EDIT: 7/15/2011
I'VE BEEN NOMINATED FOR THE GOLDWORTH AWARD IN THE ROYED CATEGORY FOR THIS!
Please excuse me whilst I calm my heart... I may very well die of a heart attack right about now!
W-will link in profile... vote for me, if you wish!
/EDIT
Hello, hello, hello! It is quite a wonderful day for me, so maybe I might make it a wonderful day for you! For, you see, I have gotten back some exam results and I am quite pleased with how they turned out! SO, my dearies, I finished out this little monster of mine so I could post it~
Please note: This is a sequel to Mock-Physical. It can stand alone without being too confusing (which is why it is), but it will make more sense if you read that one first. Also, if you plan on reading Mock-Physical at all, please do so before this one - there's some spoilers for it.
With that out of the way: This took me... too long to write! I mean, I had the idea and concept down but, I wanted the writing to be structurally better than what I have been posting. I certainly hope it is. I really tried to work at descriptions and pushed more towards using diction to help with conveying how Ed is feeling at the moment. Please tell me if the style isn't working for me.
Hm... Anything else... I had issues naming this one, too. And I really hope it is not too cheesy. Aaaand I adore this ficlet as well. Aaaaaaaaaaannnd I rated this T, but really, it should be T+ and TELL ME IF YOU THINK IT QUALIFIES AS M SO I CAN CHANGE IT, PLEASE!
DISCLAIMER: ...Really? No. Just... no.
No Rush
If one thing was for certain, it was that Edward Elric hated the Mustang name.
It was everywhere in Mustang City. The schools were in Mustang district, the supermarkets were a play of the name, the hotels some sorry excuse for luxury clambering for Mustang attention. Streets, libraries, the museum, every-fucking-thing bore that godforsaken name. Shit, a guy couldn't even get wasted on normal alcohol – oh no, all the bars in the city sold – you guessed it – Mustang wines, cocktails, and brandies. Everybody worked for the Mustang family in some way, shape, or form. The head Mustang was mayor, but he held power not in a democracy.
It was a fucking dictatorship. A monopoly. A slave-and-master system.
And Ed was headed back to it because of the letter he'd received from his father regarding his …new… younger brother, Alphonse.
My son, it had read:
It has been far too long since we have spoken. I must express my sorrows at the length of time, and I also express my sorrows that this letter does not bring the best of news. When you chose to leave Mustang City, your mother had borne the signs of a new child oncoming. The day before I wrote this, little Alphonse was born into this world healthy and fine… but your mother…
Trisha died in labor, Edward.
I know not what you do, my son, but I request you come back home. As much as I am loath to admit it, I need your help. I was recently promoted to international representative in the company, and I fear I will be sent off soon with no one to care for Alphonse. Please come back for his sake, if mine is not enough.
Signed:
Father.
Standing in his lonely apartment in Mirror city, Ed felt frozen.
His mother was… He had a new brother… and he had to take care of him…
He had to go back.
On the burgundy-splattered-yellow wall beside him, the coo-coo clock chimed noon. He allowed himself to collapse on his leather beanbag, and gazed up at the ceiling he had coated in paintings of all sorts. They whispered tales of other times, of magic and science combined, of nature and industry, military and war. They made him calm as he gazed up to them, his eyes flitting over each familiar sight.
For as long as he could remember, Edward had been an artist. He drew things he had never seen before and with breathtaking clarity. He was recognized worldwide (though only to those interested in modern art) for his skill. As a child, if he went an extended amount of time without drawing out images, the things he would see in his mind's eye would haunt him, corrupt him, so that all he saw was flash after flash of yet another thing he'd never seen before. When his father was away and his mother at her job, Edward would lock himself away, painting and sketching and drawing like some insane maniac. His parents were mortified at their child's behavior and had even taken the young boy to a therapist to try and ease his outbursts, but to no avail. He was incurable, and his ability stemmed from seemingly nothing.
His mother and father chose to keep Edward shunned from the world because, at times, he would begin to twitch and look frantically for something to draw upon. In a society where manners ruled every action and glance, Ed's habits were frowned upon. His need was considered crude to satisfy during conversation or public events, but he had no control over it. The blonde had no idea why he was the way he was, but over time, he had come to accept it and the loneliness it brought. He learned to stand up for himself when the bullies at school called him an "art-fag" and though it had landed him in suspension a couple of times, he was glad he had given the occasional black eye or broken nose. Who were they to judge him for his drawings?
Edward was very bright, but his homework was often covered in imaginary things like Mock-Physical beings and souls. His notes were often illegible and sometimes the words bled into images of a giant gate or child. His mother, a tutor for hire (and apparently, once a tutor for the Mustang's child) was torn between being at a loss at her child's disability and beaming at his intellect. For a young Edward, however, life consisted of art, arguments, school, and home, and not much in between.
So at age twenty, he had become fed up with everything and left. In a short amount of time, he had managed to bring fame to himself, though many considered him insane. Over the course of six months, the blonde had gathered up a small fortune selling his works. For the better part of a year, he was wealthy and satiated, though not necessarily happy.
Ever since he had begun to become a man, faint inklings of dark blue and midnight colors had lingered at the edges of his mind. Sometimes, they bled out onto paper in the shape of a man. It was… odd… to say the least. Of the things Edward created from his hand, the man remained constant. And he couldn't figure out why, just as with everything else concerning his "gift."
And now… now he had to return to that… city… and try his best not to graffiti the walls in a random outburst or abandon his baby brother in favor of oils and canvas. It would be hard, without a doubt. But he would do this to honor his mother.
And satisfy his curiosity to see if his brother was the same way when it came to art.
With these thoughts firmly in mind, Edward set about the task of packing for his trip to Mustang City.
Mustang Vineyards was certainly a damned pretty place, if one thing was certain. On the east side of Mustang City, the area reserved to grow, age, and bottle the brand alcohol was a place of rustic, if not simple, beauty. The land was lush and fertile, and it seemed the Eden of Christianity was reincarnated and blended into the place. As he walked by, Ed observed the fields of grapes and grain, all beautiful green and gold and thriving. The sight was familiar to him, though when Ed had left, it had been barren winter and the plants dead…
In the distance, a mansion loomed and he recalled that the Mustangs lived on their vineyard property. Figured. It seemed right that pompous bastards who had the gall to name everything after themselves would live in a place where they could so easily become plastered. Fuck, Ed was willing to bet they walked around that way all the time.
Making his way into town, he had to give a small smile at the simple beauty of it all. Despite it being nothing short of a dictatorship, the city had some serious charm to it. Much of the buildings were natural stone and the streets were cobblestone rather than asphalt. In a time of modern-day technology growth and industry, Mustang City had kept the flavor of its founding years. Sure, inside the homes was a different story, but on the outside, tourists could feel like they had stepped back in time to some luxurious empire.
People bustled about the streets, men and women running clean-kept open marketplaces calling out to him to buy this or that. Only the freshest fruits and vegetables and cooked meats were to be sold within city limits. The stalls were built from beautiful wood, garnished with extravagant woven cloths to provide shade. The city hadn't changed – for all its "pastime" pleasure, only the wealthy could afford to live within city limits. And wealth was built into the very streets he stood on. At first glance, Mustang City seemed like some sort of utopia – which was why so many tourists sought it out as some sort of Mecca.
Ed just wanted to paint all over the blank canvas of the walls like he had in Mirror City. Fuck, he was paid to vandalize the walls of the city he called home. The people there appreciated the art. Not here. No, here it was not only frowned upon, but was probably some sort of blasphemy. Probably punishable by death. God forbid he add some real culture to the "cultured" bluebloods. These people probably thought painting was an act of satan. At least, that was how it was when he left. The only artists able to make a living around here were either contemporary or rustic- styled architects or those practiced in the art of theatrical drama.
And – god damn it – Ed was loathing the lack of vehicular travel. Not a car or cab in sight. Oh no, people got around in horse-drawn carriages, and anyone who didn't have one must've just left theirs at home. His destination was on the far side of town, too, which meant a long walk through the fake perfectness that was the sickening city. He had been on the road for days, walking to attempt to enjoy the sights and not freak anybody out if he had a sketching fit (suddenly furiously drawing in a cab or bus while people tried to speak with him had happened all too often. Seriously, the normal public overreacted) and his feet ached along with his back and his twitching hand. His backpack, while only thirty pounds (he was a minimalist when it came to travel), seemed now to weigh far too much.
It was sundown when he reached his childhood home. It was a beautiful building – this side of the city had turned from stone to white adobe-looking plaster (the contemporary side). The house was huge and inside, Ed knew it was warm and full of color. Windows were covered with satin scarlet curtains that contrasted starkly to the white of the outside. Ed's twitches doubled. All the white was there… going outside as a child had always been such a challenge for him. With a shaky hand, he knocked on the door.
Seconds later, his father opened the door. Hohenheim Elric looked about the same – he was tall and broad (whereas Ed was short and somewhat scrawny, or at least, that's how he felt) with long blonde hair that reflected Ed's own with the exception that it was a fair bit thinner and was streaked with gray from the years. His eyes were a weary amber and there were bags under them. His movements exuded fatigue and the black suit he wore was loosened and covered with – was that baby puke? – on the shoulder. He gave his son a small, sad smile. "Welcome home, Edward."
"Yeah… Thanks…" Ed muttered as he stepped into his old home. Inside, it was as welcoming as he had remembered: the thick carpet below him gave way to cherry hardwood floors in the parlor, which was where he headed. Chocolate couches were accented with scarlet pillows and the occasional streak of gold glimmered from the mantelpiece of the fireplace or the occasional picture frame, of which there were many of a happy Elric family, minus the newest addition and plus his mo-
"You kept my paintings?" Ed questioned as his eyes flicked over to the walls, upon which he had previously painted beautiful sunsets and mountains – again, things he had never seen.
"Yes… they are rather… nice…" Hohenheim replied, gesturing to a couch before sitting himself.
Ed obliged and sat, taking care to set his pack down beforehand. "So where is the baby?"
"Asleep for the moment. Lord knows he'll be awake soon." Ed's father closed his eyes. "If you are tired, your room is open to you. I've been keeping Alphonse in our—my," a thick swallow bit back the sorrow Ed sensed, "room… You can rest, if you need. I suppose you walked here."
Ed nodded. "I did."
Hohenheim sighed. "Then, I suppose I will see you after you rest and refresh yourself. If you could, set your clock for seven AM. I have to be at work by eight, and I'd like to give you a few instructions for Alphonse before I leave. We'll talk after I get home tomorrow."
It was that plain and simple. No beautiful reunion, no tears of pride over his son's relative success, and no, absolutely no talking about Trisha. Swallowing any resentment, Ed stood and grabbed his bag and headed up the stairs to his bedroom.
His room, apparently, had not been touched since he left. Consequently, dust had coated everything in a thin layer, though it did nothing to dispel the sheer amount of color there. The full-sized bed was a honey-colored, squashy mess of black pillows over one of the softest blankets he had even known. Beanbags filled the corner beside the bed – he'd always had an affinity for them – and their variety stretched from the small and neutral-colored to the large and vibrantly colored. The walls around him were, once again, painted and covered in random images that meshed and flowed from one scene to the next as effortlessly as a river reaching across the land to reach the ocean. He supposed through his paintings, he tried to reach something, too, though what, he did not know.
His bag plopped on the floor and Ed only took the time to remove all his clothes, save his boxers, before making his way to the private bathroom that was connected to his walk-in closet. In there, the white tiles stood out against his handiwork splayed across the walls and the light reflected off the glass surrounding the shower. With a heavy sigh, the blonde turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, and stood under the jets, allowing the liquid to beat into his tired muscles and work the tension out.
He was fucking back in the city, and while some of it felt like home, the majority felt just as unwelcoming as ever. He could only fervently hope that he wouldn't have to stay for too long.
Ed's father left before Alphonse was awake, and after giving Ed a few lessons in childcare. Twenty minutes after he had left, the babe awoke and cried for Ed's attention. The blonde trudged into his father's-turned-nursery to gaze upon what had to have been the cutest thing he had ever seen.
Alphonse was little, light-skinned, slightly chubby, and everything a baby was supposed to be in all the best ways. His head had a pale yellow mop of fine hair and his eyes were a light gray that teetered on the edge of silver. Maybe as an adult, he would reach precious metal eye-color. His cheeks were colored slightly red from his crying, and he stopped when he looked upon Ed.
Babies had an awareness, of that Ed was certain. Al knew exactly who he was - his brother, here to care for him. The baby slowly lifted his left hand up, reaching for him as he made some sort of coo. A much larger hand touched it softly...
And Ed fell in love. He never stood a chance.
Hohenhime returned home at a quarter past noon, slightly flushed and in a rush. "The Mustangs have decided to hold a banquet tonight to celebrate their son's taking over the business. They asked that I come and bring baby Alphonse along. I would be… happy… if you came along as well, Edward." His father watched him from the reflection in the mirror he stood before.
Ed shuffled his feet. "I don't really have anything to wear…"
To his surprise, his father smiled. "I have an old suit you can have. Or, if you'd like, we can buy you one when we head out. I need a dress outfit of Alphonse anyways." To his father's delight, Ed nodded. "Good. Then change Al's diaper while I finish up and we'll be on our way."
The Mustang residence was as glamorous on the outside as it was on the inside, Ed found, and somehow that only managed to sicken him. As the guests walked into the parlor, they bowed to figures in the center of the room – like they were some sort of gods. Though, on second though, they sure did look heaven-sent.
Mrs. Mustang was a fair woman who was tall and, while not fat, she was not skin-and-bones. He hair was a beautiful white, though whether it was that shade naturally or otherwise was beyond Ed. She wore a sparkling blue cocktail dress and diamonds and stood beside her husband who, in turn, was also dressed in blue, though a shade darker. He was a head taller than his wife, and though his face was covered in laugh lines and his black hair streaked with gray, he looked no less regal.
Then, Ed caught sight of the man standing a little off to the side and gasped.
He was god-sent, for sure. The youngest Mustang stood probably a foot and a half taller than Ed himself (though he didn't match his father's height). His raven-black hair fell lazily atop his head, making his skin seem a shade paler then it really was. His eyes had to have been some of the deepest blue Ed had ever seen, and he shuddered when he realized they were the exact shade…
Wait, this man….
He was the very image of the man Ed drew. This thought alone stopped him dead in his tracks, so that when it came time for the Elric family to bow before the Mustang family, the blonde missed his chance and instead continued to stare at the young Mustang. His father cleared his throat to Ed, but the sound went unnoticed. How could-
Mustang Senior frowned at him. Mrs. Mustang's eyes seemed to flicker with slight bemusement.
The youngest Mustang threw a glance his way, and those midnight eyes stayed on his face, widening only in the slightest with recognition.
Recognition?
"Ed!" Hohenheim hissed, "Take your bow!"
Hastily and rather jerkily, Ed gave a quick something-or-another that could have possibly passed for a bow without ever removing his gaze from the other man's face. Dismayed with their guest's behavior, the Mustang parents turned their attention elsewhere. Their son, however, did not.
Hohenheim muttered, "How did I know this would happen? Shame to the Elric name, Edward. You are making things harder for all of us."
Ed shot a glare his father's way, and during the time it had taken to do that, the dark-haired son had taken his leave. Ed looked back to find other figures standing where he once had, and, with a wide surveying glance, him nowhere to be seen.
With a sigh, Ed excused himself from the room. The parlor was a grand room, filled to the brim with decorations and people, but the walls… were plain. And seeing that man had ignited images across his mind. He had to find something to draw on before he did it on the esteemed Mustang's walls.
Ducking into the hall landed him in a… white… hallway… Ed twitched and jumped at the sight. He was getting worse and if he didn't do something…
"Is there something I can help you with, sir?" the voiced rocked Ed deep to the core, and his eyesight shot over to where the young Mustang stood.
Taking a moment to process that it was, indeed, Ed that the man was talking to, he replied in a voice a little too shaky for his liking, "Oh. No, I don't think so…" He twitched again. "On second thought, I need paper."
A dark eyebrow arched on a pale face. "Paper?"
Solemnly, Ed nodded. "If you wouldn't mind."
"Before that… My name is Roy Mustang, son and heir to the Mustang company… and you?" Roy held out his hand.
Ed took it in a shaky grasp. "Edward Elric."
"It is you…" the taller man whispered.
"Wha-"
"Come with me, Ed." The handshake turned into a tug. Roy pulled him down the white hall and through several corridors, each seemingly more glamorous then the last. All the while, the images in Ed's mind continued to flow together and mesh – and they were all of the man who led him now. He thought he would be sick. It was nauseating, intense…
"Wh-what are you doing? Where are we going?" Ed mumbled and tittered about on his feet, trying desperately not to twitch or draw.
"We are going somewhere where we will be left alone," Roy replied easily, finally slowing at a door before opening it and stepping inside. Ed felt himself be tugged after the man, but at that instance, a particularly powerful image struck over him… and sent a heavy blush to his face…
Ed sat naked on a bed in a rather plain room. His right arm and left leg glinted strangely in the light – they were encased in metal – and before him crouched an equally naked Roy. The other man smirked in a way that sent thrills racking through his body and his hand rested on… on… Ed's…
"A-ah…" Ed sunk to the floor as Roy closed the door behind him. In reality he was in the esteemed Mustang's son's bedroom on the verge of a drawing fit and with a very serious hard-on throbbing from something he was seeing in his mind while said son had crouched – oh, God, crouched – before him, a worried expression on his face. In his ever-racing mind, he was getting a mind-blowing –
"Are you alright?" Roy asked, placing his hands on Ed's shoulders before his eyes wavered down to a rather large tent in some brand-new suit pants.
Ed could only hiss in response. "P-paper. Now. Please…"
With a very confused expression, Roy stood and walked to a shape – Ed couldn't make out much now – and returned with a small stack of paper. Thankfully, the man had thought to get a pen as well and he handed it to Ed as he crouched before him again. With unsteady hands, Ed took the pen and put it on the paper…
And let it go.
And drew.
Ah! The relief was almost immediate as image after image carved its way onto the white canvas before him. He would never stop being grateful to Roy for bringing him more than one piece as he continually sketched and drew and shaded out. He continued on like this for what seemed like mere minutes but was probably close to an hour or more. Meanwhile, Roy had shifted to sit cross-legged before him, never uttering a word, fascinated with every bit the blonde had to put out.
When finally he had control over his thoughts and the mindless need to draw wore away, Ed put the pen down across the final drawing and looked up at Roy, albeit shamefully.
"I'm… sor-"
"Don't apologize," Roy muttered, meeting his eyes with an intense gaze, "You can't help it, can you?" When Ed shook his head 'no,' the older man continued, "they are… beautiful…" His voice had dropped low in tenor and Ed took a look at what he had frenzily sketched.
…..Erotic scenes, all of them…. Of Roy and himself.
Ed thought he would die; Roy just laughed.
"I-it's… you… I…" The blonde was at a loss for words. How could he have… of this man he just met, for fuck's sake… and the other man's reaction… he was fucking laughing!
"I'm terribly sorry," the man managed between laughs, "but when you said past lives leak into some present ones… I never imagined it would be in such a way!"
"You- but- WHAT?" Ed sputtered, "I've never met you before in my life!"
"You're right," Roy said while wiping an eye with a pale hand. "You haven't. At least, not in this life." Before Ed could get a word in edgewise, Roy had placed his hand over Ed's mouth. "Give me a second to explain before you start talking." His eyes sparkled with something akin to pure joy as he looked at Ed. "You may not know me, but I know you.
"You see, when I was a child, I met a blonde man out in my yard one day. He was naked and he looked almost exactly like you. That man grew to be my best friend, and he told me many things over the years that he was around. He told me that he wasn't supposed to be there like he was. He said that some day, we would disappear and be born as a child. He was a ghost waiting for a physical body to come along for him.
"He was trapped as a spirit for a very long time. He told me once that he feared that, because of the length of time he was disembodied, his human mind wouldn't be completely cut off from all he knew and remembered as a spirit. Then, when I was twelve… He vanished, right before my eyes.
"And," Roy said warmly, "I would imagine that was the very day you were born, Edward Elric. To my tutor, Mrs. Trisha Elric, who had been with child the nine months beforehand." Roy stood and helped Ed stand to his feet as well. "And now I've found you again. You have no idea how ha-"
"Look," Ed interrupted, "I don't understand what you are talking about or how you are not livid with me over… this," the blonde gestured to the papers with almost-disgust, "but I highly doubt I am some long-lost ghost friend of yours…"
"You are not 'some long-lost ghost friend' of mine, Ed, and-"
"And that's another thing!" Ed hissed, "Quit calling me that like you know me, because you most certainly don't!" And with that, Ed turned on his heel and walked out of the bedroom, not sparing a glance over his shoulder when Roy called from behind him for him to stop.
Oh, no. Ed wouldn't stop.
He was going to walk. He would walk out of this stupid house, out into their stupid yard, out into their stupid town, over to his damned house and then he would lock himself in his room and not come out until he had drawn his fucking hand off. He was damned to a life of insanity and he would not, would not, stand for that Mustang bastard mocking him.
For surely that was what the older man was doing?
Blindly, he made his way through the halls of the house until he found a door to the outside. And without hesitation and not a care if his shoe-licking father knew he had left, Ed walked outside and down the hill – God, how cliché, a mansion on a hill – and over pampered grass and nutrient-rich dirt and into a clearing.
A meadow.
A meadow with a pond.
Ed stopped and looked at the lush grass and then the clear water. "When I was a child, I met a blonde man out in my yard one day." He couldn't help but wonder if the son was a bit touched, or at least, a few bananas short of the bunch. But…
What if what Roy had said was true?
It had… coincided with all he had experienced, Ed reasoned. Though he was a semi-firm atheist and merely used the word "God" as some variation of a curse word, he couldn't help but wonder…
No, Ed thought, no. It can't be possible. I've got something wrong with my head. I draw because of some sort of disability, not because I'm some… some…
A hand descended on Ed's shoulder and he jumped.
"Edward," Roy's voice said from behind him, "you don't have to believe me, but you can't tell me you know why you are compelled to draw. You can't tell me that you know you are crazy and that's why you're the way you are. You can't tell me that you didn't feel something for me back in the house."
Ed whirled on him. "You've got some nerve."
The dark-haired man smirked. "That I do. But I saw what you saw in your head because you put it on paper. And I saw with my own eyes just how much it… affected you."
"Sh-shut up," his eyes had to have sparked and burned with anger. He felt it coarse through his body. "I can't believe… you…"
"Can't believe what, Edward? Can't believe that I understand the signs? Maybe you aren't who I think you are, or maybe I imagined it all as a child, but none of that matters now." Roy's voice dropped to a low growl. "Now that I've seen you, I want you. And Roy Mustang always gets what he wants."
For a split second, Edward was torn. Then he kicked the man before him right in between the legs. Then, he grinned as Roy's face contorted with pain and he sunk to his knees. "Apparently not all the time, shitface." And Ed walked home.
His father refused to speak to him, but where the void of silence constructed by the two adults filled the house, the cries and gurgles and babbles of Al worked to wash out so that the shadows were left to hide in the cupboards until the babe was asleep. For days, it continued on like this – Hohenheim avidly ignoring his eldest son and his eldest son doing his damndest to ignore him right back, Al demanding attention and food and a diaper change, and Ed catering to his every need. Al had his older brother wrapped around his little finger, and the child had no clue.
Then, the night came when Hohenheim walked down the stairs to see Ed cradling Al (again) and muttered something about a plane leaving in a few hours and being gone for several weeks and money being on the fridge. Ed didn't look up as his father left, the door shutting firmly behind him without even a half-hearted "goodbye."
He had felt so oddly empty for the past few days. When Ed sought to draw in the spare times Al slept, he found that he could not. It scared him because it was all he'd ever known, but he'd be damned before he'd let that fear show. His art was his livelihood, his very way of existing. Sure, there had been times when he had cursed his "gift" or even willed it away but in the end… in the end it was all he had. Well, he allowed, he had Al now to care for but…
His visions and drawings had remained constant throughout his life. As surely as he could count on the sun rising, Ed could count on a drawing fit or lapse of reality. Now it seemed as though the earth had shattered beneath him and he was left suspended in the air. That river that had once connected him to… wherever his visions had come from had dried up and left him parched. And he could only trace it to one source:
Roy Mustang.
And as the week drove on and Ed could only stare at what he had once crafted, he gave in. He had to see the damned man. He had to talk with him. It seemed his only choice.
"He just ate an hour ago, but if he gets hungry again, I left a few ounces of formula in the-"
"Shush now, Edward," Mrs. Hughes smiled. "I know well how to take care of children. You needn't worry. Go do your business and hurry back."
Ed smiled briefly before handing the woman his baby brother. "Thank you very much. I know you already have a handful with Elysia running about…"
"Ah, well," Gracia laughed a warm laugh, "Maes can handle her, though somewhat clumsily. Like I said, don't you worry. Your brother is in good hands."
A nod and a door shut later, Ed was left to himself outside his neighbor's house with nothing but his thoughts left for company.
He wandered around town, fervently wishing he could go about his life as someone normal, without having to paint or feeling off-balance when he could not do so. Instead, he had to go off to some… rich stranger… and get help for himself. It was partially wonderful not to have some bizarre sight fill his mind's eye, but it felt like something within him had died. Surely it was that Mustang's fault?
An hour and a half brought him to the ordinate front door of the Mustang's residence. Taking a deep breath, Ed raised his fist and knocked on the door. He wasn't dressed to impress – he wore black leather pants he favored along with a black tee, all with small paint splatters from mishaps past – but then again, he didn't particularly care, either.
A blonde woman with sharp eyes opened the door. She was dressed as a maid, but something about her didn't seem too incredibly obedient. However, she greeted him with the level of respect Ed supposed the Mustang servants were trained to possess.
"Welcome to the Mustang Mansion, young sir. Is there something I can assist you with?"
Ed nodded. "Yes, I need to see Roy Mustang."
The woman blinked. "Did you not previously request an audience with young Master Mustang?"
Edward almost scoffed. "No, I didn't."
"Well," the woman began, "I'm afraid he may be busy. I can check for you and tell him a Mister…?"
"Edward Elric…" he supplied.
"Mister Elric," she smiled, "is here. Please come in and have a seat. Would you like tea whilst you wait?"
Edward followed the woman in to the parlor, where he was seated in a ridiculously fancy red velvet chair. "No thank you, Miss..?"
"Riza Hawkeye." Riza smiled. "Then I shall return with word for you, Mr. Elric." And with that, the blonde left the room, leaving Ed to himself once more.
He half-couldn't believe he was going through with this. Really, what could the older man do for him? It was probable that the man didn't even have anything to do with Ed's current predicament. The blonde was just looking for someone to blame… Surely that was it?
It wasn't too long before Riza opened the door, followed closely by Roy. "Announcing Young Master Roy Mustang." Then, she bowed and walked out, closing the parlor door behind her.
Ed stood and avoided the other man, whose face was as stoic as a stone wall.
"You…" Roy's voice was kept calm and even, despite the fact that Ed was dead certain Roy was really anything but.
"Yeah, me…"
Roy allowed a perplexed expression to flicker across his face. "Why did you come back?"
"Because…" Ed paused and swallowed, watching as Roy sat cautiously across from him on a couch. "Because I can no longer paint. Or draw. Or anything else. Not since I've been here. Not since you told me those things."
Roy… smirked. "Busted your inspiration, did I?"
Ed sneered and resisted the urge to break his neck. It wouldn't due to make himself an outlaw now… "I'm sure it wasn't you, you self-absorbed bastard. Not everything relates to you!"
"But it does have something to do with me, or, you think so, at least, because otherwise you wouldn't be here." Roy replied, his voice cool as ice.
Ed glared at the man. "Well, I figured I might as well start from the source."
Roy stood abruptly at that. "Maybe you should come with me."
"Why?" Ed countered, oddly set on edge, "So you can do who-knows-what to me?"
"You would accuse me of something so absurd, wouldn't you?" The man turned his back on Ed. "Guess you'll have to just find out, though. What's wrong, are you scared?"
"No," Ed replied, "I just don't trust your scheming bastard-ass."
Without another word, Roy opened the parlor door and sent a look back to Ed that spoke for him. Do you want answers, or not? The blonde shot the man's back a look that could kill before standing and following him down the hall and through the corridors… right back into his bedroom.
This time, he had a chance to look around and so did just that. Roy's room was an odd mixture of the boy he had to have once been and the man he was now. The walls were an off-white that threatened towards a light hue of blue – a bit of an immature choice of color, in Ed's opinion. He had a huge four-poster bed that was covered in sheets a deep, dark shade of blue (was it intentional to remind himself of himself with that color?).but beside it sat a large beanbag in a matching color. Ed's mind flicked to his own back at his apartment, but shook the thought away. Roy was supposed to be high-society. Why would he have such a thing? The window was actually a large glass door that, when opened, probably led out to a personal garden of some sort. A wooden desk sat against the wall nearest the door and on it sat a computer. Pinned to a billboard beside it were… the pictures he had drawn, Ed realized as he forced down a blush.
Roy himself stood by the billboard with a shit-eating smirk on his face and a glint of victory in his eyes. "See? I'm not mugging you."
"Not yet," Ed agreed, "But who knows how long that'll last?"
"If I may remind you, you were the one who kicked me."
"If I may remind you," Ed mocked, "you were the one who was so intent on having me. 'Roy Mustang always gets what he wants,' or some shit like that."
Roy only pulled open a desk drawer in reply. "What are you doing..?" Ed asked, suspicion flooding his voice.
"Relax. Nothing bad for you." Roy withdrew an item from the drawer and shut it with his hip. "Go ahead and sit on that beanbag, will you?"
Ed didn't want to trust him. Didn't want to do as he said like some dog. "And why should I? Do you have some sort of beanbag fetish?"
"Look," Roy said, exasperated, "trust me, if I wanted to rape you, I wouldn't bother to soil anything in my bedroom. I'd take you in a guest bedroom and I wouldn't bother with all the small talk. I'm not playing head games with you – I'm trying to help you. That's why you came here, isn't it? Now go sit."
His logic was pretty sound, Ed had to admit. Reluctantly, he made his way over to the beanbag and plopped down on it, feeling odd as he did so. It was as if he had done this before, and not just once. Though, he reasoned, he did own a beanbag of his own – many, in fact. But he couldn't rid himself that he had done it… in this room.
Roy sat on the bed, looking slightly down at him and handed Ed what appeared to be a small wad of clothing. Ed hesitantly took it. "Why would you keep clothes in—oh… Oh…"
And then he saw himself, wearing the old clothes, sprawled out on the beanbag and writhing in pain as a younger version of Roy stood beside him worriedly.
"Wh-what is this..?" Ed asked, his voice suddenly weak, "I…"
"You once wore those clothes. They were all you had because when you came into this world, you had none. While you waited for your physical body to form, Ed, you were forced to live as a spirit and it caused you great pain…" Roy's voice was oddly warm again. It seemed to rise in temperature every time he spoke of their supposed "shared" past. "There was nothing I could ever do but watch you…"
The image faded away from his mind and Ed knew without a doubt that all Roy had told him was true… every last bit. "You… Roy… I…"
"Do you believe me now?" Roy asked, his face looming closer above Ed's. "I wasn't making it all up."
Ed sucked in deep breaths and looked at the man before him. "Yeah…"
Roy smiled. "I knew you'd see it. I've missed you so much…"
When Ed saw, in his mind, him kissing Roy, he did so in reality as well. He reached a shaky hand forward and grabbed ahold of white, expensive material and pulled the body it encased downwards as he reached up to meet it. Their lips met in a way that sent sparks throughout Ed, and he felt alive and whole. He pressed against Roy's lips – so soft and right for him – and licked along the bottom one. Roy opened his mouth and Ed was met with Roy's own tongue… followed closely by his whole body as the older man fell off the bed and onto Ed.
The blonde moaned heavily when Roy's groin ground against his own. Ed struggled and pushed, moving wholeheartedly under the man to ease the overwhelming pleasure working to send him over the edge.
"You won't last long at this rate, will you?" Roy asked, his voice low in tenor and sending deep shivers through Ed.
"You don't – nnahhhh –" Ed gasped as Roy's hand ghosted over the bulge in his pants, "think we are taking this t-too fast?"
Roy stopped and looked at him, pulling away slightly as he did so. Ed kept himself from whimpering at the loss, but only just. "We have all the time in the world. You are right." Then, he grinned, "but the real question is probably more like, 'do you want to stop?' I don't think we're moving too fast. If what you once told me is really true, then this is far from our first time being together like this. Not to mention," Roy moved his head closer to Ed and his voice dropped in pitch even more so that it was similar to a growl, "that you've seen us together before."
Ed blushed at that. "Y-yeah…"
"So. Do you want to stop?"
Ed thought about that. He wanted – no, needed – something to be done about his lower half. And who was more perfect than the man who, above all else, had to be his soul mate (as cheesy as that sounded)? The man who seemed to have all his answers? The one who was too good to be true?
"Yes… Can we take this a bit slower?"
His own answer surprised him in a way he couldn't explain. But… He did not know Roy personally, had not been around him for more than a few hours total in this life. Ed didn't want to rush this. It was like Roy said – they had all the time in the world. And if all the man said was true (like the feeling in his gut told him), then they really had all of eternity.
Roy looked at him for a moment, his face blank before a smile came over it. "We can," he agreed, "No rush."
...Yes, I really just did that.
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