untitled: r, wip (1/?)

Chapter 1 (draft text)

Roy Mustang had messy black hair that contrasted shockingly with his pale skin. He had a vaguely quiet, academic air about him, but his hands bore calluses that scholars weren’t used to having. His white shirt was neatly pressed and ironed, but his tan duster was rumpled and carelessly thrown over the back of the couch. The ancient fan overhead managed to whip up the papers at his desk, but failed to do anything about the sweltering heat.

boys like to play: r, short

The canteen was so crowded for once that Ed had to actually try and elbow his way in. 

“Niisan, you know, it might be easier if you just asked them to move…” Al commented as Ed once again nearly missed being hit by somebody’s waving arms.

“Who are you calling smaller than a miniscule speck on your eye!!!!”

mea culpa (a tragedy in five parts): r, short

I.

There is a church outside the apartment. It would be wrong to describe this stone artifice as modest and quaint – on the contrary, it appears that its architect had had a grand design of building a miniature Notre Dame, then halfway through settled for St Peter’s Cathedral instead. The weight of its illustrious forebears sits heavily on its squat frame, its twisted body blending in with the gnarled trees surrounding it. 

catharsis: r, drabblet

and it feels now
just like heaven’s coming down
your soul shakes free
as its conscience hits the ground

-‘Heaven Coming Down’, Tea Party

Roy can’t remember a time without nightmares.

They are always the same – ghosts of the past come back to haunt him, the accusations of those long dead, the faces of those he was forced to kill. They beat against his mind, the angry pounding building to a crescendo which ends with him waking, half-scream on his lips in a cold, empty room. 

don’t ask: r, drabble

Edward has always thought of Roy as a man of contradictions. But when Roy touches him, all his thoughts go out of the window.

It never fails to amaze him; that Roy’s lips can be so hot when his demeanour can be so cold and aloof. Roy always laughs when he tells him that, the corner of his mouth crooked in that characteristic smirk which frustrates Edward and yet makes him want to cover that mouth with kisses all over again.

He loves the expanse of Roy’s fair skin. It has obviously seen war; it holds far too many scars and attests to far too many atrocities. It is a soldier’s skin. Edward hates those atrocities but he loves those markings. Or the person who bears those scars. Roy is particularly sensitive at those ridges and Edward likes to run a rough tongue over these blemishes (as if that could erase them), pausing to suck on a particular spot on Roy’s collarbone which never fails to elicit a moan. Edward is careful to not let his automail scrap against that smooth skin – he doesn’t want to one of the nameless, faceless people who have hurt Roy. He desperately wants his hands clean but knows that someday they’ll be soiled; he just doesn’t want his lover to be the first to bleed.

Roy is a different person in bed and in the office. He is such an arrogant bastard at work that Edward takes pleasure in making him lose his legendary control. It pleases him to make Roy writhe in ecstasy under him, moaning his name. SaymynameRoysayit. Seeing Roy’s usually neat hair plastered wetly along his forehead and his keen, sharp eyes lost in sensation is enough to make Edward come. And he does, every time. Roy jokes that he is predictable, but Edward knows he doesn’t mind, not when he stands to gain from it. Not when he knows it’ll be his turn to make Edward scream the next time.

When it is all over; when they lie in a sticky tangle on the bed, Roy likes to twine their hair together, blonde against black. Edward hates the way his face is always in shadow – he would like to know what Roy is thinking when he does that, but he lets Roy do it all the same. After all, to gain something, you must give something in return, and the line between alchemy and life – sex, is blurred. He wished it wasn’t.

And when Roy finally falls asleep – how can the man be tired by just sitting around in an office for the whole day he would like to know – Edward finally looks into the shadows, searching for an answer that he doesn’t know if he’ll find, and doesn’t dare to ask for –

Because ignorance is bliss, and he’ll rather not know.