DISCLAIMER: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and I am in no way affiliated with the author(s), producer(s) or publisher(s). I am writing strictly for entertainment purposes with no material or monetary gain.
Edward had his eyes closed.
It was cold out, cold enough to bite if the wind were strong, but it was mild that night, and snow was falling thickly, bright and light and very dry, piling up on everything still enough, Edward included. His face was tilted up to the sky, and the snowflakes skittered over his closed eyes, down his cheeks, some of them catching coldly in his collar.
"Auld lang syne, m'dear…" he warbled to the night air, breath puffing out like smoke. "We'll have a cup 'o….kindness yet…." A grin cracked his face, and he opened his eyes to stare into the approaching star-field of snow, racing at him and all he had to do was stay still. Well, as still as he could after half a dozen shots.
"For Auld lang syne," he whispered, and his breast felt so full it could burst with happiness. Days of old they were, now…the quest that had nearly swallowed his life, every struggle and horror and every day spent not knowing if he'd live to see another morning, every night trying to sleep so choked by guilt he could hardly breathe—in the past, all of it. He'd had Al's body back for a few months, but this was the true victory, this was an entirely clean plate. A new year. A new life.
He took a deep breath of the sweet, cold air. "Shouuuuld auuuld—" he began, louder, but the sound of the back door opening and the burst of noise that followed made him tilt his face back to the earth, weaving just slightly.
"Here you are," said Mustang, closing the door behind himself. "What're you doing out in this cold?"
Ed returned his gaze to the sky, letting his eyes drift closed once more.
"Jus' getting some fresh air. S'not that cold."
"That's the whiskey talking," he reproached gently, tone laced with amusement. Ed could hear the snow crunching beneath his shoes as he came to stand beside him. "Come on inside, or you'll miss it."
Edward let out a sigh, a content, soft noise, and felt a snowflake land on his nose. He opened his eyes again and felt the world pitch sideways slowly, and he came to rest on the colonel—general's shoulder.
"So here's a hand, my trusted friend…" he half-said, half-sang, leaning more heavily on his side. "And giv's a hand 'o thine...."
Mustang laughed, and Ed could feel it rumble where their bodies met.
"You must be even drunker than I thought." He wrapped a hand around his shoulders—Ed marveled that he could do that with such ease, that he was so much broader than Ed himself—and steered him toward the door to the pub. "Let's find you a seat before you find yourself one in the snow."
When Mustang pulled open the door, unleashing a cacophony to echo over the snow, familiar notes reached Ed's ears, and he lurched upright in the taller man's grip.
"They're playin' it."
"Well it is tradi—"
"AND NEVER BROUGHT TO MIND!" he bellowed along, and Mustang winced as he pulled him along through the crowds of happily chattering patrons, heading for the section that had been somewhat sequestered by their crew for the night. Ed had finished an entire other verse by the time they got there, and then thankfully paused.
"C'mon, sing," Ed slurred as Mustang sat him down at the end of the bar, near dark but for the holiday lights strung along the bar top. They gave his already remarkable eyes an almost unearthly sheen as he stared expectantly at him.
"Bartender!" he called, momentarily looking past Roy at the harried man behind the counter. "A round for me and the general."
"And an ice water," Roy hastily tacked on. Fullmetal had already had more than his share of alcohol.
"Now c'mon, bastard, the song's almost over. Sing," he demanded, mouth in its habitual little frown. "Sing, damn it! It's New Year's!"
"Alright, alright," he conceded. "We've wandered many a weary foot since auld lang syne." A ghost of a smile crossed Ed's face as he listened to him, and then joined him on the chorus, fortunately quiet and wistful rather than eardrum-shattering this time. His eyes were fond as he gazed at him, leaning his cheek on the palm of his hand, and Roy wondered where his thoughts could be. They were far enough gone that when the whiskey arrived Roy was able to replace most of Ed's with water without his notice, and still appease Ed by singing the last verse with him.
"Y've got a nice voice, gen'ral," he informed him. "Y'oughta sing more."
"That's the first time I've sung in public in my entire life," he assured him. "But it hardly matters, seeing as you're the only witness." Mustang handed him his water-shot and picked up his own whiskey.
The bartender was standing behind the counter holding a great brass watch, and the crowd began to chant the last minute with him.
"Congratulations, Fullmetal. Happy New year."
Edward smiled and lifted his own glass.
"Same to you, bastard Gen'ral. Happy 1917."
He fell quiet then, and seemed to be thinking about something, staring intently at Roy's face as the seconds ticked nearer. Roy smiled back at him, not breaking eye contact. He'd never seen Fullmetal drunk before, but it was quite a thing. The crowd grew louder and louder the closer it came to midnight, and three seconds shy Ed clumsily and prematurely smacked his glass against Roy's, slopping some over the edge. Roy fumbled his glass in surprise, and Edward leaned the long distance between their barstools, fisting a hand in the lapel of Roy's jacket when he found himself not quite tall enough to reach, and kissed him as the bar erupted in well-wishes. The shot glass slipped from Mustang's hand and shattered unnoticed on the floor as Ed hastily leaned back, nearly falling off his stool in the process, and knocked back what was left in his glass.
Mustang seemed to be grasping for words as Ed wiped his mouth free of whatever shit the pub called whiskey, and dreaded whatever words he might find.
"Did you …you've been planning this, haven't you?" he finally asked frankly, and Ed sputtered.
"What?! I--"
"You did. You planned this."
Ed felt his face heat with more than just alcohol, and gave one flail before discovering that was not at all safe in his current place high atop the barstool.
"Why wd'you think that I-! I don't even--!"
The general's lips were over his again, warm and nice and tasting like whiskey, the flavor getting stronger as his mouth opened to join with his. They separated, and Roy leaned their foreheads together.
"I woudn'…wouldn' call 'em so much plans as fantasies."
Roy made a pleased hmm low in his throat, almost like a purr, black-glass eyes looking at him from so close he could feel his eyelashes brush his skin.
"Well, Edward," he revealed in a low whisper. "I wished for you, this year." He gave him a crooked, self-deprecating smile, and cupped his cheek with one hand. "I wished that you would be happy, and that if I were any part, even the smallest part of that equation I would be happy. I don't usually buy in to cheap sentimentalism, but you seem to bring out the hope in me…."
Edward reciprocated the touch, mirrored the hand resting on his own cheek, brushing a thumb over the corner of his lips.
"You…you would make me happy. So fuckin' happy. I want you in it, Mustang, I want you to be the big'st part."
Edward blinked rapidly, resisting the strange impulse to cry (damn whiskey). This was it, the last thing. The last thing he could ever have thought to ask for to have a perfect life, a brand-new existence where bliss was every day.
Roy smiled softly at him.
"Then it seems this year I will be a very happy man."
Ed smiled at him tipsily but very happily and kissed him again, briefly, between each rule laid down for the year ahead.
"No more orders."
Kiss.
"Of course."
"No more manip'lating me or runnin' my life, you got that?"
Kiss.
"Agreed."
"No more women."
Harder kiss.
"Understood."
"No more calling me short."
Roy smirked, hesitating at the moment he would have let their lips meet.
"Mustang," Edward growled, and Roy could feel his brow wrinkle. "Say it!"
"Well, I'm afraid we have to draw the line here somewhere," he said, voice sparking with humor. "That's like asking me not to say the sky is blue."
Roy made a mental note for their future: Ed could still move pretty fast for having a third of a bottle of whiskey in him.