The house is bestrewn in whist stillness. Edward Elric, having tossed his derby oxfords to the settee by the foyer, discretely tromps up the staircase, careful to not wake the sleepers upstairs.
Climbing into bed, he doesn't ask her for anything because he understands the physical demands of her profession and the occasional groan-inducing burden of mothering his three children. Still, he shows his soft salacity with a slow glide of his palm— under one of his shirts that she wears to sleep— over the luscious small of her back.
She makes a heavenly noise. For the first time in weeks, her voice is not muddled by the callous static of a telephone. He delights at this. She shifts to face him as he locks his arm around the curve of her waist. Still dazed, eyes still shut, she breathes a melody, "You're home early."
He nears her warmth, silently inquiring where his automail leg should go. She wraps both legs around her creation, adoring the cooling effect. He smiles.
"I didn't want to miss the party. It's not everyday your daughter turns five." His whispers this into the darkness, straining to suppress the rising guilt— he was absent for the girl's fourth birthday. He knows he is not perfect. He understands that it's not enough. Still, he does the best he can.
Her eyes open and all at once the rain fades away. The wretched six hour train ride to get here fades away. The mountain of paperwork left unfinished at his desk in Central fades away
All that remains is blue.
Winry yawned out of slumber. Recognizing the opportunity, she began tiredly listing a flurry of tasks in preparation for the party; should he wish make himself useful tomorrow.
"... and I need you to pick up the cake. Mei is coming in on the 11 o'clock train, and while you're at it, could you—" Unfortunately for her, looking-glass eyes and luscious lips that curved as she droned plagued his undiminished attention.
"I missed you." He murmurs, interrupting her tangent. It is more as an admission to himself than an edict to her. It is so simple, so candid; as she always longs for them to be.
She pauses her ramblings to gaze a him. The past seven years cast a partial shadow on his face. Yet, searching his mesmerizing amber eyes, she could still spot the youthful obstinacy of a sixteen year-old Edward.
She remembers the first time her naked knees buckled under his wanton stare. She remembers his golden lear among the reds, oranges, and yellows, of an autumn wedding. His blithe tears after twelve hours of labour and the light that filled him when he saw the tiny hands of his first-born son reaching out from a bundle she cradled. Though not every instant of their lives together held tight to the essence of his splendid gaze, looking back, all of it seemed perfect to her. She beams at her husband.
Inching forward, she closes the space between their lips. He sighs, realizing more than ever how ardently he longed to be with her. Most of their kisses are urgent, cognizant of their fleeting moments together. Though years dwindle into memory, the scorching flame in his stomach persists in want of her.
However, this encounter is slow and questioning; glazed with the naivété and innocence of their early youth. He revels at this, noting how his feelings for her began as a flint, a small inkling of what it could be. Then, out from underneath him, a blazing flame of affection emerged and he knew he could ignore it no longer.
He clutches the fabric draped over her, drawing in the sweetness of her breath. She melts into him, stopping to appreciate the scent of train smoke and softwood leaves. He always smells different when he returns home, yet his essence never changes; always so familiar, so robust and free of guile.
When they finally away, Winry guides her hand up his chest, placing a soft palm on his cheek. "Love you," she murmurs.
Pressing his lips to her forehead, he whispers sweet words ardently and with purpose, "I love you, always."