Waiting: Bike Lust

"I was cleaning out some things, and, well—" Gracia paused to pull the cover off the motorcycle that stood at one end of the garage. "It just seemed like such a waste to let it sit like this."

Roy reached out and touched one of the handgrips with what almost looked like reverence. "I hadn't realized he'd kept it."

"Maes didn't take it out much, but he always kept it running nice." She patted the seat fondly, smiling at Roy. "I think he would've liked for you to have it."

After Gracia left them to "get acquainted," Ed appraised the bike, and the way Roy was caressing the handlebars, with a raised eyebrow. "Hughes had a motorcycle?"

"We both did. We were kids. . . ." His smile was tinged with nostalgia. "We got the pair of them cheap, fixed them up ourselves. There were dirt trails outside the base where we had basic training, and we used to go out riding on our days off. Made us feel . . . free, I guess." He sighed. "I sold mine after Ishval. I just didn't have the heart for it anymore. And I suppose . . . I felt that that was part of growing up." Roy shook his head, tracing a finger over a ding on the gas tank. "I should've figured Maes would keep his." Almost to himself, he added, "I wouldn't mind having one again."

Ed grinned, relieved to hear the lighter tone. He came around the bike, pausing along the way to give his lover's ass a good grope. "Always knew you were a 'bad boy' under that stiff uniform." Roy chuckled, but didn't bother to deny it.

The younger man fingered the hand break—or was that one the clutch?—then experimentally wrapped his hand around the grip. "Hey, maybe I should learn to ride." He kicked his leg over and found the foot peg, then settled in the seat. "What d'you think? I could start wearing leathers again, get some decent gloves and boots. . . ."

The older man gave him a sultry smirk and walked around the side of the bike, running a hand along Ed's thigh. "Mm, very sexy," he agreed. "You always did look good in leather." Ed smirked back, then grinned when Roy kicked a leg over and settled into the seat behind him, the insides of his thighs snug against the younger man's hips. Oh, he liked that. He liked that very much.

"But, you know," the dark-haired man said, his breath tickling Ed's ear as he reached around for the handlebars, "in order to be legal . . ." he straightened the front forks, then eased the bike off the kickstand; "you need to be able to touch the ground with both feet."

Ed scowled and jerked his foot off the peg, and—

—Dangled.

He repositioned himself. He must not be square in the seat—

—Not enough.

He pushed up with his right foot, then further, until only the tips of his toes were against the concrete, and strained downward with his left—

With an indignant cry, Ed slumped over the handlebars in defeat.

Roy chuckled, the bastard, and coaxed him back upright with an arm around his waist. "It's not so bad. You'll just have to ride behind me. Now what did we used to call that? Oh yeah; in the b—"

He was cut short by Ed's fist in his collar. "If you say what I think you're going to say, Mustang," he growled, "you'll be eating this bike."