Goodnight, Moon 4.5

Edward had learned, after about a few weeks in Germany, that his prostetic arm was not made for really much of anything. He had known that it wasn't as good as an automail arm, but he hadn't anticipated how utterly useless it was--almost. Mostly, the thing was really there so that he didn't scare children with his missing arm (up to the shoulder) on the streets. There really wasn't much he could do with it, except have an extremely loose grip on things--he usually had to cradle everything he held with his right hand. The right hand really couldn't hold much.

He had forgotten about that one fine, drizzly afternoon.

"Edward, what happened?"

"I dropped the phone, okay?" Edward snarled through the phone, which was now being held by his left hand. "So what's up?"

"A direction?" Hoenheim answered with a chuckle.

"God, shut...you know what I meant!" Ed shouted impatiently. He really did not have time to take stupid phonecalls from his father when he could be doing more research.

"How are you doing, Edward?" his father said softly, suddenly serious.

"Okay, I guess," Ed answered neutrally.

"How are your studies going?" Hoenheim asked, glancing at his morning papers.

"Okay," Edward said, wanting to end this conversation quickly. He had books to read, theories to write--he couldn't be wasting time with small talk. He tapped his left foot, which made a strange hollow sound, and checked the clock on the wall.

"Listen, Edward," Hoenheim said after a long pause. "There's something I need to tell you..."

"Look, Dad," Ed sighed into the phone. "I'll call you back, okay? If you need to wait that long to tell me something, it can wait." He hung up without another word and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before going back to his books. On the other end of the line, his father picked up the newspaper and narrowed his eyes at a small article that seemed to be written just to be forgotten, nestled in the far corners of the last few pages. Every several minutes, Ed would raise his head to check the clock, and look out the window. He often wondered, between scribbling new theories, how Al was doing. The weather in Transylvania was always somewhat chilly, a little bit foggy and drizzly more often than not. How was the weather where Al was? How was he eating? Did he dress warmly enough?

With a heavy heave of his breath, Ed set his pen onto the table and glanced at his prostetic hand, letting his fingers click together in a loose fist.

Was Al thinking of him, too?

Goodnight, Moon 5

There were certain times and days when Roy knew, by the way Alphonse acted the night before, whether Al was going to go to the library or the office to study. Usually the way he acted, however, also depended on Roy's actions. Roy knew that by the way Alphonse reacted to his questions yesterday, he could expect Alphonse to probably stay in the library for the rest of the week. Therefore, it was his job to leave some money for Alphonse to buy lunch.

He didn't expect, however, to find the boy masturbating on the bed. At first he had heard strange noises from the room, which he thought were credited to a nightmare. But when he opened the door just a crack to check on Al (earlier lesson learned: sneaking up on Alphonse when he is having a nightmare merits combat alchemy to be unleashed on your person) he found the boy thrusting into his own hand on the bed. The sight alone riveted Roy's feet to the ground.

By the languid way the boy was moving, it was hard to tell whether or not Alphonse was dreaming, but, by God! How could someone do something so mind-shattering to watch, awake or asleep?

The boy's chest pressed against the sheets, his hardened nipples rubbing mercilessly against them as he thrusted his hips in a slow rhythm that steadily grew faster, and harder. He kept his knees bent onto the bed, and the balls of his feet dug into the bed to keep his ass in the air, his free hand also supporting his weight. Colour slowly rose to his cheeks, giving his skin a strangely warm glow that sent a rush of blood through Roy's body as he watched. His thumb and index finger rubbed at the tip until he got his fingers just a little wet, then he placed those fingers to his opening, pressing them in with a moan. The wet sound produced by that very act was enough to make Roy hard, and the man groaned despite himself. Unable to stop himself, he continued to watch as Alphonse now held his member with his right hand and began to move. His loosely held fist slid over his penis in an up and down motion while his hips matched that motion, thrusting his member into his hand and then sending his fingers deeper into himself, producing that moist sound each time. This continued for a good five minutes, but to Roy it felt like somewhere between a split second or eternity. Eventually, Alphonse's motions slowed down, but then he did the unthinkable. Panting, shuddering, and as vulnerable as the day he was born, the boy blindly reached for the red cloack that hung on his bedpost. The next thing he said was enough to make Roy feel as though he'd been hit head on by a speeding train.

"N-niisan..." was the muffled sigh.

Roy backed away slowly and retreated as Alphonse climaxed and collapsed onto the bed, deep in his reverie.

"Fuhrer," Alphonse called. "Are you all right?" It was unusual for Alphonse to wake up and not find Roy in the kitchen, and even more so for him to find the man in the bathroom on the other end of the mansion.

"I'm sick," Roy muttered from the other side of the door.

"Shall I call someone?" Alphonse asked, concerned.

"No," Roy said, hoping he didn't sound too hostile. "You go on ahead, I have to let the maid in." There was silence for a brief moment from the other side of the door, and then Roy heard, to his relief, Alphonse's retreating footsteps.

It was only about five minutes after Alphonse left that Marci, Roy's hired maid, came to the house. There wasn't much to say about Marci, really, since she only came once a week to clean up the house and cook meals only when she was called to. She was a rather heavy-set woman with a thick accent that Roy couldn't pinpoint, and a very warm smile. She'd seen Alphonse before, but never talked to him or learned his name, since Roy never introduced them. And since Alphonse cleaned up after himself and she wasn't able to climb up to the loft, she never washed anything of his.

Today, however, she found that one of the many spare rooms in the mansion was being used, and began to clean it up. Soon she emerged from the room with an armful of sheets and some laundry.

"Fuhrer," she called to Roy, who was getting ready to leave for work (from her mouth, it sounded like she was saying "fur"). "So much laundry, wash them all?"

Roy pulled his military boots on and glanced at the pile of laundry, at the bit of red poking out between the white sheets.

"Wash them."

And he was out the door.