It’s a Friday. Ed comes home to find Roy also taking off his coat, having escaped shockingly early from his cattle pen cum hellthrone. They stare at each other from across the shoe rack, jackets both halfway off, and say, “You’re home,” at exactly the same time in exactly the same tone of blank surprise.
Wait. “Is today an anniversary?”
Roy blinks, which means that was real panic he just felt there for a second. “No?”
“Are we… meeting somebody?”
“No,” Roy says, this time with more confidence. “I had a dentist appointment and went home after.”
“Huh,” Ed says.
“You’re done for the week?” Roy reanimates enough to finish hanging up his coat in the closet. “No more meetings?”
“Yeah, the whole design team’s on cooldown until the accounting guys price out the materials and come back with a budget.” Ed’s been working for the MoEI for the past four months, which should mean seeing Roy more often given they both currently work for the government, but it turns out fucking around with different kinds of generators doesn’t actually put you in the military command buildings, even if you are using alchemy for it. Or maybe because you are. Much to his frustration, Ed’s had to learn that having a shiny little title means less general support for the ‘do whatever you want whenever you feel’ agenda he’s been pushing for most of his life.
The point is, Ed can’t use his Ministry of Energy security badge to sneak into Roy’s Ministry of Defense office.
“So you’re done done? We don’t have to go anywhere? Or have people here? Getting wine-drunk and falling asleep on the billards table like last time we were supposed to have an evening to ourselves?”
“No, I’m done,” Roy confirms, doing the pretzel flamingo thing he always does to take off the uniform boots. “I told my aides I was having extensive mouth surgery and would be unconscious for the next eight hours. Are you hungry? I ate already, but if you…”
“No, I ate too.” Ed didn’t think he was gonna see Roy until tomorrow morning at least. Besides, Roy should know by now that the answers to ‘did you eat,’ and ‘were there technically edible substances nearby you,’ are always the same. He imagines the night unrolling before them like a fancy quilt, a floaty dream of an evening, completely devoid of people, places and events. “Huh. Wanna get drunk?”
“God yes,” Roy says immediately. “We can sit outside and make fun of the squirrels.”
“Yes,” Ed says fervently, kicking his own boots under the rack and beelining for the back door in the kitchen. “I fucking love making fun of the squirrels.”
Roy makes the drinks - Long Island iced tea minus the cola for him, white wine in a mug for Ed - and takes them out onto the patio. “What, no lid?” Ed says, taking his.
“I think it’s in the dishwasher.” Roy sits down in his chair, putting his feet up. “It doesn’t matter if you spill out here anyway, the rain washes it off.”
Ed kicks his legs up into Roy’s lap, making him grunt quietly. “It’s your own fault I spill stuff in the first place, you know.”
“How is that possibly my fault?”
“Well maybe if you showed a little faith and believed in me,” Ed says loftily. “Instead of making me put lids on everything all the time. It sends a message to my subconscious. It says, you are free, the world is safe, and you should put this glass in the crook of your arm and pick up the bastard’s ‘confidential’ document stack at the same time. For efficiency. For the country. So when you go and put lids on things - oh shit, there it goes!”
A squirrel has landed on the birdfeeder. Since the birdfeeder was designed by Roy the month he worked from home due to having mono, it is a confection of intricate sadism. Since it was built by Ed, it’s shaped like a gargoyle taking a dump. Its purpose is to provide food for birds (good, beloved) while simultaneously denying it to squirrels (unwelcome, reprehensible). The gardener had almost forgiven them for the begonia incident when she saw how well it worked.
The squirrel that’s caught hold of it now must be new: the veterans are much more cautious. It’ll learn, though: the harder they grapple for purchase, the faster they seal their own fates. When Roy had explained the schematics to Ed, fever-wild and tending closer to visibly crazed then he usually preferred, he’d used terms like ‘defense in depth,’ and ‘hostile architecture,’ and ‘enfilade fire’. It would’ve saved time if Roy had been honest with himself and said: this is minimally about feeding birds and maximally about animal abuse.
Ed had thought maybe it was a little cruel, but at that point he’d have done anything to get Roy to shut up about his sinuses, and also then Hawkeye had come over and suggested they just do what she does, which is shoot at them and then loose Black Hayate on the survivors. When Ed imagined the household rifle in the hands of Roy - who had, that very morning, tried to throw an apple core into a trash can across the kitchen and broken three lamps - he’d pulled out his toolkit from the garage and leaned into the power of ‘yes, honey.’
In any case, the birdfeeder is a roaring success. Ed’s extremely sophisticated manufacturing process of alchemizing faces onto things and then nailing them together needs naught but gravity to introduce any squirrel to a mathematical poem of mass, velocity, and angular momentum. The current offender is launched with enough force to send it directly through the apricot tree foliage and out the other side. Ed and Roy make noises of victory, then clink their glasses together, then Ed decides he needs a sip of Roy’s.
“This always happens,” Roy says, his voice complaining but his knuckles sweet-rough as he scuffs at Ed’s cheek, trying to get him off the glass without spilling any. “You get halfway through your wine mug and forget you hate alcohol - slow down, you’re going to regret that.”
“No,” Ed says stubbornly, trying to catch the rim of Roy’s glass in his mouth again as he pulls it away. It’s true that anything Roy drinks tastes like radioactive paint thinner, but food’s always better stolen. It’s best of all when it’s stolen from Roy. “It’s mine by right.”
“This isn’t hollow,” Roy says, ignoring him, rapping his knuckles on Ed’s metal calf. “I’ll get you more wine if you want more.”
“You’re a lightweight.”
“You don’t even like this. Rum turns you into an eighteen year old at her first frat party.”
“You’re so judgmental,” Ed complains, but he leaves off poaching Roy’s glass. For now. Element of surprise. “How’m I supposed to build an alcohol tolerance if I don’t practice?”
“You have a pint less blood than the average. You can’t practice away the fact that you're missing a leg.”
“That’s the most offensive thing anyone’s ever said to me. Take it back. I want reparations. I want your leg to get chopped off and then see how you like - oh shit another one!”
This one flings itself nearly as far as the chestnut tree. They watch the squirrels trebuchet themselves into the garden as the sun slips below the horizon, the air going chillier and the fireflies coming out. Roy takes Ed’s right foot in his lap and digs a thumb into the tendon along his instep. It makes Ed grunt appreciatively and wriggle his automail foot in under Roy’s thigh; rubbing that one doesn’t do anything, but putting pressure on it all over can fake some of the massagey feeling. Kinda.
Ed settles further back into his deckchair. He kind of wants a blanket, or maybe just his fleece housepants, but otherwise he doesn’t want to move anymore all night. It’s nice.
Then he realizes. “Oh my god. You did this to me. You made me old. You lured me in and sucked away my youth like that crone spider specter thing from Ghoulhaunting 3 -“
“Ed,” Roy says sincerely, “what the god damn hell are you talking about.”
“You did,” Ed insists. “You did it to me. On purpose. You… youth-sucker.”
“Is that what the Amestrisan Enquirer is calling me these days.”
“I mean it,” Ed says, starting to wave a hand before the traitorous thing reminds him it’s full of mug and sloshes dangerously. “You made me old. We’re sitting here on a Friday night, not even watching TV - we were watching squirrels, only now we aren’t, ‘cause they all gone to bed and it’s too dark to see.”
Roy takes an unbothered sip of his turbobooze. “It’s nice.”
Ed watches him with narrowed eyes, then takes Roy’s glass the second he sets it down and manages a hefty swallow. “Right. That’s it,” he garbles as a hissing Roy plucks it away again. “We’re spicing shit up around here.”
“For the love of - what now?”
“It’s Friday night. We’re gonna have fun like booze and the calendar intended.” Ed wipes his mouth and thunks his own mug onto the table. “I’m gonna do it.”
“Do what,” Roy says, wary, but it takes hardly a glance at Ed starting to determinedly put his hair up before it slides into exasperation. “Not this again.”
“I’m gonna do it,” Ed threatens. “You watch me. Tonight’s the night.”
“I have no idea where you picked up the notion that this is in any way necessary,” Roy says, all but rolling his eyes.
“It’s not about necessary, it’s about winning. If Winry can -”
“What have we said about telling me what Winry can -”
“- then I can too.”
“I cannot overstate how much this is really not necessary.”
“Who asked you?” Ed says dismissively. “This has nothing to do with you.”
Roy looks at him, then down at his lap, then back at him. “It is, in fact, my penis,” he points out.
“And? So?” Ed takes another swig of wine. “You’re not doing anything with it. Being able to deepthroat is about me. It’s about being better than you were yesterday.”
“When I find out who told you about self help books they’re going to be shot,” Roy mutters.
“No they’re not,” Ed says with confidence. It was Havoc. Havoc having a really rough couple of weeks and leaving his bag open right where Ed could see ‘MASTERING YOUR WORKPLACE. WORKING LIKE A MASTER’ poking out of the top, at least. “Anyway. It’s fine. I’ve figured out how. Work smarter, not harder, right?”
The look Roy gives him does not indicate a pioneering spirit and an unshakeable faith in Ed’s ingenuity, intellect and drive, but he does stand up when Ed does, catching his elbow when he stumbles, and Roy’s willingness to go along with the flow can be equated to most people’s enthusiastic agreement. “I’m gonna show you,” Ed tells him, gleefully shaking his mug and leading the way inside. “I did research.”
“Blowjob research?” Roy says dubiously, shutting the patio door as Ed makes for the fridge.
“Problem solving research. This is it,” Ed announces, rummaging in the crisper drawer. “This is what it’s all about. Technology. This is what those monkeys first banged rocks for. This is why they passed things down. To us.”
“I feel like the monkeys that banged rocks weren’t passing down very much,” Roy says vaguely.
“Shut up, I’m teaching you history here. Humans use tools. We are a learning species. When we want something done, we don’t go, ohh, oooh oooh hee hee and slap our buttcheeks together.” Ed hip-checks the fridge shut. “We make stuff to help us do it. That’s what it’s all about. It’s about this.”
Ed presents the grapefruit with a flourish.
There’s a short moment of silence. “It’s about my breakfast?” Roy says.
Ed glances at the grapefruit. “This is your breakfast?”
"It was going to be.”
"Well. Now it's gonna be my midnight snack.”
“You don’t even like grapefruit,” Roy says. "And it’s seven pm.”
"And we're hammered. So?" Ed says, going to the kitchen island to put his mug down and pull a knife out of the block.
“Are we,” Roy says rhetorically, but he puts down his glass and exchanges it for the bottle of rum left on the counter. He closes his eyes, takes a careful but sustained sip, then places it back with the careful clinking that constitutes a ‘drunkard slamming down an empty bottle’ maneuver from anyone else. “Where do you want to do this? And what, exactly, are you going to do?”
“Put this on your dick,” Ed explains.
Roy looks at the grapefruit. Then at Ed. Then back at the grapefruit. “Let me start with the pressing questions,” he says. “Why?”
“Because,” Ed says, then makes the appropriate bunny quotes with the knife hand and rolls his eyes. “I have ‘large tonsils’ and ‘a small esophagus’ and sometimes our bodies need a little outside help to get things done. Like automail! So this,” he flourishes the grapefruit again, “is here to help.”
“Alright,” Roy says, “let me try again. How?”
“You cut a hole,” Ed says, then realizes he needs a knife or something, then remembers he has a knife. “It’s, you know. Squishy. On the inside.”
Roy sounds calm. He always sounds calm. “My dick is?”
“No, dumbass, the fruit. I don’t need to have a dick to know about dick things.”
“You’re a veritable scholar of the subject,” Roy says in an agreeing voice. “However. I think on this particular instance you may be, hm. Out of your mind?”
“People do this!” Ed glares and clutches defensively at the grapefruit. “This is a thing people do. The grapefruit people! I saw it on YouTube.”
“We never should have made it legal to access YouTube,” Roy says flatly.
“Yes we should have. It brings power to the people.”
“What if you get subpoenaed and your YouTube history is released, and then both our careers in politics end forever?”
It says a lot about Ed’s choice in men that these are the thoughts and concerns Roy is choosing to voice, and that the knife in Ed’s hand hasn’t yet magically transformed into the knife in Roy’s torso. “My career in politics?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well stop saying and focus up,” Ed orders, laying the grapefruit on the cutting board, pointing the knife at Roy and then bringing it down with a thwup. “I,” he says sternly, “am being sexually adventurous. I am young,” thwup, “I am blond,” thwup, thwap, “and I am not getting a tonsillectomy. So you are gonna meet me halfway here.”
Besides, Ed’s been using Havoc’s YouTube account for the last four years. He holds up the freshly redesigned grapefruit. “Right here. See?”
Roy does not look like he sees. “I don’t think it’s safe to put that on any kind of genitals.”
“You eat grapefruit.”
“Citrus is an acid,” Roy tries.
“And you’re a war hero. Suck it up, hotshot.”
“You know,” Roy says, watching Ed saw some more at a rough edge on the rind, “I always knew I’d be punished for my crimes, but I never imagined that this would be how.”
“That’s because you have no imagination,” Ed says, dropping the knife and lifting up the grapefruit to the light to squint through the hole. “God beheld us both and judged me your punishment. Take your pants off, I wanna see if this fits.”
“I hope you understand how much this means I love you,” Roy says, taking his pants off.
Ed stops and squints at him. “Really? Six years and it takes a grapefruit on your dick to say the I-L-U?”
Roy stares blankly down at him, belt unbuckled and both halves of his fly in his hands. “I’ve definitely said it before.”
“You definitely haven’t,” Ed says.
“Surely I’ve -”
“Nope. I woulda remembered.”
Ed can see in his face that Roy knows he really would have. His brows meet and rise inwards. “... Is that why you’re trying to put acid on my dick?”
Ed cackles. “Citric acid is barely an acid at all. Are you an alchemist or not?”
“That’s not a no,” Roy observes.
“If I wanted to put acid on your dick I wouldn’t fuck around with fruit. Come on, we should prob’ly do this on… tile.”
“Wisest suggestion of the evening,” Roy mutters, but he lets Ed hook his arm and tow him down the hallway as he juggles around all the shit he’s trying to carry in anticipation of opening the bedroom door. “Why are you - just give me your mug, Ed.”
“Knife,” Ed says, surprised, as he goes for the doorknob and finds it in his hand.
“Oh, that wasn’t part of this?”
“Bastard, I could use a little more ‘yes and’ from you right - uggh - now.” He stabs the blade into the wall, opens the door, kicks it, and reclaims his knife. “Don’t you know that the key to a suces’ful workplace ‘viorment is communicating positively with the group?”
“My workplace environments have all been historically successful. Before you move too far away from this - you do imagine requiring the knife?”
“Adjustm’ts, the hole size, Roy. ”
They make it all the way to the part where Ed is trying to decide which of Roy’s stupid paperbacks to kick off the bedside table to make room for the grapefruit before a problem occurs to him. “I don’t want to spend the one weekend we’ve had off together in six months bullying our shitty bedsheets into the laundry.” A beat passses. Before Roy can say anything, he adds, “but we’re not calling this off, if I don’t get it done soon then Winry’s gonna think I’m chickening out.”
Roy’s making noises about how knowing facts about Winry is a violation of their spousal agreement or whatever, but Ed’s in the middle of having a genius idea and it goes like this: bathroom . He foists off his mug to Roy, who resignedly accepts it along with the rum bottle, and drifts after Ed as he blazes down the path to victory.
They end up with Roy sitting on the toilet lid, where he insists on putting a towel down first so that his pansy asscheeks don’t have to suffer cold porcelain. “Just so you know, this is already the least sexy blowjob I’ve ever experienced,” he informs Ed. “Poor setting, uncertain premise - the grapefruit isn’t even fresh.”
“Shut up before I make you beg for it,” Ed says distractedly, trying to kneel down without spilling his wine. “Bedroom’s got those imported fucking rugs made by Drachman orphans and you always fall off when you try to sit on the tub. You - wait, what do you mean it’s not even fresh? Weren’t you going to eat this?”
“It’s not too bad if you cut it up into salad. But no, don’t let these details hold you back. I’m sure it’ll taste at least as good as my cock normally does - do not put that on the floor.”
“Oh, right,” Ed says, glancing at the grapefruit in his hand. “Good idea.”
“Just - put it on before you accidentally drop it in the trashcan.”
“Okay, but. You have’ta get hard, though,” Ed says, poking his dick with one finger.
“I’m forty-two. It just might not happen tonight,” Roy says primly.
Ed narrows his eyes. “Oh?”
“Oh yes.” Roy takes another long swallow of his rum. “Alas.”
Ed watches Roy’s dick balefully for a long moment. It fails to do anything interesting. Looks like he’s once again gotta do all the work himself, he thinks darkly, switching the mug to his other hand to pick it up. Then, struck by genius, he looks at the mug, then the dick, then gives one a generous slosh with the other.
Roy makes an interesting choking noise. “Why.”
“Flavor,” Ed explains indistinctly. “Efficiency.”
“This stings, Ed.”
“The grapefrui’ stings, the al’c’hol stings, the ‘motional consequences of this night stings - just hold still and let me lick it off. Quit squirming.” Ed has to put the mug down to pick Roy’s dick up instead of just pushing his face at it; better access this way. “‘Sides. This is just what happens when I drink without a lid. When you don’t believe in me.”
“I would like to believe in you. It’s only that I believe in fact-based conclusions. The grapefruit, now the wine - I thought you wanted to suck it, not sauté it.”
“Listen. It’s like this,” Ed explains, pausing to lap some more wine off the side of Roy’s cock. “When you been with your partner a while. It’s no longer a secret garden, okay? The magic grotto has been opened. It’s more like a public park that smells like pee sometimes -”
Roy makes another, much more horrified choking noise. “Smells like -”
“It’s a metaphor,” Ed says impatiently, then sees Roy’s face. He pats reassuringly at Roy’s dick. “Not you. I’m always very appreciative of your hygiene.”
“Thank you. Yours as well,” Roy says, strained.
“I was talking to your dick.”
“My dick. Attached to me -”
“Hey there, fella,” Ed says, ignoring him. “Remember me? Yeah, you like me, huh? I give you all those treats you like.”
“Please don’t talk to my dick like it’s an abused cocker spaniel.”
“I’ll talk to it however I want. You shut up, I’m tryna set the mood here.”
“You’re about to put acid on it. It knows.”
“I’m about to gift it a brand new sexual experience.” Ed licks at some more wine and then makes a face. “Why do people do body shots? This doesn’t taste, like, better.”
“It’s generally not about the flavor.”
“Anyway. Where was I?”
“The very sexual, very new experience I’m about to have?”
“Right,” Ed says, sticking the head of Roy’s cock in his mouth in the traditional pull lever, achieve erection.
It has the usual effect, which means Ed can finally measure whether the grapefruit hole is the right size. It’s harder to judge than he’d anticipated. They only have the one grapefruit, so if the hole gets too big than the night ends here, so there’s an extended process of trying to force Roy’s dick through the hole, failing, pulling back, hacking at the grapefruit over the sink while Roy monologues about some melodramatic nonsense, and then trying again. Also, uncooperatively, Roy keeps trying to go soft, which means that sometimes Ed has to perch the grapefruit on the counter by their toothbrushes to quickly fix things back up, downstairs, to make sure that he’s even aiming at the right target.
It’s worth the time when he finally gets it right. Putting the damn thing on is frustrating, and they have to take a break for Ed to go and find the bobby pins when he finally gets fed up with his bangs, and then all four hands available are needed - Roy, supporting the base of his dick, guiding the tip into the hole, and Ed, pushing the grapefruit so that it actually goes inside - until then, at last, there they are, with the grapefruit in position and only twenty minutes of the night spent on it.
They stare down at the result.
“Hm,” Ed says. “This is harder to hold than I thought. How’s it feel?”
“Sticky,” Roy says.
“Hm.” Ed tries to adjust his grip but there’s really not that many ways to hold a piece of fruit around a penis. He tries an experimental squeeze. “Feel anything?”
Roy blinks slowly, twice. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now. Wild grapefruit passion isn’t one of them.”
“You’re so uncooperative,” Ed complains.
“You on your knees in front of me is usually a good start,” Roy says, conciliatory.
Ed nods seriously. This is true. It’s a classic starting point for a reason. And no plan survives contact with the enemy. So what if he has to use both hands to move the grapefruit, and that it really is kinda juicing itself as a result and making everything sticky; blowjobs are sticky anyway, by, like, default. He gets his mouth back on the head, but it really is distracting trying to move the grapefruit, especially since the further he goes down the more it feels like it may be losing some of its structural integrity. He has to squeeze it more, but that makes it harder to move, which in turn hastens its mechanical breakdown. He is developing the creeping suspicion that when the YouTube grapefruit people stress-tested these for durability they did not account their final product rating for Roy’s dick.
“You know,” Roy says meditatively, “I wasn’t going to say anything, because far be it for me to discourage youthful blond sexual adventurousness, but perhaps something that you saw once on YouTube performed by ‘grapefruit people’ is not the most widely acclaimed partner pleaser out there.”
Ed pulls off and pops up again, indignant. “Hey! Who’s trying to please you? I told you, this is between me and me.”
“And my dick.”
“Only because there isn’t another one available!” He twists his chin up to crack his neck and dips his head back down, only to be sharply dragged back up by the scalp - Roy, benign smile tipping up the right side of his mouth, gentle expression at odds with the iron grip he’s got on Ed’s hair.
“I’d love to see another person deal with this in the generous way I have,” Roy says, still smiling, and shakes.
Ed can’t help the little inhale as the sudden heat between his legs informs him that the night just went from good to great. Roy’s smile gains dimension, gains sharpness, the way it does when wonderful, amazing things are about to happen to Ed. “Yeah,” he says mindlessly, then adds a belated, “Fuck you,” because he’s pretty sure whatever Roy just said was supposed to be insulting.
Roy takes that the way he always does - as a compliment - and shakes Ed again. “Honestly, why this one citrus in particular? Why not an orange? Why not an amanatsu, or a buddha’s hand? Those at least look like they have fingers, an aspect of being I previously assumed important for sex. It’s probably all just a marketing ploy to sell grapefruit.”
“Because nobody ah. Mm. Nobody else knows what buddha’s hand is?” Ed says, mostly preoccupied with trying to grind on Roy’s leg, because the words are usually irrelevant when that tone of voice goes right to his hindbrain. Thanks, ooga booga rock-hitting ancestors.
His attention slides slightly away from the grapefruit as he finds a good rhythm against Roy. He’s able to get close enough and at the right angle so as, when he dips in to take Roy deeper into his mouth, he’s able to make himself feel good all the way down to where it melts into his stomach, that tingling aah of a fun moment just about to start.
Roy actually lets him get away with it for a blissful couple of minutes before he kicks Ed elegantly backwards, sending him skidding a few centimeters on his knees but holding Ed’s chin firmly in his palm.
“Now, I’ve started to notice a couple of conflicting objectives here. First it was all about not being old and miserable. Then you’re fruit focused. And now it’s about you rutting selfishly against my leg?”
Ed tries to shake himself loose - a thing he has never once managed to do before, but the pursuit of which gives him purpose in life - and as beams toothily as he can around his own squishy cheeks, pinched between Roy’s calloused fingers. “I told you from the start this was between me and me. Don’t act surprised now.”
Roy leans into the pinching thing, letting go of Ed’s chin in favour of pulling at his cheek, warping the way words come out as Ed enthusiastically digs the hole he’s in deeper by shuffling back to closing distance and trying to get his momentum back. “‘M sorry for dis’laying the self ‘ntrest all ‘umans naturally got.” In case this isn’t enough to really piss Roy off, he adds, “an’ science !”
“If you think I don’t see what you’re doing,” Roy says, “you don’t know what kind of chimpanzee you turn into after two swallows of Sauvignon blanc. Now get back down on that - grapefruit. And let’s see if any of our practice paid off.”
Ed is all ready to snap to and jump back in, only then Roy lets go of him and bends near-double on the toilet, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking silently in that way Ed recognizes means he’s screaming with laughter. “I can’t do this,” Roy gasps, biting his lip, looking up. “I’m sorry, if this is - sexy for you -”
He has to break off to wheeze into his palm. Ed baps him on the knee with his stickier hand. “Hey! Take this seriously!”
“I’m so sorry, darling, it’s just -“ Roy has to smear his palm over his own mouth again - “It’s - fruit on a weiner. It’s a fucking - grapefruit -“
“Hey! What happened to the attitude, huh?” Ed baps him again and considers biting. “You were doing so well just now! Bring that back!”
“I cannot imagine,” Roy gasps, ignoring him, “how sub-par our previous sexual experiences must be, in comparison to this, our raunchiest night to date.” He props one of his elbows on his leg and leans his cheek against it, languid, laughing, and drags Ed back into position with the other hand. “It makes me wonder, you know, what else you want that you’ve been keeping from me.”
A few irritated responses leap to the tip of Ed’s tongue, but as the tip of his tongue is otherwise busy and with Roy bearing down on him all he can really do is hrrmm frustratedly and try to relax his throat. He sucks for a couple moments, because this is what he was trying to get Roy to do and good behavior should be encouraged, but he does have to pull off again to rasp, “S’no fuckin, secret, bastard, I’ve told you what I want.”
That gets Roy to look at him, really look at him, doing nothing but holding him in place. For a second it looks like they’re gonna get somewhere -
- only then Ed hiccups. And keeps hiccuping.
Roy is irretrievable for the next five minutes. Every time he tries to compose himself in response to Ed’s yelling and smacking a hiccup will force its way out and then Roy just fucking loses it again. This does not help the grapefruit’s integrity at all, and since Ed’s busy trying to teach Roy a lesson on sexual propriety via headlock he’s not in the right position to save it when the towel that Roy’s sitting on slides sharply to the right and slings the grapefruit directly into the floor.
“Now look what you did!” Ed exclaims, waving at the fallen fruit, but Roy just laughs harder and pulls him in with both arms, starting to kiss at Ed’s neck in between cackling. Ed tries to explain his crimes, but Roy starts doing the little nipping thing that makes Ed’s eyes wanna cross, and he’s distracting and Ed’s maybe drunk so it’s only when he realizes the hiccups have stopped does he remember the actual objective here.
He slithers back down onto his knees, out of Roy’s grip. “Focus,” he says sternly, then adds, belatedly, “I'm not horny for the grapefruit . It’s about -” he stops.
Roy pets over his head, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind his ear and tugging lightly at the lobe. “Winning. I know, darling.” He rests his big warm hand on Ed’s head. “You really want to deepthroat?”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “Obviously . Like I been saying .”
Roy’s hand shifts, and suddenly they’re nose to nose, Roy leaning down and holding Ed’s face upturned to his. “You want to win? Or you like it?”
It’s just real fuckin’ unfair that Roy can still make him blush. Ed tries not to squirm, then remembers how dumb that is and squirms to his heart’s content. “Can’t it be both?”
Roy’s eyes are easy, bottomless black. “Is that your final answer?”
Ed squirms some more, enjoying how his face squishes in Roy’s grip. “Is this your best interrogation technique?”
Roy smiles, stroking a thumb over Ed’s eyebrow. “I can ask even more nicely.”
Ed scowls and wiggles harder, because he knows that’s not a euphemism. “You know I like it,” he says, his voice coming out too breathless to pass it off as complaining. “Why else would I be doing it? You know.”
“Alright.” Roy’s hand shifts again, this time taking a handful of Ed’s hair and making a fist. “You just relax. And don’t choke.”
“No promises,” Ed says giddily, and then he’s a bit busy to say anything.
Roy doesn’t do this hardly ever, doesn’t really like being rough, not the way Ed does, but he’ll do it sometimes. That’s why it didn’t really bother Ed that Roy hasn’t done the whole love you thing before, or at least not really. Because Roy lies like he breathes, always has a second motive, always works another angle - except for when he’s doing stupid shit like this. Ranting about birdfeeders. Letting Ed make alcoholic fruit salad on his dick. And cornering Ed, with his face and voice and hands, all to make him say what he wants.
And he’ll do this: pull Ed in, push him down, cradle his face and call him a slut and a mess and not give him a break at all, and Ed’s free to squirm around and grab onto Roy’s shirt and pull and fight for breath with his eyes welling, his jaw aching, heat building and building in his stomach. He gets a hand between his own legs and rides it, sloppy and uncoordinated, and Roy laughs at him, low, a brief amused chuckle, the sort that makes Ed suck harder, strain closer, flushed hot to his ears and losing track of himself in the rhythm.
“Alright,” Roy finally says, slightly out of breath but not in the voice that means he’s close, pulling Ed off by the face and hair. “I’m done. Get up here.”
“Wha - ”
“Come on, it’s my turn. I want to touch you.”
“Nooo,” Ed complains, floundering up out of the dip between Roy’s legs and into a slightly higher and dryer position in his lap instead. “Noo. You din’come. ‘S the point of this.”
“You’re drunk,” Roy says affectionately, like that has to do with anything. “And ‘the point of this’ changes from minute to minute, whenever you aren’t getting what you want. Come on. Spread your legs.”
He makes Ed stand, because the bastard likes watching him have to brace himself and lean on his automail and grab onto Roy’s shoulders when his legs start to shake. Roy stays seated, pushing his thigh between Ed’s knees, gesturing for Ed to lift up his shirt as he doesn’t even pull Ed’s briefs down, just drags his palm down over the fabric and then gets his fingers on Ed’s clit.
Ed would complain, only Roy really can make his legs shake and he never bothers to start slow either. He always looks up at Ed when he does this, too, watching his face, and Ed always stares right back because it’s here that Roy’s eyes go glazed and fixed, where his mouth opens on his breath, where he starts to sweat. It’s Ed’s turn to grab at Roy’s hair and tighten his stomach and stop making any noise, as Roy grinds in fast and hard right how he wants it, right where he needs. His other hand roams up to rub at Ed’s nipple, then stroke down his back, then grip his ass and encourage him into pushing forward, gasping, rolling his hips in to meet the sweet pressure on his clit.
It doesn’t take long after that. It’s a drunk orgasm, nothing sharp or sudden about it, and Ed sways and slumps down onto Roy’s thigh, only Roy’s joints are not exactly top of the line anymore so this sends them both into a somewhat controlled slide to the floor. They end up partially wedged beside the toilet, covered in white wine, saliva, come and approximately two thirds of a grapefruit. “We need to clean up.”
Ed considers this. Then he lumbers up, clambers over the tub’s edge and slumps back down inside it. “Kay. Turna water on.”
Roy also considers this. Then he also clambers in, socks and shirt and all, and twists on the tap. “You know, this is how people die horribly,” he says, slinging a companionable arm around Ed’s shoulders.
“Not coming when they’re supposed to?” Ed mumbles.
“Being drunk in the bath. We might drown.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Ed slurs into Roy’s shoulder, eyes closing.
He doesn’t fall asleep, but he gets close as the tub fills up hot and Roy de-shirts first himself and then, with considerably more difficulty, Ed. The care Roy takes to not jostle him is totally at odds with how he dragged Ed around like a dismembered corpse not ten minutes beforehand, but both actions fit on him. Duality.
“What else do you have up your sleeves?” Roy asks drowsily after he’s leaned against the tub, working shampoo into Ed’s hair. “I can book time off if you’ve got anything that requires more than half a novelty mug of wine and an eighth of a fruit salad to prepare.”
Ed snickers like he’s supposed to, but it doesn’t miss even his wine brain that this is the first time in their history that Roy suggested taking vacation time for any sort of reason, let alone for joint plans. They even had to reschedule their not-a-honeymoon thing twice due to a totally bullshit last-minute avocado imports-based ‘emergency.’ “It’s good that you don’t think that I’m gonna get less crazy jus’ cause you’ve admitted you love me.” He wiggles under Roy’s hand, enjoying the head scratches.
Roy hmms. “I can’t help but observe you’re yet to say it back.”
“Oh, I’ve got time,” Ed says unconcernedly. “Six whole years is a big window.”
“Touché,” Roy says, revealing that he’s found Ed’s steel shower comb by raking it through Ed’s post-sex tangles with conversational timing best described as suspicious. “I see my socks are still on my feet. Your influence, clearly.”
Ed splashes him. It means getting lukewarm water up his own nose, since Roy is behind him, but Havoc’s workplace success book told him that the healthiest corporate environments had a ‘we are all in this together!’ atmosphere.
Roy refuses to reciprocate, so they end up just kind of napping together in the bath for fuck knows how long. It’s like the squirrel thing - something Ed never saw for himself and indeed, still slightly resents, but which lives on its own merits. It’s nice. Nice. He is getting old.
Ed refuses to re-equip his bones when the water cools, so Roy bundles him out of the tub and starts to swaddle him in their towels. Steam mists the corner of the mirror and touches gently at the dips of his body, a light thing, the sort of domestic comfort that has taken months to get used to. Ed shuts his eyes and relaxes into the firm grip Roy has on him as he tucks the towel toga into shape and turns to start draining the bath, getting everything clean.
He reopens his eyes with an alarmed snap as something heavy goes crack - and then someone shouts, and Ed whips around, and Roy is there, splayed out on his back, clutching at his head, which seems to have been slammed into the countertop.
“Roy?” Ed leans down to help him up, eyebrows creasing, even as he searches for clues, and then: “Roy. Roy did you fucking -”
“I wouldn’t have slipped on the grapefruit if you hadn’t left it on the ground .”
Ed squawks like a pterodactyl and pulls back his hand, refusing to help, and goes instead to rescue the grapefruit, which is indeed, very flat. There was pretty much nothing left to save after the activities they put it through, but wasting food is the kind of thing that makes Ed’s soul hurt inside. “We could’ve still eaten this! Your breakfast! Roy, do you know how expensive fruit is in the fall?”
He scoops it up and turns for the towel to try and wrap the pieces of it together, only to skid hard on the juice and crash straight into the towel rack. There goes the last third of the grapefruit.
Roy seems to have embraced his position and makes no move to rise. “We could’ve still eaten this,” he repeats, in an extremely unreadable tone. “The price of fruit. In the fall.”
“What! Just because we’re rich now doesn’t mean we can afford to waste food -“
“You make me,” Roy says, cupping Ed’s face in one hand from across the tiles, “so crazy. Just, very insane. I understand this all now. I accept that the events of the night are on me. I should’ve been feeding you the more expensive dog food. I should’ve taken you on more regular walks.”
Infuriated, Ed says, “you know what you looked like right now? As you flew across our bathroom? The fucking squirrels on the feeder.”
Roy gasps in outrage. “Why you -“
Turns out they’ve got a round two in them after all.