughs constantly, unable to repress his smiles, most of which are provoked by the person he shares his apartment and bed with.

And Edward, he is like the sunshine. Fierce and bright, with an explosive temper, but he also has a soft spot that gapes like an open wound and Alfons knows, by now, the exact way to take advantage of it. He presses, Edward gives, and they meet somewhere in the middle, usually with a set of sheets above them and a mattress below.

This is the summer that Alfons learns of Ed's status as a sex god, and can offer nothing but praise to his golden deity. When he sets his mind to it, Edward can make him come in less than five minutes and other times, when speed has no merit and every expression Edward makes involves slitted eyes and a lazy grin, he can take as long as he needs.

He can take hours if he so desires, the bastard; and by the time Edward decides to stray down the path of mercy, Alfonse is weeping with the sheer force of want that makes his blood boil and scream from lack of oxygen.

But it is worth it…so worth it, just to be able to lie in the afterglow, one firm, muscled arm wrapped tightly around him, and a slightly heaving chest for him to cling to, pressed together, alone, complete, infinite.

Ed is the one to disturb the peace first. He wiggles and squirms in Alfons' arms and after a few moments of this odd behavior, he extracts himself from the younger boy's grip and scoots towards the edge of the bed. "'M all sticky." He declares, voice still a bit rusty, "I need a bath."

With a barely audible exhale of breath, Alfons climbs from the furniture as well and scoops up Ed's abandoned prosthetics, carrying them in one hand. He offers the other to Ed and assists him on his way to the bathroom. He leaves the limbs on the counter that houses the sink and shuts the door behind him.

They rarely bathe together. Alfons prefers showers and Ed's condition necessitates baths. But that is not the true reason, merely a convenient excuse Edward hides behind. Alfons knows the true reason is that although Edward has no qualms about letting Alfons know that he lacks limbs, he feels uncomfortable letting anyone, even Alfons, see his deficiencies. He doesn't want him to know that something even as simple as bathing is a difficult task for Edward.

So Alfons leaves him to bathe in peace, allowing him his dignity and he goes back into the bedroom to change the sheets as he waits for his turn in the bathroom. It is nearly an hour before he hears the creaking of a door echoing from down the hall and soon he can hear Ed's heavy mismatched footsteps approaching. He appears around the corner, still fidgeting with the prosthetic arm, trying to get it into a comfortable position, and Alfons blames this distraction for the fact that Ed walks face first into the doorframe.

Edward scowls and turns red, flesh hand rising to scrub at his injured nose, but it is his pride that has taken most of the beating. Alfons tries, desperately, not to laugh, but the corners of his mouth betray him and when Edward glances up, cheeks still tinged with embarrassment and just glares, daring Alfonse to say one word…just one, Alfonse thinks that he should do things to make the older boy blush more often, because it's damn cute.

At that thought, Alfons loses it. He snorts, ungracefully, and tilts his head, coving his mouth with his hand; but it does nothing to stifle the snickers that quickly turn to hysterical laughter. Edward is yelling something and Alfons can't tell what it is amidst his own laughter and somehow, that just makes it funnier.

Alfons collapses to the floor in a fit of giggles that make his cheeks and stomach hurt and Edward yells a while more before flipping him off and stalking out of the room, still naked from his bath. He returns, however, a moment later, when the laughter subsides abruptly and is replaced by hacking coughs. It is amazing, how quickly the older boy's attitude can change. He kneels beside Alfons, a nervous hand on his back and Alfons feels as if his lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, but it is far from pleasant and Alfons hates, HATES, HATES the ache in his chest, the overwhelming sense of frailty.

Edward frets, Alfonse coughs, and some broken, unfinished sentence hangs between the two, spoken only by a set of worried bronze eyes.

"You okay?" Edward asks when the coughing finally subsides, and Alfons nods. Edward goes to get him a drink and Alfons massages his throat absently. It's been a while since his last coughing fit…maybe three or four days. Edward returns with a glass of water and settles on the floor beside him. Alfons accepts the drink and Edward leans against his shoulder, uncharacteristically clingy, and the younger boy knows that he is worried, even if he won't say anything out loud.

TBC