Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Rain ❯ Rain Part Six ( Chapter 6 )

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Rain: Part Six

 

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A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason.

Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought.

 

Author's Notes: As mentioned in the notes for Chapter 17 ofReflections, I've spent the past couple of weeks elsewhere, thanks to work, and mistakes are my own fault. I do, however, want to give enormous `thank you's to ALL of the kind people who have reviewed Rain. Tanika Dargan, Beysie, Astro Kendar, and Kelly, in particular, have spoiled me with good discussions of characterization and plot development. With people like you reading and commenting, I can only hope that Rain will live up to your expectations.

 

L.A. Mason, aka LibraryCat

 

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Furious beyond belief, Edward kicked shut the door to the smaller of the bedrooms, closing himself off from the mocking laughter that followed him up the narrow staircase. It wasn't a rout, just a strategic retreat. Or at least that was what he sourly tried to tell himself.

 

It was that, or admit that the bastard had won the round.

 

Groaning, he leaned his back against the wooden panel, feeling the raised, rectangular pattern of molding dig into his human shoulder, and scrape against the steel of his automail joint. The vibration buzzed along the neural connectors, a sensation that was more weird than unpleasant.

 

For the briefest of instants, it was as if a ghostly hand had stroked down his non-existent arm, and sensitized, Ed shivered.

 

That awareness was the least of his problems, really. The preceding week had rattled his composure and his temper, both, and the irritable blond figured that he was entitled to a bit of door-kicking and sulking. Preferably before he lost it completely and threw a screaming fit, despite the fact that it would have felt better to rant at the top of his lungs. Even a saint would agree that Colonel Mustang being determined and attentive was more than a person could bear. The man flirted, in a restrained, delicate sort of way. He was gracious and charming, and actually listened to what his younger housemate had to say - most of the time. He came close enough to brush casually against Ed, but after that first, initial encounter involving the use of tongues and spit and strong hands that gripped so wonderfully tightly, Roy had been the model of gentlemanly behavior. There had been no repeat of that inaugural grope-session in the big bed. Too twitchy to sleep soundly, Ed very carefully kept to his own side, and resisted the temptation to cuddle Mustang through his nightmares. For one thing, Full Metal was pretty sure that that was what had gotten him into so much hot water in the first place. And for his part, the former soldier apologized each time the bad dreams jerked him into wakefulness, then rolled over and promptly went back to sleep.

 

What the Colonel had not done was to force himself onto the younger alchemist. There'd been none of the up-against-the-wall, uncontrolled molestation that Elric had consciously been steeling himself in anticipation of. The jackass never once trespassed onto Edward's side of the bed.

 

Swearing under his breath, Full Metal pushed away from the solid panel at his back and tried to pace in the cramped room, an endeavor that was every bit as hopeless as figuring out Mustang's motivations. As when dealing with his host, he felt hemmed in on every side by ephemeral barriers. Adding a particularly bitter curse, he gave it up as a lost cause.

 

There were a couple of dented and scratched, military-issue foot-lockers stacked in front of the narrow, grimy window. Ed boosted himself up to perch on top, but the view out over the row of more cottages, all the same, failed to capture his interest. Instead, he found himself moodily picking at the familiar blue of the chipped paint between his thighs.

 

Who did the bastard think he was, saying things like `I don't seduce those who aren't ready?' Ed was ready - he was plenty ready. Just the thought of that lean, elegant body stretched out at his side was enough to make the blood run alternately hot and cold in the younger man's veins, to make the harsh rasp of his own breath ring too loud in his ears. His steel fingers gouged a visible furrow in the top of the trunk, the scree of metal on metal a counter-point to the growl rumbling low in his chest.

 

Oh, who the hell was he kidding, anyway? Ed buried his face in his hands, pressing the heels of both palms - real and false - against his eyes until he saw stars.

 

A month, he had less than a month left to figure out what the fuck he was doing. Maybe a month would be enough time to blunt the edge of the physical hyper-awareness that gripped his heart - and other parts - with an iron hand?

 

Probably not.

 

He had a sense that they were engaged in a carefully choreographed dance that he didn't know the steps to. The Colonel was right, damn him. Touching, and being touched, had roused an ache that taking himself in hand wasn't going to soothe.

 

The problem was that the Mustang of the here and now got so easily discouraged. They had spent hours pouring over the stacks of old newspapers that had accumulated in the corner of the parlor (the Flame Alchemist claimed that they were being saved for starting fires in the fireplace, which Edward had some doubts about) but rather than being elated that the Lower House incumbent looked like a weak threat, the former soldier moped and complained. Ed had threatened to kick some sense into him, and in response, Roy whined. It wasn't until the aggravated blond threw a book across the table at his partner that the sorrow and self-doubt in that opaque black eye had registered. Then Ed had felt like a jerk.

 

Frowning thoughtfully, he stared out at the growing dusk, hardly noticing that the lamp-lighter was approaching down the tree-lined street, transmuting the darkness with warm flames sealed within glass globes. The bleak despair that had weighed the Colonel down the night that he had tried to kill himself had eased some, had gotten replaced by a returning interest in the world… and that was good. What wasn't so good was the way the light behind the man's sardonic mask would abruptly go out, like an interruption to the electrical service in the more modern parts of the city. At times like that, Ed was reminded forcibly of the drunken wreck that had greeted him on his first night at the cottage, and it chilled him to think of how close that stranger-Roy still was. The thin veneer of relaxed, successful coping was nothing but a sham.

 

In a way, it kind of made sense. It wasn't as if two years of dark depression could be swept away in a couple of months. Ed had no delusions as to the transformative power of his presence in the Colonel's life. But at the same time, it honestly scared him that it could take so little to tip the scales toward self-destruction.

 

Was the Flame Alchemist really that fragile?

 

Studying his housemate/host really hadn't been going too well, Ed reflected, and that was before the whole question of `the pleasures of intimacy' had arisen. His declared intention to achieve understanding was all well and good, but it pre-supposed that the damned bastard was going to play fair. With one kiss, Mustang had yanked the proverbial rug out from under Ed's feet, turned the world upside-down, and spit on it, to boot. But there wasn't time for that. Growling, the blond alchemist shoved his irritation aside and focused on logic.

 

Did it bother him that the Colonel was a guy? Ed checked his stomach for a sinking nausea, and had to conclude that, no, he didn't care. He'd always sort of assumed that he would beat Al out and capture Winry for himself, but the thought that it was a man whose touch did interesting, non-nauseating things to his insides was okay. Hell, it was more than okay… A tiny, demonic grin quirked Edward's lips, then froze as the dark amber eyes reflected in the window glass widened: Oh, crap; it is more than okay. I liked it. Ed's forehead thumped against the glass.

 

So what did he intend to do about it?

 

The obvious answer was to march back downstairs, grab that military bastard in civilian garb by the scruff, and drag him upstairs to that damned bed, and see what transpired. A clammy sweat broke out on the steel alchemist's human palm, slithered across the back of his neck, and on down his spine. No, bad idea, he concluded hastily. There was no way that he could just… that.

 

But the alternative, putting up with the leisurely, mind-destroying sadistic torture disguised as teasing was going to kill Ed, assuming that he didn't snap and take out the Colonel first. Roy was enjoying driving his victim crazy, one slow step at a time. And world's strongest alchemist, or not, there wasn't a damned thing Edward could do to stop him on his home ground.

 

The only solution was to derail the Conqueror of the Secretarial Pool, and preferably before Edward's virtue became his next conquest.

 

Thoughtfully, the younger man chewed on his lip and stared out through thin, ghostly reflections at the peaceful neighborhood. As night drew its blue-black robes over the quiet street, lights were being lit in kitchens and living rooms, affording glimpses through parted drapes of other, normal lives. Ordinary lives, belonging to people who did not deserve to know the horrors of war first hand. They were the ones who had a right to expect succor from two young men who had been State Alchemists, and dogs of the military. If Ed was serious about distracting Mustang from his self-imposed one-month deadline, and about protecting himself in the process, then the ideal solution was to remind the would-be politician about those who really needed them.

 

Those were the people who had to come first; certainly not a short, blond, has-been State Alchemist.

 

 

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Thankfully, it was Roy's night to cook because Ed's stomach gurgled alarmingly when he marched back into the parlor and smelled food for the first time in hours. Since it was the grocer's day to deliver, they had fresh baked bread, and a block of pale yellow butter. There would be milk in the kitchen ice box, too, but the chef of the day knew better than to try to get the elder of the Elrics to drink any. Instead, there was a pot of coffee and clean cups for each of them.

 

A good cup of coffee was enough to distract Ed from his troubles. Almost enough, anyway. He dropped into his chair and poured out the steaming black drug.

 

“I was wondering if you were going to come back down.” A sardonic lift of one slanted black eyebrow accompanied the comment as Mustang slid into his own chair across the table. Ed grunted noncommittally. “Make any progress?” continued Roy as he helped himself to potatoes.

 

The reply was nearly another grunt, but Ed stopped himself in time. There was a wicked gleam in his honey eyes, as he drawled, “Yeah, I believe I have.”

 

“Oh?” Polite interest, together with a “Pass the bread, if you would?” told the younger man that his companion was struggling to appear to give the matter only half of his attention, if that. Ed coughed to hide a chuckle. If Roy thought he was going to get an answer on a personal front, he was in for a surprise.

 

“We're going after Lindholm's seat.”

 

“We are?” The knife loaded with butter paused in mid-air, then carefully resumed its trajectory, accepting the conversational gauntlet. “I thought out of the local politicians, Sullivan was an easier target.”

 

“Yeah. He is.” Maddeningly, Ed paused and took a sip of his scalding coffee, before taking pity on the tiny frown that creased Mustang's forehead. To someone else, to an outsider, the former officer's bland expression would have been one of simple boredom, but for the steel alchemist it signified uneasiness. But that understanding didn't prevent Edward from keeping his own voice light and unsympathetic. “The way I figure it is this: yeah, Sullivan's the easier target, but he was also the late Fuhrer's lapdog. With the Fuhrer gone, he's a nothing. But if we take out Lindholm, we ought to be able to control Central's other two representatives, effectively giving us all three seats in Parliament, and yielding a nice block vote on any bills that come up, even without having to lobby in other districts.”

 

“Ah. I see. Lindholm is the only one who might oppose us. Take him out, and Sullivan will fall into line. Cruestet can be counted on to vote with the majority, giving us the three votes.” dryly, Roy summed up the suggested strategy, then shook his head slowly.

 

“What?” Annoyed by the vote of no-confidence, Ed threw his fork down onto his plate and glared at the smirking features across from him.

 

“They're men, not chemicals in a formula, Full Metal.” Typically, the officer responded to a display of temper with amusement. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the backs of his laced together fingers. “You haven't asked why Cruestet gives in so readily. It's not simply a property of his personality, the way extreme ductility is a property of gold. Rather, according to what Hughes told me years ago, the others have something to hold over his head to force his compliance. And that something we do not have.”

 

“Oh.” Nonplussed, Ed scratched at the back of his neck and considered. Roy, damn him, was right: he hadn't given any thought to the reason behind Creustet always voting the way the other Central representatives did. And without someone with Hughes' skills, there was no means at their disposal to find out, either. He vented an annoyed sigh and slouched down in his chair.

 

“However,” Outwardly, Roy's attention was fixed solely on his plate as he picked up his silverware, until he spoiled the illusion by flicking a suddenly sharp glance through the curtain of his black hair. “Lindholm is an obstructionist pain in the ass. Removing him from office would make our lives easier.”

 

At the description, Ed's eyes widened, and he sputtered, finally breaking down into a guffaw of laughter than nearly toppled him out of his seat. The Colonel, calling someone else an `obstructionist pain in the ass--?!' Helpless and out of breath, he pounded - gently - on the table with his automail fist.

 

“I didn't think it was that bad of an idea.” Roy muttered. “Especially since you suggested it first.”

 

“N- no--” Hiccuping, Ed waved the complaint away. “N- not that. Y- you. Hello? P- pot, meet k- kettle.” Understanding dawned on the older man's face, bringing a flush of color to the pale cheeks, and Ed lost it and simply howled with mirth. Maybe suggesting that it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black was a bit much, but Roy honestly deserved it after all the trauma he'd put the younger alchemist through in the past week.

 

Unfortunately for the Flame Alchemist, crisping his houseguest to a cinder wasn't an option, and Ed knew it.

 

 

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The bottom edge of the book digging into Ed's stomach as he lay stretched out on the couch was comforting. The solid weight was a clear indicator that all was right with the universe, and if it hurt a bit when he took too deep of a breath, that was okay, too. Books were tangible.

 

Unlike the confused, emotional mess roiling at the back of his mind. But just now, Ed stuffed that thought back where it belonged and concentrated on macro-economics. He needed a basic understanding of market forces if he was to apply them to figuring out how business interests affected the political climate. Plus, in its own way, the topic was interesting. He could almost see how the laws of equivalent trade applied to back-scratching and pork-barrel projects. The politician who slipped in projects that lined the pockets of powerful men in his territory could then count on their under-the-table support for new goals, which in turn led to more money coming in…

 

A shadow blocking his light caused Ed to stop reading mid-sentence, and glare.

 

“Hungry, yet?” Roy asked, offering a plate of sliced apples. Peeled, it was possible to ignore the fact that they were from last fall's crop, and beginning to wrinkle just a little. Ed eagerly grabbed several pieces.

 

“Yeah. Thanks.” he mumbled around the mouthful. Chuckling, Roy set the plate on the younger man's chest, just in front of the book.

 

“You worked through lunch again. No wonder you're so short.”

 

“Heh! Who're you--” A warm hand pressing down next to the plate of apples halted Ed's instinctive surge upward. “Gently. You'll spill them, and the next delivery isn't till Friday. If these end up on the floor, you'll have to do without.”

 

The scowl that should have drilled a hole through the arrogant bastard simply slid off of him like water off of a duck. Offended, Edward slapped the restraining hand aside and sat up. The fruit promptly spilled across his lap, upping the intensity of his fierce eyes by an order of magnitude. Roy was unaffected but far from oblivious, a snicker telling the half reclining blond that the perverse man was enjoying seeing Ed at a disadvantage. But then the Colonel nudged Edward's hip with his knee, urging him to scoot over, and perched himself on the edge of the couch by his side.

 

The line of warmth, and the hard feel of bone and muscle pressed up against him froze the younger man. The single black eye was hooded, a glittering brightness that left Ed again feeling as if he had missed out on something of vital importance. Then that black gaze flickered down, hiding behind veiling lashes as he began picking up each slice of apple, deft fingers brushing feather-light against the fabric of Edward's trousers. Mustang paused, the final slice held up between them for a moment before he leaned forward, offering it. Mesmerized, the steel alchemist's lips parted, allowing the slice entry, while his own fixed, wide eyes never wavered from Roy's. Once the slice was gone, the lean fingers reached for the spill of gold over Ed's shoulders.

 

Edward tensed, half expecting some inane, over-the-top crack about how his hair was as beautiful as alchemical gold, but Roy said nothing. Instead, that single eye, blacker than sin and glittering with unholy intensity, remained fixed on Edward's, while the man raised that strand of hair to his lips. He held the pose for a bare second, then released it and rose to his feet. Hands carelessly in his pockets, he ambled away as if nothing had happened.

 

Speechless, Ed felt his jaw drop. What the fuck wasthat?!

 

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It was with understandable wariness that he slid into his normal chair at dinner time. Roy, however, merely grunted and waved vaguely in the direction of a covered platter in the middle of the table, to all intents and purposes too engrossed in the fresh newspaper that he had his head buried in to even notice that Ed's hair still hung lose over his shoulders.

 

For some reason that the younger man couldn't entirely understand, he had an immediate urge to rip the paper to shreds; how dare that bastard ignore him after he'd—

 

After he had what? What exactly had the pain in the ass Colonel done, anyway? A thoughtful frown settled on Edward's face as he considered. Just who was the genius here? Certainly not the Full Metal Alchemist, if it was going to be that easy for his opponent to rattle him. Because that was surely what Mustang had intended. Edward had expected the kind of flattery that the womanizing officer used with his other conquests, and therefore that was precisely what Roy had not done, in order to throw Edward off his stride.

 

Ed really had to hand it to him; the man was a cunning bastard. But he was no match for an Elric.

 

Determined to hold his own, the blond selected the thickest, most imposing book in his `to-read' pile, dropped it on the table with a muffled bang, and flipped it open. Two could play at the ignoring game. He reached for the platter, intent on filling his plate with what smelled like chicken in mushroom gravy, but as soon as the lid cleared the big, oval dish, he snatched his hand away, causing the cover to go clattering across the wide table. He'd been right about the chicken and mushrooms, but there, perched on top of the neat mound of wide egg noodles and filleted meat sat a small, neatly wrapped box in red tissue. A crisp rustle warned Ed that the Colonel had laid aside his newspaper and was watching the little drama in silent interest. Flustered, the steel alchemist could only stare at the motionless box as if it were a snake… or a bomb.

 

“It is addressed to you, in case you were wondering.” Roy offered helpfully.

 

“Ah…” Paralyzed, Ed finally tore his gaze from the platter. Roy's expression was the perfect mix of polite concern and sympathy. Seeing that there was no way that his dinner companion was going to make a move - Elric wasn't stupid enough to handle a box containing the gods only knew what - the Flame Alchemist took it and slit the covering with his butter knife before sliding the now-exposed contents across the table.

 

Edward didn't know whether the wiser course would be to get up and flat-out run away, or to look. In the end, curiosity won out, and he risked a quick glance that became an open-mouthed stare. He barely heard when the older man said softly, “You told me that you didn't like your hair getting in your way when you were working… I thought this might do the trick.”

 

And how the hell was Ed supposed to answer that? Gleaming a shade darker gold than the hair in question in the mellow light of the gas lamps, a hair clip bearing his crown-winged-staff-and-serpent emblem mocked him from the innocuous box, just daring him to reach out and pick it up. And he couldn't. Ed simply couldn't touch the damned thing. It would mean giving in, accepting, letting Roy win if he broke down and took the hair clip into his hand.

 

As it turned out, he didn't have to. The other chair scrapped back, just audible on the thin carpet, and Roy was circling the big table. He leaned past Ed's shoulder to pick up the clip, smelling at such close range of cinders and heated metal, something that had been conspicuously absent in the past months. And it hit the bemused blond that that was Roy's work that he'd been staring at, not that of some artisan in the world outside. Roy's gifts had crafted that clip with its all-too-familiar symbol.

 

Roy had made it.

 

The realization was borne out by the words murmured in a deep, amused whisper behind Ed's ear, “I have to admit that metal-working has never been my strong suit as an alchemist, so I'm not sure how well this thing is going to hold.” Deft hands were gathering the strayed locks of gold together into a neat tail, smoothing out tangles. The heavy weight of cool metal snicked into place, and equally cool fingers brushed lingeringly over the nape of Edward's neck. He shuddered, briefly, at the familiarity of the touch, and then it was gone. Humming quietly, Roy returned to his side of their work-cum-dining table, seated himself, and shook the newspaper back out. Behind its enveloping shroud, Ed head the clink of a china cup glancing off a saucer, and could just visualize the infuriating man taking a self-satisfied sip. His hands clenched into impotent fists; the damned pervert was so going to pay for his impudence.

 

He was still fuming, hours later, when a well-known tread on the hard kitchen floor told him that his dishes assistant had arrived to dry and put away the plates from their supper. Ed more than half expected some smart remark on the clip still gathering his hair together - which would give him the opportunity to yank it free and hurl it into a certain smirking, handsome face… So, of course, Roy didn't say a word. He really ought to have seen that coming.

 

But neither did the older man lay a patronizing hand on top of his head, nor did he so much as hint at a smirk. In fact, his features were relaxed, and grave… open, even. It was damned spooky.

 

The docile manner in which the former head of a military unit took up a dish cloth and began drying as if he were an enlisted man was even worse. It had been on the tip of Ed's tongue to threaten to refuse to take his turn at cooking the next night if Mustang had tried to weasel out of his share of the chores the way he usually did. The whole `let's freak out the bean by not behaving as expected' business had to stop. The large skillet slammed back into the sink with a resounding crash as Ed spun about, angrily opening his mouth to shout, only to find himself trapped against the edge of the counter by two muscular arms. Fleetingly, he noted that the skin exposed by the man's rolled up shirt sleeves was as pale as milk, in mute testimony of two years spent holed up in that damned pensioner's cottage of his. But the gaze that captured Ed's was anything but tamed; it was more like a knife blade of obsidian held to the younger alchemist's throat. What he had been about to scream into the intent face got swallowed in a nervous gulp.

 

Roy just smiled and said mildly, “I can scrub, if you'd rather not.” Reaching past to pick up the abused fry-pan, he leaned in close enough that the open collar of his shirt whispered against Ed's cheek, bearing with it the faintly astringent scent of shaving lotion and of the hard yellow soap that they used for their laundry, and beneath that, the tang of fire and ash. Anticipating, the shorter blond tensed, but again, nothing happened.

 

Nothing. So why the hell was he disappointed?

 

A low murmur in Ed's ear said, “It's perfectly natural to feel like this. Deep inside, you're still human, no matter what's happened to your body…” and then the man was turning away, picking up a stack of plates and taking them to the glass-fronted cabinet opposite.

 

Through the fine, limp cloth of his white shirt, human muscles shifted and stretched, long, lean lines that teased in a different way from the dark haired officer's smirk or snide remarks. A sudden flush of heat rising to Edward's face had him spinning back to the sink and clutching its rim so hard that the porcelain coating cracked.

 

He had not just imagined what it would feel like to rest his hand on that play of muscle… oh, god in heaven, he was.

 

It had to stop. The bastard Colonel was playing havoc with Ed's ability to focus on more important matters; was, in point of fact, casing him to doubt whether those goals were the most important part of life. Growling, the sharp, topaz eyes hardened, narrowing to slits. Dammit, he would not be distracted like this. Let Colonel Mustang find some other poor sod to provide his entertainment; an Elric could and would resist the temptations. They were partners for the purpose of gathering enough real power to be able to affect the course of Amestior's future, not to waste their energy on personal matters. Grimly, the steel alchemist picked up his dish-rag and began scrubbing the rest of the tableware from dinner.

 

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To be continued…