A/N: Very short chapter. Sincere apologies. Life is very, very busy.
Chapter 14
He crept the car slowly through the field as Edward cracked open the journal once more though the sun was barely up. The boy didn't even seem to know how much he had passed up. All those childish rights of passage; stealing your first beer, prom, your first date. Roy's stomach churned as he wondered if he had stolen the boy's first kiss as well.
The morning found them silent, still, and stiff-jointed. Mist coated the landscape before them. Roy felt alone above the clouds until Edward began to stir beside him, golden hair falling over his shoulders from coming loose during his violent sleep. The boy groaned and stretched out, arms above his head and spine popping loudly. Roy cleared this throat and looked away as the boy reached down to adjust himself in his pants.
"Nn, gotta take a piss," the boy mumbled, voice cracking ever so slightly with the rough edges of sleep. Ed opened the door, stirring the mist into little white snakes. He thought about the other day and how dangerous this whole stupid mess was becoming, but then he always remembered how it felt, to have something so feral and deadly melt so willingly into his arms. The blonde had fought it at first, and Roy had the bruises from where those automail fingers had closed around his upper arm, but Edward fought anything and everything. When that hand released to pull against his lower back though, it was like morphine. Every ache and pain left him and the boy kissed him back. They ground against the tree until the Colonel pulled away and brushed the bark away from the prodigy's hair.
The door was ripped open and Ed ducked slightly as he clambered into the car. Roy tried to uncurl himself, coughing slightly and cursing at the stiffness of his back, one of the many signs of his age slowly setting in. His feet found the pedals and he pressed them in slowly, flexing and warming himself up from sleep.
The boy next to him did the same, rolling his shoulders. If he listened closely he could hear the whirring of hydraulics and turning gears. Even the moistness of the leather and steel reached his nose above the mixture of exhaust and fog. Out here he could almost forget they were behind enemy lines; that he was driving them towards what he knew in the pit of his stomach would eventually be their death. Their forces were weak and scattered, resources limited. He could put on a brave face during meetings and debriefings and shift around supplies and men to alleviate the suffering of his soldiers, but the great Flame Alchemist could not win this war. Amestris could not win this war. Spring and summer were short in Drachma, they were running out of time.