FMA: a Party to Remember
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Ed contemplates his reasons for being at a stuffy holiday party, and the man who invited him there. Roy/Ed, written for the help_japan auction on LJ.
Ed wandered from one room to the next, keeping to the edges of the party and eyeing the crowd. Aside from Mustang's office staff he barely knew anyone there. The house was filled with the upper ranks of the military and their spouses, all of them engaged in the sort of social posturing and polite one-upmanship that seemed to come with rank. Ed never could see the point.
He gravitated toward a familiar face, snagging a drink on the way.
"Hawkeye—is this a holiday party, or some sort of—" he waved toward the mob currently gathered in the sitting room, "political thing?"
She gave him a small smile as she sipped her own drink. "More of latter, I'm afraid. The brigadier-general's standing is still tenuous."
Ed looked up from his wine in surprise. "Eh? What's he done?"
She shot him a significant look. "Nothing—recently."
"Wh—it's over that? Still? That was years ago."
"Three years is not so long a time," she said quietly as she watched the crowd. "Not in this game."
"Oh." Ed contemplated his drink for a moment before turning back to the various people of rank in the room. When he'd come back from the other side of the Gate he'd found everyone—everyone he cared about—more or less as they had been. He'd thought that had been the end of it, that all the turmoil just before he left had blown over or been resolved somehow. It hadn't occurred to him that what had happened back then might be causing problems still. "So he's trying to win favor?" He hazarded.
"It's more that he can't chance losing favor."
"Oh," he repeated.
Ed took several swallows of wine and watched Mustang work the crowd, smiling and laughing as he moved smoothly from one group to another. In the past he might have seen that kind of thing as nothing more than egotistical rank-climbing, but he better understood the motives behind it now. Mustang would never have been able to accomplish everything he had if he wasn't a master at that kind of game. Of course he would still be at it; every person on the guest list was probably carefully considered for their position and potential advantage.
Which led to another question.
"So then . . . why am I here?"
Hawkeye glanced at him, and her eyes softened for a moment with fond amusement. "You're here because Roy wants you here."
She left him to puzzle that out and drifted off to chat with one of the guests.
He knocked back the last of his wine and stared down at the glass. Mustang had personally invited him so Ed had figured he wanted him here, but he couldn't figure out why. He didn't exactly offer any tactical advantage. Maybe that meant the motivation was more personal than professional, but he couldn't fathom that, either. They just . . . didn't have that sort of relationship.
The young man shook the thought out of his head wandered over to the food table. Food was something he could understand. Hopefully a party this pretentious would at least have decent food.
He was poking around at the offerings of tiny pastries and strange spreads when he felt a touch on his back, and a familiar baritone said, "I'm glad you could make it."
Ed glanced up and flashed a grin, hoping he didn't look as off-kilter as he felt. "Well, I wasn't about to turn down free food."
Mustang chuckled. "I think I'd call the hospital if you did." He helped himself to some sort of cracker thing, and Ed thought the wine must be going to his head because having him lean over his shoulder like that was making him feel very strange. "I know this isn't really your type of gathering," the older man continued. "So I'm grateful you came."
Torn between shifting closer and stepping away, Ed grabbed something off the table and shrugged. "Eh, it's all right. If you like pretentious politics and brown-nosing, I mean."
Mustang was smirking at him, but Ed didn't dare look at him long enough to try to read whether the amusement was aimed at him or out of agreement for what he said. "Indeed. It's a fascinating study of the inner workings of society."
There was something warm in the way Mustang touched his shoulder before moving off, and Ed was thinking now that wine on an empty stomach hadn't been a good idea at all, because he couldn't wrench his eyes away from the carefully tousled dark hair, the set of the man's shoulders beneath the casual button-down shirt. He so rarely got to see Mustang out of uniform, it was nice to be reminded that he actually had a shape. A nice shape. Broad shoulders and a trim waist, and an ass that made those stupid, shapeless calvary skirts a crime—
Ed grimaced at his train of thought, but couldn't turn away until someone passed between him and the object of his obsession. Because "obsession" was exactly what it was; he'd spent most of his teen years too focused to really notice his sex drive, but once his hormones finally woke up they became intense and annoyingly mono-focused. He'd tried to shake it. He'd tried to ignore it. He'd tried to shift his focus onto someone else. He enjoyed dating, but none of it ever turned serious and he couldn't help but think it was in no small part because he kept circling back around to that one same point.
The young alchemist shoved a cracker-and-cheese stack into his mouth and went in search of another drink. If it had been anyone else, he would have gone after his desire ages ago. But Mustang . . . was Mustang. How were they supposed to go from not only superior and subordinate but adult and child to—to what Ed's hormones wanted? He didn't know where to start. Then there was the problem that Mustang obviously liked women. He'd probably laugh in Ed's face.
He refilled his wine and went back to watching. Mustang was talking with a young woman on the other side of the room, and Ed hoped she wasn't there as someone's date because he was clearly flirting with her. The man was in his element, all charm and confidence and Ed was captivated. It was manipulative and it made him want to knock the other man upside the head, but at the same time . . . he wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of attention. To have Mustang lean in close, like he had over by the food, but more . . . focused. To give him that smile, that laugh, casual little touches that seemed so familiar and affectionate. . . .
Before he realized it, his thoughts had gone from observation to fantasy. He could see him, hear his voice, smell him, that sandalwood-amber-woodsmoke that must be his cologne or aftershave. He could picture the warmth of his body, the feel of his hands—callouses on the first two fingers and thumb, but otherwise smooth—
Someone jostled his shoulder and Ed jolted back to reality, choking and sputtering on his wine. The middle of a stuffy party full of important, pretentious strangers was not the place to let his imagination run wild, but it was a little too late. He felt over-heated and short of breath and his groin felt tight, and as he shot a frantic glance around the room for a safe place to bolt he was starting to feel claustrophobic.
A quick check showed the bathroom door was locked. There was probably a second one upstairs, but the staircase was in the living room and he didn't want to chance half the guests seeing him go up there. Dammit, all he needed was somewhere away from the crowd so he could calm himself down and talk his body into behaving, there ought to be somewhere the party hadn't spilled into.
A locked door just off the living room was the first area he found. Ed rattled the knob, then pressed his hands together and surreptitiously rearranged the tumblers. He felt a little bad for breaking into a room Mustang had deliberately closed off, but he was desperate.
Once the door was shut, Ed leaned against the wood and took a moment to breathe in the dark and relative peace of the room. Damn Mustang for being so—so Mustang. And damn himself for being so susceptible to it.
Now that his eyes were adjusting, Ed realized that he must be in the man's private library. The walls were lined with books, some shelves stacked two deep. The only gaps were a window and a fireplace. Even the desk and chair were set in the center of the room, rather than block precious space that could be used for books.
"Damn, Mustang," he breathed. Stepping away from the door, he ran his fingers over the spines, picking out what titles he could by the faint light coming in through the window. Alchemy books, many faded and worn with age and use. Political texts. Philosophy. And even—Ed had to pull one off the shelf and open it just to be sure—fiction. He could lose himself in here for hours.
Ed stopped in front of the fireplace and nudged the ashes with the toe of his boot A thin wisp of smoke spun up from the disturbed coals and drifted through the thin light, then dissipate into the gloom. Looking from the fireplace, to the overstuffed shelves, to the desk cluttered with books and papers, he realized that this room, much more than the front part of the house, was Mustang's home. The other rooms were just a public faade—this was his true face.
Ed could just about see him, bent over the desk and frowning in concentration as he read some text, a pen in hand and a notebook close by. . . . He could hardly think of a more compelling image.
Except maybe Mustang getting up from the desk to pin him back against these bookshelves.
Ed turned back to the fireplace and braced his hands against the mantle. So much for getting his body to calm down. The fastest way to get this out of his system now would be to surrender himself to the fantasy and see it through—he hoped. At any rate, there was no way he could go back out there with the front of his pants tented out like this. He might as well take advantage of being alone while he could.
Closing his eyes, Ed pressed his hand against his crotch, imagining it was someone else pressed against him. Someone who had always taken great delight in teasing him and would probably work him to the point of madness before letting him come.
The thought made his cock throb and he grinned, but he never could muster up that kind of restraint on himself. He yanked the open button and lowered the zipper with two stuttery jerks, then paused, trying to steady himself with a breath before working himself free.
Ed bit his lip to keep from moaning aloud as he gripped his shaft. This was crazy, jerking off in the middle of a party full of near-strangers, but at the same time it felt so delicious. And knowing this was Mustang's personal space he was defiling. . . .
The sounds of the party swelled for an instant and Ed froze, but when he raised his head and looked over his shoulder the door was still closed. He stared into the shadowed corner for a long moment and almost chickened out, but the throbbing organ in his hand nixed that idea. He needed to hurry up and finish because he was in no condition to go back out.
His glove rasped and pulled at the sensitive skin. He'd have to take it off soon, but for now it was perfect. He could imagine it was a different glove with a rougher texture, on a different hand. He could smell him, the scent must have soaked into the room. Sort of like the way the man himself has permeated Ed's life. He hissed. "Damn you, Mustang. . . ."
"Does that mean I'm invited?"
A hand clamped over his mouth and another caught his flailing wrist, and he stumbled back against a solid chest. "Shhh! Sorry." Mustang's hands settled on his shoulders, his voice rich with amusement as he murmured into Ed's ear. "I thought you knew I'd come in here."
"Uh." His body was humming with adrenaline but Ed felt frozen. A large part of him wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the earth over his head because oh god he'd just been caught jerking off by the very object of his erotic fantasy. But Mustang was all but holding him against his chest, and that warm presence and the deep voice were making his cock ache.
After a moment of Ed's silence, Mustang asked, "Do you want me to leave?"
Ed could only figure that his body had staged a coup, because his head had jerked out a no without any input from his brain, and he cringed. Just what was he supposed to do now?
"Mmm." The hands on his shoulders shifted, and he wondered what the other man must be thinking, having found his once-subordinate masturbating in his library. Mustang leaned over his shoulder, and Ed cringed in embarrassment. "Are you going to take care of that? It . . . looks painful." If the bastard was finding the situation at all awkward, he didn't show it.
"U-um." Ed's cock throbbed in agreement, but how the hell could he jerk off in front of Mustang?
The older man hummed again, the tip of his nose running along the edge of Ed's ear, and Ed suppressed a shiver. "In that case. . . ." Mustang's hand slid down his arm, and caught under the edge of his glove to peel the fabric away. He cupped their hands together, cradling the smaller hand neatly against his palm. ". . . May I?"
Ed closed his eyes, swallowed—and nodded.
At the first touch, Ed let his head fall back and thrust his hips. That was his own hand wrapped around his erection—but the pressure and the rhythm were outside of his control and that made all the difference. What had merely felt good before was now intense.
The rhythm broke abruptly and their joined hands squeezed around the base. He whimpered and arched, desperate.
Mustang chuckled and kissed his ear. "Trust me."
"Bastard," he hissed through clenched teeth. But he relaxed, letting his forehead come to rest against the taller man's neck.
"Mm, that's better. I can't let you jerk off any which way in my library."
Ed swallowed a groan. The rhythm was picking up again and he pressed back, twisting his free hand in the clothing of the man behind him like a lifeline.
Mustang's lips traveled over his ear, his cheekbone, while his hand slid across his chest. "Close?" A thumb that wasn't his swiped across the swollen head and Ed panted, open-mouthed, just keeping from crying out. "Mm, yes, you are close, aren't you, Ed." The sound of his name purred right into his ear sent chills across his skin. "Just a little more. . . ." Mustang punctuated the sentence by drawing an earlobe between his teeth. His fingers circled in on a nipple and rubbed, the cotton feeling like sandpaper on the sensitive skin. Then he pinched, and Ed's world briefly went white.
As he caught his breath and his senses started to return, the full realization of what had just happened started to dawn on him. Ed cringed; the bastard would never let him live this down, he knew it.
Except that said bastard was currently holding him against his chest and wiping his hand off with a handkerchief. As if all this was normal.
"While this wasn't what I had in mind," Mustang mused into his ear, "I'm glad you found a way to . . . entertain yourself."
"Fuck. I didn't plan to do this," Ed muttered. "It just—sorta—happened."
"Mm. I'm sure."
Ed opened his mouth to respond when the other man pressed a kiss to his temple, and his retort died in his throat.
"I need to get back out there before my guests start feeling neglected," Mustang continued. "But I would like . . . very much . . . to continue this."
"Can you stay tonight? After the party?"
"Yeah. S-sure. Don't have anything else planned."
"Good. But for now, I'll need you to release my pants."
"Ah!" He snatched his automail hand back. "Sorry."
Mustang's response was to briefly tighten his embrace and lip his ear in a way that could very easily bring them right back to where they started. "The party should wrap up in a couple hours. I'll be looking forward to . . . your company. After."
Ed nodded, as Mustang's hands slid away.
He watched as the other man calmly stepped out of the room, looking to all the world as if nothing untoward had happened. As soon as the door closed the young man braced his shaking hands against the mantle and closed his eyes. "What—" he hissed to the empty room, "—the hell . . . just happened."
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