WHOLE LIVES, Chapter 4: Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
By The Binary Alchemist 2011
It was one week to departure for Drachma and the battered brown suitcase was still shoved in the back of Ed's closet. "Well, that's a first," Alphonse mused, wisely keeping his mouth shut. During Ed's brief marriage the valise was never fully unpacked and was prone to be yanked out, stuffed with clean boxers, snapped shut and thrown under the seat of a late night train at the first hint of a squabble on the wind.
Al's bags had been packed for weeks in anticipation of this historic voyage to what had once been enemy territory. Eager letters had flown back and forth between the Elric brothers and their friends and colleagues in Drachma, describing the splendors of Stoltovgrad, sketches of the rustic dacha they would call home for the summer, and detailing the intriguing wildlife they would encounter on the outskirts of the city. "Fish so plentiful they will jump over your line and into the boat—and rabbits so fat and lazy they will lie down beside the morning milk on the doorstep and beg to be stewed with onions," Alexi told him excitedly, but added that he was quite sure that Alphonse would not mind joining him on a little hunting of the local quarry near the Volga bridge on lazy summer evenings. "The most delicious quarry in the whole of Stoltovgrad-devotchkas."
I'm not much for blood sports, Al had written back, not wanting to offend his friend. I enjoy fishing, but ever since my training I really hate having to hunt animals for dinner if I don't have to.
Oh, Alphonse would not be able to resist, his Drachman friend wrote back. "They are small and have soft, downy fur—they come out after dark and when you see them you must follow them until you are deep into the bush and then with your well oiled weapon you must shoot again and again until you are out of ammunition—but remember, whatever you shoot, you must eat. But there is no meat sweeter or juicier than a devotchka."
If they are that delicious then I'll taste it, Al responded enthusiastically. He'd heard that Drachman cuisine was exceptional and was eager to find out for himself. I bet brother would like to eat a devotchka or two himself.
Alexi hastily scribbled back that Ed might not find Devotchka Manda to his liking " based upon what I know of Edward. I suspect the local dish salupa with a side order of mudya accompanied with cream sauce would be more to his liking—I'm sure Pyotir can advise a good chef who might be up to it."
He hadn't thought these menu items worth mentioning to Ed, whose richly profane vocabulary would have sent the elder Elric packing in the direction of the nearest translator, deeply suspicious that the mischievous Tovarich had just pulled a good one over on his naïve kid brother. Instead Alphonse packed some worn clothing that would be comfortable and sturdy boots for chasing devotchkas in the meadows on a warm summer night. "My friend, you will lick your lips and fingers after diving in to a steaming, juicy Devotchka Manda."
Whatever the hell Devotchka Manda was, Al couldn't wait to eat one…
#####
:"Fuck it. I don't wanna go."
Roy glanced up at Edward from behind the pile of papers that threatened to topple and bury him neck deep. Two days out of bed and he was hopelessly behind. Granted, with the return of power to the Parliament and the rise of the new democracy the Fuhrer President was no longer the grand puppeteer of the Amestrian Government, yanking strings when subordinates got out of line and cutting them at the first suggestion that someone dared to challenge him for power. He was hardly a figurehead, though, and while the Parliament generally supported him it was rarely without heated debate. It was both exhilarating and exhausting and he was paler than he normally was and thinner than he should have been. He'd laughed during the press conference, offering his most disarming boyish grin while admitting that his enthusiasm for travel in Al's airship had gotten the better of him. "Got up in the Xerxes and it was colder than I had bargained for. And like most men—you ladies will vouch for this as truth, won't you?—I was a very bad patient. A head cold became a stubborn chest cold. It took the combined threats of my personal physician and the esteemed Dr Chen from the Xingian delegation to…ahem….persuade me to stay in bed and let their remedies work. I have made a full recovery, and Dr. Knox has finally allowed me to return to the current Parliamentary session before the Summer Recess…"
"….you can't bullshit me, Mustang. Your blood test may look okay, but you're weak as a kitten and…and….damn it, I can't trust you to take care of yourself."
Roy folded his arms across his chest. One corner of his mouth lifted in an ironic grin. "Says the man who had to be cuffed to the bed rails by Dr. Knox when he was flat on his back with a skull fracture—or have you forgotten that little incident?"
Edward opened his mouth to fire back a few choice insults, then wisely clamped it shut. Ed hadn't behaved well under sedation and had threatened to boot the Fuhrer's personal physician so hard up the arse that Knox would be able to taste the machine oil Ed used to lubricate his automail toes. "He let me go after a few hours," Ed mumbled under his breath. "I still don't think—"
"—and it takes a real man to admit that, Ed. I'm proud of you. Now if we can just train you not to belch during state dinners and not to leave the seat up if you have to relieve yourself in the middle of the night, I might just be able to trust you not to cause any international incidents and heap shame and disgrace upon this administration as a scientific ambassador to the Czar's Imperial Court in Stvetlanistok—"
"—you know what, jackass? Why don't you go fuck yourself?"
"A splendid idea. Certainly more enjoyable than signing requisition forms and reading the tedious minutes of the last three judiciary committee meetings." A gloved finger jabbed at the call button on his office intercom. "Sebastian? Lunch in fifteen minutes. Large bowl of whatever soup's on the menu and a basket of hot rolls….with extra butter."
"EXTRA BUTTER?" Ed spluttered furiously, appalled that his lover would avail himself of Ed's—no, their—favorite shared lubricant for his own gratification with no thought to Ed's personal needs, which he had held at bay during Roy's convalescence.
A rude gesture and Edward stalked out the door, nearly running over Colonel Hawkeye on the way out. He stomped his way down the steps—then paused, reversed direction and shouldered his way through the swinging kitchen doors.
Cigarette dangling between tight lips, Chef Ramsay's carving knife seemed to be flying in every direction as he laid into a massive baron of beef destined for slow braising in red wine with bay leaves. His eyes never left his handiwork. "Yeah?"
"He changed his mind. Screw the soup. Give him pastrami on rye with extra kraut."
Ramsay's expression didn't change. "He's been on soup for weeks."
"Yeah, well, he's fuckin' sick of it. Wants some real damn grub for a change. Oh, and instead of butter, send up a crock of hot mustard." Outwardly nonchalant, Ed was snickering wickedly behind is carefully schooled expression of chronic impatience. Son of a bitch can't resist pastrami on rye…he's gonna get the worst damn heartburn. And wait until he pops the top off that crock of hot mustard. Sure as shit won't be greasing up his dick with that, heh heh…. "Gimme a ham sandwich."
Ramsay eyed him with the usual contempt he held for anyone who couldn't tell the difference between Aerugoan barbaresco villages and Cretan retsinia. "Get it yourself." He jerked his head towards the cart of wrapped sandwiches, salads, packets of crisps and pretzels, pickles, sweets and jugs of cold teas, iced sodas and hot coffee that would be delivered to the break room for the secretarial staff who would spend their lunch hour gathered around listening to Midday Amestris on Radio Capital. Ed grabbed a sandwich, shoved it in his jacket pocket along with a handful of ginger cookies and a bottle of pop and the doors banged behind him. "Stupid git." Ramsay shook his head. "Sauerkraut—and pastrami. Damn. Mustang'll be farting holes out the back of his office chair, he eats that. Shows what you know about romance, idjit…"
#####
Havoc belched frankly. "Mmmmmmboyyyy…." he muttered around a big mouthful of kraut and pastrami, "I'm gonna regret eating this."
Riza's right eyebrow lifted a fraction. "I am going to regret you eating that." A slice of tomato attempted to slither out of her BLT and she tucked it neatly beneath the bread before taking another bite.
Jean saluted her with a grin. "That's the way of a Presidential bodyguard," he boasted. "I'm silent—"
"—but deadly." Roy spooned up another plump bit of fish from Ramsay's excellent chowder, well fortified with a shot of sherry wine to give it a bit more oomph. "And if you find yourself stricken with cabbage-induced flatulence again, Major, I will make good on my threat to hang you ass-first out the office window and snap my fingers, treating the citizens of Central to the most impressive display of pyrotechnics since my inauguration celebration."
He contemplated the small crock of butter beside his plate.
Then he mentally contemplated his lover, naked and sweating and cursing for Roy to hurry, damn you!, as he leisurely slicked himself , dipping his fingers into the sweet cream butter that Sebastian thoughtfully kept replenished by their bed in a cunning water filled butter bell that kept it soft and fresh at room temperature. Took a lot of alchemy to get the greasy stains out of the sheets but it was worth it just to see Edward down on his knees, lapping the fast-melting goodness off the head of his cock.
His trousers were becoming tighter than they should. Ed had been so afraid for Roy, scared of tiring him, scared of hurting him, purposely limiting their lovemaking to nothing more taxing than a blow or hand job. Ed would be flying out on the Xerxes in less than 72 hours, all protests to the contrary. A promise had been made to their new allies in Drachma. Ed would be on that airship if Roy had to have Hawkeye escort him at gunpoint.
Roy would be fine. Desperately horny and lonelier than he cared to admit, but he'd be fine. Providing, of course, that he could get Ed to consent to some teeth-rattling, sheet ripping, bed-slat breaking, mattress soaking fucking before he left. The kind they used to have before his illness. The kind he and Maes—
Don't go there, a voice in his head reminded him. Rising hastily he turned his attention to the park below, dappled now with thick clumps of flowering shrubbery and magnolia trees that lent a heady sweetness to the spring air. He had missed the blooming of the magnificent Xingese cherry trees this year. A small one had been planted in the private Sanctuary garden at the new Palace, which was hidden from prying eyes by a thick hedge tall enough to give Ed and Roy some solitude out in the open. Roy had wanted to lie with his younger lover under the spring moon, delicate pink petals raining gently on their bare skin. He had spent the Blossom Nights coughing up blood and half mad with fever and Edward was exhausted and frightened of losing him.
I'm strong enough, Roy determined. I'll have to prove it to him, because I will be good and goddamned if I let him go without-
In the park below he sighted a familiar flash of golden hair. A tall man, tie half undone and waistcoat unbuttoned, was tearing off bits of his sandwich, tossing them to a hungry stray that pawed at his knee. Typical. He smiled in spite of himself. He'll be starving when he gets home. I'll suggest we have a picnic supper in the Sanctuary Garden, just the two of us.
He rang for his butler again. "Sebastian? Have Ramsay put together a hamper for a private supper—no, that will be for two. Oh—a couple of cold chickens, some fresh buns and butter, some wine and cheese-brie and golden apples? That'll be fine. Oh, and make sure you pack all the proper…condiments. No, I'm not sure that would be enough. A crock…and a stick of butter along with everything else. I like my buns…well buttered, as you are well aware, Sebastian. That will do-oh, dessert?" A vision of Hot Buttered Elric made him bite his lover lip in frustration. "No, thank you. Edward will be providing dessert. That will be all."
#####
"Oh, gowan…here." Edward had gotten maybe two good bites out of his ham sandwich before that damned mutt came around again. It always happened whenever he frequented this particular bench at lunchtime. The stray had a russet coat with a darkish muzzle and a dark blaze on the crown of his head. He'd sidle up to Edward, eventually laying his head on the young man's knee with a soft whine of entreaty. Ed hadn't finished his luncheon in weeks but he wasn't particularly worried about it. God knows the suppers were plentiful at the Palace and if his stomach rumbled there were always those sausage carts in the square that Breda frequented or sweets from the vending machines—Ed never could resist the urge to give the candy dispenser a surreptitious kick in hopes that a double portion of chocolate would drop down the chute for him.
He had buried his fingers behind the floppy ears, scratching vigorously when Gracia Hughes approached him, smiling a little and holding out a bakery bag from Il Gattina. "That was very kind of you to share your lunch with him. I can at least share some dessert with you. You like crullers, don't you? These are nice and hot and I can't eat them all myself. Here."
Ed smiled, scooted over and dusted off some stray leaves from the other half of the bench. "Hey, thanks, Gracia! You doin' okay? Al says he saw you a couple days ago and said you…well…that you were kinda…y'know…feelin' kinda…down." Seeing her hesitate, he lifted a hand in apology. "I mean…not trying to stick my nose in your business…but if you got a problem, you know Al and I…there's nothing we wouldn't do to help you, y'know?"
Gracia felt the prickle of tears. She blinked them back and smiled gently at her companion. He is so, so good…so kind…Alphonse is such a dear, but Edward—there's nobody quite like him. All those scowling faces and that sharpness, just to hide such a tender, loving heart. Can't stand to see a child cry. Can't bear to let a stray go hungry.
….can't stand to see a friend suffer.
She drew a shuddering breath and laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Maybe you can help, Edward. It's…it's about Roy. Roy…and Maes."
Her hand tighted. Edward studied the pain in her eyes. "Fuck the crullers," he said softly. "We need beer."
….TO BE CONTINUED…
