Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ By Sightless Lightning ❯ Part VII - Roy ( Chapter 7 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

"Leave me alone."

"You have to eat something."

"Not hungry. Go away."

Edward felt Mustang's weight on the edge of the bed shift, and then the mattress sprang back up as the weight was removed. He did not look, however, because he had the irrational idea that opening his eyes would make his headache even more intolerable than it already was; it was kind of hard to imagine how it could get worse, but he still kept his eyes tightly closed.

"You're never going to get better if you don't eat something, Fullmetal," said Mustang, and dammit but that tone of disappointment was getting on Edward's nerves. He was hearing it entirely too much lately. "You're worrying your brother, now come on and eat."

If Alphonse had actually stood there and demanded that Edward eat, the way Mustang was, Edward would have been helpless to deny him. But just having Mustang say it was a different matter. "Just let me sleep," he muttered.

There was silence for a long time, and then the sound of Mustang gathering up dishes and retreating. He didn't close the door behind him, and Edward could hear the man moving around the house.

It was cold in the room. Edward wished that Mustang had more blankets on the bed, but when he'd mentioned it that morning the Colonel had just given him an odd look and refused to come up with another one. It had been tolerable the night before, when he had Alphonse to cuddle up to, but with his brother awake and in another room, he was left shivering in the chill.

Mustang's voice came to him, drifting in from the kitchen as the Colonel spoke to Alphonse. It was enraging, absolutely enraging that someone other than Edward should be caring for Alphonse, making sure he ate and kept out of trouble, and Edward burrowed deeper into the blankets to try to block out the sound. He was tired, dammit, and wanted to sleep, but sleep was a distressingly difficult thing to catch when every motion cost him in pain through every joint, and nausea sat like poison in his belly.

It was especially difficult with Mustang periodically waking him with admonitions that he should eat something.

"Fullmetal," said Mustang, and Edward interrupted him immediately.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered. "I'd probably just throw it up anyway, so leave me alone."

"At least drink some water. Just a little bit. You're worrying your brother, and you're starting to worry me too."

Edward groaned and flinched away from the touch on his shoulder; it hurt even through the insulating layer of blanket. Just the idea of putting something into his stomach made it roil, although he had to admit that he was a little thirsty. "I've only been sick for a day and a half. Nobody dies in a day and a half, so go away."

"I didn't say you were going to die. I said ..."

But what Mustang had said was postponed by the sound of Alphonse falling in the next room. As Mustang went to investigate the noise, Edward swore weakly at his back, but couldn't put a lot of volume into it. "You said you could take care of him, you bastard," he whispered.

"I can," called Mustang from the other room, and then his voice lowered, addressing Alphonse while Edward went back to his quiet misery.

"So much for civilization," murmured Edward. He'd never gotten sick in Risenbourg, and neither had Alphonse. And if Alphonse came down with this too ...

Something crashed in the next room, and Edward rolled over and put his head under the pillow in an attempt to ignore it. The motion was agonizing, the weight of his automail dragging on the bones of his shoulder and the joints in his back, and he moaned a little with the pain of it. Reaching out blindly with his steel hand, he groped for the bedside table with a vague idea of maybe drinking a little of the water he thought Mustang had brought him. But when he was unable to locate the furniture by touch, he raised his head and blinked into the light, and saw that the table was empty anyway.

"Dammit," he said, as something else broke in the living room.

He'd thrown up twice earlier, and he felt like throwing up again as he dragged himself up out of bed. It hurt so much to move - every muscle felt like it had ground glass inside it, and his headache blossomed like an explosion behind his eyes - but he told himself he'd been through worse. He'd been cold laying in bed, but the air was colder yet, and he pulled his coat off a chair and over his naked shoulders, shivering violently. The fabric was also cold, and leeched heat from his skin as he staggered toward the doorway.

"What are you doing up?" demanded Mustang crossly, standing up from where he'd been sitting on the couch. There was nothing visibly broken, but Edward could see an array sketched onto the floor.

"Where's my brother?" asked Edward, leaning against the door frame for support. Standing up was making him more queasy, and he swallowed against the nausea.

Mustang gestured vaguely behind the couch. "Something's interested him back there."

"Well, get him out from there. He's not a dog." The ache in Edward's joints and the nausea in the back of his throat began to get the better of him, and he wondered if he could make it to a chair and sit down before he collapsed again.

"You should really drink some water or something," said Mustang, as he looked behind the couch. "And go back to bed."

"Hrmph." Edward decided that he preferred to just slide down the wall where he was, and curl up in his coat on the floor. It was so cold, but the floor was comfortable enough otherwise, and the coolness of the hardwood against his cheek was soothing to his stomach. He could feel the vibrations of Mustang's and his brother's steps through the floor, and imagined he could track their motions quite well that way.

"Now who's acting like a dog?" said Mustang, and the amusement in the man's tone made Edward frown in annoyance. But when Mustang crouched beside Edward and a hand brushed his hair aside, all the amusement fled immediately. "Fullmetal ..." said the Colonel, his tone annoyingly serious.

"Mmm," said Edward. It was so unexpectedly comfortable here on the floor; if he had a blanket, he could sleep here quite readily. When Mustang tried to pull him upright by the shoulder, he made an unhappy noise and said, "Don't touch me. Leave me alone, let me sleep."

"Not on the floor. Come on, sit up." Edward found himself being dragged to sit up, sideways across the doorway, and he squinted up at Mustang with an irritated frown. "I'll get you some water," said the Colonel, "and then you need to get back in bed."

Pulling his coat closer around himself, Edward said darkly, "I can take care of myself." The promise of something to drink, though, kept him from just laying down again; his nausea didn't think much of the prospect, but the dry ache in the back of his throat disagreed. "Why is your damned house so cold?"

"It's not," said Mustang from the kitchen. "You're feverish."

That wasn't exactly news to Edward, but he doubted his fever accounted for all of his shivering. "It's freezing in here." It was uncomfortable to sit upright, the weight of his automail arm pulling hard on his shoulder.

"Don't be stupid, Fullmetal. Why would my house be freezing?" Mustang crouched down next to him, and the glass he offered was only about a third full. "Just drink a little and then we'll get you back into bed."

Edward swallowed one mouthful of water, and immediately thought better of trying to drink the rest. It was cold in his belly, an alien substance that his stomach didn't like at all. "Let me sleep here," he said, closing his eyes.

Implacable, Mustang hauled him up by his automail and forced him to stand; Edward was distantly surprised that the Colonel was that strong. "You'll make yourself more sick sleeping on a cold floor," said Mustang. "Back to bed."

"I hate you," said Edward weakly, as he was moved back into the bedroom, his coat removed, and he was pushed back down onto the bed. Moving around made his headache slam down again, and he was almost blinded by it. The blankets still held the warmth of his body, though, and laying down settled some of the nausea that the swallow of water had engendered.

"That's great," said Mustang, tucking the blanket in around him. "When you stop hating me, let me know and I'll call the mortuary."

Damn the man. Edward closed his eyes and hoped he would get to dismember Mustang in his dreams.



It was dimmer when he woke up, although Edward couldn't tell if it was morning or evening, and he couldn't hear or see Mustang anywhere. The only thing he could see when he opened his eyes was his brother's face, watching him.

"Hey," he said, and the word was harsh and croaked in his ears. He was still cold, although he'd stopped shivering in his sleep, and he was terribly thirsty. "Come here."

Alphonse, who had been sitting or kneeling on the floor next to the bed, immediately crawled up into it and into Edward's arms. He was fully dressed and smelled relatively clean, and a bit of tired rage stirred in Edward as he wondered how that had been accomplished. His brother didn't kiss him or make any kind of sound, just curled himself up as small as possible so he could fit up against Edward like a child.

"It's okay," said Edward, closing his eyes again. It felt so good to hold Alphonse, feel his warmth and the weight of him pressed so tightly against him. "I'll always love you," he murmured, and slept again.



When he woke the second time, it was definitely night. Alphonse was gone, and Mustang was sitting next to him instead, which Edward considered to be something less than equivalent trade.

What had woken him was the Colonel brushing a cool wet cloth over his forehead. Edward batted weakly at Mustang's hand, but it did feel good, and he soon closed his eyes again. "Leave me alone," he said, out of habit.

"Edward," said Mustang softly. "What went wrong with the transmutation?"

"Nothing," said Edward. What an odd question.

"Did you take notes? Write anything down?"

"No. Thirsty."

Mustang helped him sit up and gave him a glass with a little water in it; his metal fingers clinked against the glass, and Edward thought it was very ironic that his automail was the only part of him that didn't hurt. He felt marginally better as he lay back down, and didn't protest it again when Mustang ran the cool cloth over his face and neck.

"I didn't see anything going wrong," said Mustang softly.

"With what?"

"When you transmuted your brother. What happened?"

"I told you. Nothing went wrong." What was so damned important about that right now, anyway? He was shivering again and wanted to sleep before the water triggered his nausea, and his headache was killing him.

"Edward," said Mustang, and Edward frowned. The Colonel never called him by name. This must be some kind of hallucination. "You have to tell me."

"Not important," he murmured. "Let me sleep."

"Not until you tell me." That cool cloth moved over Edward's face again, then the blankets were tugged aside so it could reach his neck and chest, and he moaned a little. Now he knew it was a hallucination ... Mustang would never be so kind to him. "What happened?"

Edward scowled without opening his eyes. It was persistent like Mustang, why did it have to accurately resemble Mustang in this one thing? "Had a hard time pulling in the Stone," he mumbled. Obviously the only way to make the hallucination go away was to tell it what it wanted. "Didn't bind it to the array because I wanted to control the ... the, you know, rate. At which it was consumed. Then had a hard time pulling it in." He shivered again, and tried to pull the blanket back up to his throat, but the Colonel yanked it down to his waist again. "Cold."

"You're not cold, Edward." Bah, what would a hallucination know about whether or not he was cold? "What happened then?"

"Mmmph. Cold. Let me sleep."

"No. What happened then?" There was the sound of sloshing and dripping water, and then the cool cloth was being pressed to his forehead again.

He didn't want to talk about this, not even to a hallucination that was being kind to him. "Where's Al?"

"Sleeping in the other room. He isn't sick yet. Tell me what happened. You couldn't get the Stone into the transmutation? Is that what went wrong?"

"No. It hurt until I got it in." It had hurt terribly, like being torn apart and like the fear of knowing exactly what was happening, and there had been a moment of panic when Edward wasn't sure if he could keep his concentration in the face of that withering fear. "Knew the Gate was behind me, but then ... it was in, and there was power. Fuck there was power, and everything went fine."

He broke off there, licking his lips and wishing there was more water. He was so thirsty, so thirsty, and so cold, and he ached everywhere, like every joint was full of sand every time he moved, and he just wanted to sleep. Sleep and be gone from the headache that was crushing him and all the pain and all the cold.

"Edward," said the hallucination again. It was so strange that he could be so cold, and yet cool water on his face felt so soothing. "What happened then?"

"What?"

"After you pulled in the Stone. What happened then?"

"Mmm. Why is it important now?"

There was a hesitation, and then the Colonel said, "It just is. What happened after you got the Stone in the transmutation?"

Edward groaned and pawed vaguely at the air. There was no reason he could see why his sleep should be interrupted by such nonsense. "Opened the Gate on my terms. Pulled Al through, destroyed the armor, soul settled into his body almost ... without me having to push. Went fine. Expected."

Mustang paused for a moment, and then said, "If everything went fine, why is Alphonse-kun like this?"

Edward tried to open his eyes, but it was dark and his head hurt, so he gave up. "Do you think I know? Damn you. Would have ... fixed it if ... if I knew."

"Something must have happened."

"Didn't. Now let me sleep."

"Edward ..."

Edward's automail was not hampered at all by the aching agony that accompanied every motion, and there was a little sound of retreat as he stabbed blindly with his fist toward the sound of Mustang's voice. "Told you what you wanted. Let me sleep, dammit." He managed to catch the edge of the blanket and pull it weakly up to cover himself again, in blissful warmth.

He did not hear the Colonel leave, and perhaps he didn't. Nor did Edward think any further on why the man had felt a need to interrogate him in the middle of the night.



At some time between midnight and dawn, Edward's fever broke, and when he woke for the third time it was morning, and he was drenched in sweat.

There was a glass of water on the table beside the bed, and he drank almost all of it before figuring out that this was a bad idea. Fortunately, the bucket Mustang had procured for his nausea the day before had been cleaned out and was conveniently in reach.

The sound of Edward retching summoned his commanding officer. "I take it you're not feeling any better," said Mustang.

"Leave me alone," said Edward, as soon as he could. Once he no longer felt like throwing up, he collapsed half-off the bed and nudged the bucket off to the side. The grinding ache in his joints was gone, but he felt weak and wrung-out; his headache hadn't gone anywhere, and throwing up had given it a chance to clamp down on him again.

"I turn my back for just one minute, and you go and drink the whole glass," said Mustang, picking up the glass. "You weren't supposed to drink it all at once."

Edward raised his automail arm and vised his fingers meaningfully. "Come here and put your throat in my hand so I can strangle you."

"I take it back. You must be feeling better if you're homicidal." The Colonel chuckled as he walked out of the room, and there came the sound of running water from the kitchen, and something that must have been addressed to Alphonse. Then he was back with more water. "Don't drink the whole glass this time. Just drink a little."

Edward muttered his opinion of the Colonel's parentage under his breath as he hauled himself to a sitting position and sipped, but the sound of Alphonse falling in the next room made him glare at Mustang. "Don't just let him stumble around like that," he said angrily. "You have to stay with him."

Mustang looked like he had something to say about that, but Alphonse interrupted them both by tripping into the room. He steadied himself against the doorframe, and then he was on the bed and crawling toward Edward. The water glass went down on the table again as Edward pulled his brother toward him and into a tight hug.

"The Colonel hasn't been taking care of you like he said he would, has he," said Edward, brushing his good hand through Alphonse's hair.

"I have," said Mustang, shifting the water glass farther away so that it wouldn't get knocked over by accident. "I've been taking care of the both of you, for all the gratitude I get."

"Yeah, letting him trip around the house is a great way to take care of him," said Edward acidly.

"I was more worried about you, yesterday. You started talking in your sleep when your fever got too high."

Edward peered at him. "I don't talk in my sleep."

"Well, you were last night. I called the base hospital, but they said they didn't have any beds free unless you were dying. I was about to take you in anyway, but then your temperature started to come down on its own."

That was disturbing. Edward pressed his lips to the top of his brother's head, and looked at the wall. Mustang continued, "Alphonse-kun somehow managed not to break any bones while I was trying to figure out if you were dying or not, so I think I did a perfectly acceptable job."

Edward would have thrown something at the man if there had been anything sufficiently hard and heavy at hand, and if he hadn't felt like a three-day-old kitten at the moment. He contented himself with a murderous glare, which Mustang returned to him as a self-satisfied little smile.



Lieutenant Hawkeye showed up later that morning, with a covered ceramic pot full of broth. She said she had come by to see how he was doing, but Edward suspected it was as much to make sure that Edward was really there, and was really ill, and that Mustang wasn't just using an excuse to take days off. The broth was delicious, but a bit too rich, and Edward had to water it down some to drink it. He didn't mind when Hawkeye brushed his hair back and told him to get better; it was a motherly gesture. And he especially didn't mind when she forced a stack of files onto Mustang.

After Edward had eaten most of a bowl of the broth, and Hawkeye had left, he crawled out of bed to take a bath. The underwear he'd been wearing in bed for the two days he'd been ill felt disgusting, and his skin was nasty with everything he'd sweated out since the fever broke. So, when Mustang raised an objection and tried to order him back to bed, Edward just growled.

Alphonse followed him into the bathroom, and when he tripped in the hallway they almost both fell, because Edward was in no condition to hold his brother up. That awful feeling of always being so cold was gone, so he ran a lukewarm bath, and got Alphonse to sit down next to the tub so that he could stroke his brother's hair, and keep a close eye on him as he washed.

"What's he been doing to you?" he mused quietly. Alphonse's hair was clean and dry, as if he'd been bathed earlier that morning, and Edward knew very well how incapable his brother was of washing his own hair. It was one thing for Edward to move around Mustang's house half-naked, out of his own lack of giving a shit. It was quite another thing entirely for the damned Colonel to be bathing his brother for him. "I hate being sick."

Leaning against the side of the tub, Alphonse made no sound, but he watched Edward attentively enough that it was easy to pretend that he was going to say something any second now. Once Edward felt reasonably clean, he drained the water and refilled the tub; it felt entirely too good to get out yet, and he could have napped in the water given half a chance. Normally, he would have expected Alphonse's attention to wander after a couple of minutes, distracted by whatever was at hand, but after a little while of laying with his eyes closed, he opened them again and found his brother unmoved, still watching him closely.

They looked at each other for a long time before Edward leaned sideways out of the tub and said, "Come here." When Alphonse obeyed, he brushed his lips against his brother's, and Alphonse sighed and bent into the kiss.

"You don't have to worry about me," he whispered against his brother's mouth. He'd thought that Mustang was just saying that, but nothing else quite explained this level of fixation on him. "You know I'm immortal."

Alphonse made a soft little sound, and Edward didn't even bother to hope that it might be a word. As they kissed, Alphonse slid forward, pushing Edward back into the tub until he was reclining again, eyes closed and chin tilted up with his brother's tongue in his mouth. If nothing else, Alphonse had gotten a lot better at kissing in the past couple of months, although it was debatable whether or not this was a good thing.

"Need to stop," whispered Edward, when Alphonse leaned a little too far forward and had to catch himself with a hand on the other side of the tub; he missed on the first try, and almost toppled into the water before he caught the edge on the second try. Edward didn't want to stop, though. He still felt too lethargic and residually achy to have much of a need to come himself, and his head still hurt, but he wouldn't mind tasting Alphonse's come again.

What the hell had he said to Mustang while feverish?

That, more than his headache or the threat of nausea, made him nudge Alphonse away. "It's okay," he said, transferring his lips to his brother's forehead. "I promised you, I'm not going anywhere." Alphonse's hair was so fine in his fingers, and caught every color of light as Edward brushed it back from his brother's face; it was starting to grow out some, and he'd have to cut it soon.

What could he possibly have said? He vaguely remembered saying something about the transmutation, but nothing beyond that, so it could have been anything.

Had he told Mustang about the things he did with his brother? Edward kind of suspected that the Colonel would be looking at him a lot more strangely if he had, but there was no way to know. Mustang was a master of not letting on all that he knew, after all ... with Edward's luck, he'd find this sprung on him as yet another form of blackmail the next time Mustang wanted something out of him. Oh, really, Fullmetal. You know, you said some interesting things about Alphonse-kun that time you came down sick in my house. I'm sure General Halcrow would be fascinated to hear them.

He even knew exactly which smug tone the man would use, too.

It wasn't until Alphonse whimpered unhappily that Edward realized that he was clenching the edge of the tub with his automail; the steel was starting to bend under his fingers, the white paint cracking over the defect. "I'm sorry," he murmured, passing his fingers through Alphonse's hair again. "Everything's okay, don't worry. I'm sorry."



That evening, Edward felt well enough to drag the blanket and some of the pillows off the guest room bed and relocate onto the couch, where it was more comfortable to prop himself up to read. Mustang's company wasn't exactly his first choice, but he was tired of that room, and anyway this made it easier to keep an eye on Alphonse. Especially once Alphonse got tired and curled up on the other end of the couch on Edward's feet, with his head on Edward's knees.

"Here," said Mustang, and Edward glanced up suspiciously, but the Colonel was only offering him a ceramic mug. "You don't have to look at me like that, it's just broth."

Edward set his book aside and took the mug, and a brief investigation verified that yes, it was Hawkeye's broth, reheated and diluted. "Thank you," said Edward, ungraciously. It was warm, but not hot, and he hadn't even asked Mustang to do that for him.

"You're welcome, Fullmetal." Mustang paused at his desk and flipped through the files that Hawkeye had brought, but did not actually open any of them, and a moment later he moved away to do something else instead. Edward glared at his back until he vanished into the kitchen, and then sipped the broth thoughtfully.

Mustang had yet to say anything more about Edward talking in his sleep, but Edward was finding it difficult to concentrate on reading ... the Colonel didn't have too many books that weren't about alchemy, and the ones he did have were mainly focused on war, history, or the history of war. None of these was a subject that interested Edward a whole lot, and it was even harder to force an interest when the worry about what he'd said kept intruding. What could Mustang possibly think about that, assuming he knew? Would he think Edward was some kind of irredeemable deviant?

He drank the broth slowly, to keep from upsetting his stomach again. He felt a great deal better, but the fretting was starting to get to him. When the broth was gone, he set the mug on the floor beside the couch and picked up his book again.

An irreverent hand flipped up the book almost before he'd settled it, as Mustang checked out the title. "Quit that," said Edward, annoyed, as he pulled the book away and resettled it on his upraised knees.

"Interesting choice," said Mustang. "Didn't know you cared about medieval siege engines."

"I'm trying to care, but it's hard when people mess around with my books."

Mustang was silent for a moment, before offering, "I have a copy of Organic Transubstantiation if you'd rather read that."

"No thank you."

Although Edward did not look at him, or make any other kind of invitation to continue the conversation, Mustang went down to a crouch to get more on eye-level with Edward and said, "Are you sure? You were talking about wanting a copy last year, and I know you never got one."

"Pretty sure. Do you mind? I'm trying to read and you're going to wake Al." When Mustang just continued to watch him, Edward scowled at him and said, "That's a polite way of saying I'd like you to leave me alone, Colonel. I'm not interested in being your distraction from work."

"Giving up on alchemy isn't going to help anyone," said Mustang.

"Who said I'd given up on alchemy?" Edward transferred his scowl back to his book.

"Don't insult me. You didn't even ask about your assessment."

"Maybe because I was too busy throwing up. Or maybe I knew a certain someone would cover it for me and I don't care about the details."

"Or maybe you were hoping you would fail it by default. You know it's not that easy, Fullmetal. I didn't even touch it, but your assessment came back with a passing grade."

"I am well aware of how not-easy it is," said Edward, deliberately turning the page, although he hadn't actually read any of the previous ones. His heart sank a little at hearing about his nonexistent assessment; he'd more than half-suspected that something like that had happened, but it was depressing to hear it nevertheless.

"If you really want out, I could find some way to get you discharged. You're not going to default out, not ever, but there are other ways."

"Thanks, but I don't need your help, sir." Edward hoped the stiff formality would get rid of Mustang, but there just came another long, silent appraisal.

What did Mustang know?

"What are you going to do with your next assignment?" asked the Colonel eventually. "You can't take your brother with you the way you used to, not with him like this."

"I'll figure that out when it comes up. I'm not leaving him behind, though, you can count on that."

A slender black eyebrow quirked upward, and Mustang said, "You'd take him with you?"

Through a masterful force of will, Edward ostentatiously turned the page again, and made his voice nonchalant as he said, "Of course. It's not like he can take care of himself." What did that look mean? Had he just given himself away? Did Mustang think he wanted his brother near him just so they could have sex?

"Let me see if I understand this. You would take your brother, in this condition, along with you on military assignments, into situations where he could be injured or killed, or kidnapped and held hostage to control you?"

Anger surfaced immediately, drowning out the shame and anxiety. "Don't you think I've thought of that? I'll figure something out when the time comes!"

Mustang just looked skeptically at him for a moment, and so Edward turned back to his book and said, "I'm going to tell Lieutenant Hawkeye why you didn't get your work done if you don't leave me alone."

"You wouldn't dare. I still sign off on your expense reports."

"Try me."



The ceiling creaked softly under the weight of footsteps, and Edward froze. Alphonse mmmed gently, one hand groping heavily through Edward's hair, and Edward stroked his hands up his brother's thighs to quiet him. Alert and wary, he waited for the sound to repeat, and when it didn't he leaned forward to take his brother's cock into his mouth again. His automail knee scraped across the floor as he shifted his balance.

It was a good thing that Alphonse was quiet, because the house was absolutely silent, and the wet sounds of Edward's mouth sounded very loud to him; his brother's breathing and his own were harsh in the small room, echoing against the closed door. This was such a bad idea, such a terrible idea, especially since he still felt indiscriminately ill, but that had never stopped Edward before, and it didn't stop him now.

Kneeling on the floor between his brother's thighs, Edward swallowed as much of Alphonse's cock as he could without gagging on it. His perceptions of taste and smell were thrown off by his illness, so that it wasn't what he remembered from when he'd done this a few days ago in the inn in New Dalwar, but it was intoxicating just the same. The feel of it in his mouth was just right, somehow, and the way he could make Alphonse twitch and whimper by running his tongue, there, under the ridge ...

Bracing himself with his automail hand on the side of the mattress, Edward drew back a little to suck just on the crown of Alphonse's cock. His left hand went between his own legs, absently stroking his erection as he dragged out his brother's pleasure. He still felt somewhat out of sorts - tired, just generally unwell somehow, and nausea never felt like it was too far away - but he couldn't possibly say no to Alphonse, not when his brother had woken him with messy kisses and needy whimpers. And it wasn't as if he minded, per se. The hands in his hair were gentle, the air that touched his naked back was cool but not cold, and the scent of his brother's heated skin was delicious even through his dulled senses.

Another abrupt creak, and Edward paused again. The pause was met by a soft moan; Edward climbed back up onto the bed and straddled his brother's lap, to silence Alphonse with a deep kiss. The wet slide of his brother's erection against his own was enough to make Edward want to moan as well, but he swallowed it in order to better listen for Mustang moving around.

As before, the creak did not repeat itself, and presently Edward gently pushed his brother to lay back, and kissed his way down to Alphonse's erection once more.

Doing this, here, in Mustang's guest bedroom, on Mustang's own furniture, was even more weird than doing it in the inn in New Dalwar. It felt even more bizarre this time, laying on his side between Alphonse's legs, licking wetly up and down the soft vein on the underside of Alphonse's hardness, and finally leaning up to take the tip between his lips once more. Even more disconnected from what he was actually doing. He had his mouth on his brother's cock after all, giving sexual stimulation to a boy he'd comforted in thunderstorms when he was seven years old. His left hand drifted to his erection again as he braced himself on his automail elbow, and he choked on a moan as he squeezed himself, and thumbed the head of his own cock as he licked the head of his brother's.

There was no surprise this time, when Alphonse's came, writhing on the sheets as Edward swallowed the semen and sucked gently for more. The sounds Alphonse made were quiet, which was a good thing, but Edward could hear them just fine in the otherwise total silence of the room, and they made his cock throb in his hand.

He crept up to kiss Alphonse then, to lay beside his brother and just kiss softly with Alphonse's arms around his neck, and he slowly stroked himself and breathed his desire into that perfect mouth. Edward's skin was damp by the time he arched into orgasm, his forehead sticking to Alphonse's shoulder as he panted and swallowed and pressed himself against his brother in ecstasy. His headache came back as the pleasure faded and the pressure drained away, but it wasn't too bad, and Alphonse snuggled him happily.

How could this be wrong?



Edward woke up late for breakfast, and only managed to put on some pants and drag himself to the table by reminding himself that it would be Mustang cutting his brother's food if he didn't. He ate a little egg, and drank more of Hawkeye's reheated broth, and felt much better for it.

It might have been his imagination, but Mustang seemed to be watching the both of them a lot more closely. Twice at breakfast, and again when Edward had created his nest of blanket and pillow on the couch to read, he happened to glance up and caught the Colonel giving him a strange look. Neither of them commented on it, but it made Edward's gut twist a little.

Mustang left two hours or so after breakfast. He didn't say where he was going, but he was wearing his uniform and carrying the files Hawkeye had brought the day before, so it wasn't hard to guess.

"What does he know?" Edward asked Alphonse softly, after his brother came creeping over to sit on the floor beside the couch in the silence of the empty house. "What did I say to him when I was out of it?" Alphonse just looked at him, and smiled a pleased smile, so that Edward ran his hands through his brother's hair and tilted his face up for a kiss.

Around midmorning, Edward fell asleep on the couch with Alphonse on the floor beside him, and only wakened when Mustang came in the door well into the afternoon. The Colonel glanced from Alphonse to Edward and back again, but only asked if they'd eaten anything, and went into the kitchen when Edward admitted that they hadn't.

It was enough to make Edward wish the man would just come out and accuse him of having incestuous sex with his nearly-incapacitated brother.

Mustang was considerate enough to bring Edward's dinner out to him, even though Edward felt perfectly capable of eating at the table, and that necessitated bringing Alphonse a plate as well. Edward cut his brother's meat into small chunks, and spread the potatoes out over the top of it the way Alphonse used to like, and once more he looked up to find Mustang's dark eyes on him.

What had he heard? Was he listening to them the night before? Was that what all that squeaking had been about? If confronted about it, Edward would have no defense ... it had started out innocent enough, just him trying to help his brother relieve his frustration, but it wasn't innocent anymore. Edward liked it. He liked the taste of his brother's come, the smell of his brother's skin, the feel of his brother's body against his own. He could get hard just thinking about it, and the slow kisses they sometimes shared were memories. And it was true that Alphonse could not really consent ... Alphonse certainly seemed to enjoy it, or Edward wouldn't have continued, but there was no way to know for sure.

There had been no guilt when he'd come, shuddering, against Alphonse the night before, but the guilt that settled like lead in his belly now more than made up for the earlier lack, and he used his illness as an excuse for why he didn't eat very much.

When Alphonse was finished eating, Edward unwrapped himself from his blanket and said, "Come on, Al."

"Where are you going?" asked Mustang quietly.

"Going to give my brother a bath, if that's okay with you." Perhaps the hostility was unfair, but Edward was unaccountably nervous. He had his reasons all lined up, of course ... someone had to do it, and who better than Alphonse's own kin? There was nothing more innocent than a bath.

"Fullmetal," said Mustang, and Edward's heart dropped in abrupt terror at the tone. "I need to ask you something."

Here it comes. Edward busied himself trying to get Alphonse to stand, refusing to look at his commanding officer. "I'm just going to wash his hair. Nothing more than that. There's nothing wrong with that." If Mustang said it, that would be the end. Edward had no idea what he would do when those words came out. Deny them? How? Try to convince the man that it was somehow okay and acceptable?

"Sit back down. And look at me."

It took a few moments for Edward to move, and when he did, it was in something like slow motion, or moving through glass. He sat down, flipping the blanket protectively over his thighs, and his hand dropped to his brother's hair by reflex.

He couldn't look at Mustang, though. His guilt and terror would be clearly visible in his eyes, he knew, and the instinct to conceal his panic was too strong.

After a long pause, Mustang said, "I don't want to say this to the top of your head, Fullmetal."

"What is it you want to say to me?" asked Edward. The anticipation was awful. Why couldn't the Colonel just do it and get it over with?

Then it came, and when it did, it wasn't quite was Edward had expected.

"For Alphonse-kun's sake, Fullmetal, I need to ask you to let someone else take care of him for awhile, and leave him behind. You're keeping him from getting better."