I was making my bed the other day and this is what came to mind.
Warning: This drabble stems from my need to write something stupid, silly, and utterly pointless. Don't expect anything award-winning.
You have been warned.
Bed
Roy Mustang was a man who liked to come home from work early.
It wasn't only because of the fact that, in order to come home from work early, one had to also get off of work early—which, knowing his first lieutenant, was a hard task to accomplish without getting winged by a passing bullet—but because of what often greeted him whenever he did:
Edward Elric being domestic.
Most times it was nothing big—he would simply be doing the dishes when the sink got piled too high or cooking a simple dinner for the both of them. However, even that was enough to get him blushing and stuttering angry excuses when the general came home earlier than planned.
Now, sometimes, on rare occasions, the blonde would be doing more . . . effeminate things. For instance, at one time, Roy returned to find his young lover dusting the bric-a-brac on the living room shelves.
Dusting.
Edward had screeched at him about having nothing better to do and the damn things were so filthy he could barely breathe for all the dust in the air and Roy could just stop looking at him like that, goddammit! He had then thrown his dusting rag at Mustang's smirking face and stomped off to the library.
The Flame had at least had the decency to wait until the door slammed shut before he collapsed on the couch with laughter. He hadn't been able to sleep in his own bed for a week, but it had been worth it, in his opinion.
It always was.
Just like now . . .
It was Friday and Hawkeye—who was truly a merciful, merciful god—had taken pity on all of them and let them clock out early. Roy had headed straight home and, knowing what he was likely to find awaiting him there, had silently slipped in and sought out his lover . . .
. . . Who, as it turned out, happened to be in their bedroom.
The dark-haired alchemist had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from chuckling at the sight: Ed was sprawled out on his stomach in their bed, one bare automail foot holding down a corner of the fitted sheet, while he yanked and pulled at another, trying to get it neatly tucked onto the opposing corner.
Roy wasn't sure if the young man realized that he had the thing on sideways.
Somehow or another, Edward finally managed to hook all of the corners unevenly down and sat up in the middle of the bed to admire his handiwork. He was reaching up to wipe away the beads of perspiration that had started to condense on his forehead . . . when he finally noticed his lover standing in the doorway, grinning like a madman.
The two of them regarded each other for a long moment—one looking decidedly smug and the other just plain horrified—before the blonde growled and opened his mouth to let loose a scathing remark . . .
The four corners of the fitted sheet chose this moment to simultaneously pop loose, fluttering down and pillowing around Ed like a puffy, silky cloud.
The blonde glared at the sheet for a second, as if insulted that it hadn't stayed where he had directed it, and then slapped the mattress with an automail palm. "Dammit!" he yelled at the bed. And Roy just couldn't help himself.
He laughed.
He laughed long and hard at his sulking spouse, and even the sting of a high-velocity pillow to his face wasn't enough to make him stop.
See? Pointless. I'm going to bed now.