
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/351832.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fullmetal_Alchemist
  Relationship:
      Alphonse_Elric/Roy_Mustang
  Additional Tags:
      Canon:_Fullmetal_Alchemist_(2003)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-03-05 Words: 2045
****** Sometimes, if you close your eyes and fumble blindly ******
by alice_pike
Summary
     On their better days, it feels more to them like a healthy,
     functional couples' sex life than it does two people longing for
     something they can never have again.
     On their worse days, it's the closest they can get to having it back,
     and it's almost good enough.
Notes
     Takes place several years after Laws and Promises, mostly ignoring
     Conqueror of Shamballa.
     There are hints of past Roy/Ed and Ed/Al, but take those
     relationships how you will--substantiated and/or requited, or not.
Roy pushes Al down onto the couch face-first.
Al grumbles a little, protesting; he props himself up on his elbows and turns
to look at Roy over his shoulder, but makes no further complaint. Roy can see
the want clear as day in Al's eyes, and he can tell that Al just wants to be
able to touch him, to be able to see Roy's face.
Al's pants are still bunched around his knees, though, so there's not a whole
hell of a lot he can do without getting tangled up (and Al knows that Mustang
knows it) so he decides to make the best of it, hopefully enticing Mustang to
get the hell on with it in the process. Al lets himself sink more fully onto
the couch, trying to focus only on getting himself off. He makes a show of
rolling his hips, pressing his erection into the plush fabric of Mustang's
couch, acting for all the world like Mustang isn't even there. The friction
feels amazing after all of Mustang's teasing earlier, and the moan that escapes
Al's lips is genuine.
Al's desired effect is pretty much immediate: Over his own breathing, Al can
hear Mustang fumble with the last of his clothes, can imagine him dropping them
to the ground haphazardly in his growing frustration. Within moments, Al feels
the couch dip around his knees as Mustang straddles him.
This thing between them, whatever it is (Al's never really been able to define
it), has never been gentle, or particularly caring, and now is no exception.
Roy spits a couple of times onto his fingers and immediately finds Al's hole,
holding him open with his free hand. He sinks a finger into Al past the second
knuckle in one solid motion, and despite it being muffled by the couch, Al's
hiss—whether of pain or pleasure or both, Roy doesn't know—is audible.
Roy can feel Al trying to relax his muscles and take deeper, calming breaths to
make this as easy as possible; Roy doesn't speak, but he does hum in approval
as Al loosens beneath him. He works his finger in and out of Al a few times,
crooking it inside him, and when Al's breathing finally levels out, he pushes
in another. Al's hiss this time is unmistakably one of pain, and Roy doesn't
actually want to hurt him so he leans closer and spits on his fingers again,
but that's as much of a concession as he's willing to make. He does take it
slower, though, and Al relaxes, rutting a little against the couch to offset
the lingering pain. After several minutes Roy speeds up, and soon Al is making
little nonsensical noises of pleasure, his composure starting to slip.
Roy can't help the smile that finds its way onto his face as he studies Al—the
way Al doesn't even seem to realize that he's spread his legs, the way Al's
knuckles whiten around the lot of fabric he's got bunched in his fist every
time Roy pushes in deeper. Everyone Roy knows thinks that Al is the more
innocent of the Elric brothers, but he knows better. Watching Al now—the easy
way he lets Roy do whatever he wants, and likes it—Roy wants to be the only one
who knows better.
By the time Roy's working in a third finger, Al is rocking back into him; Roy
scissors his fingers inside of Al, opening him further, fucking into him
faster. Al has never been very vocal during sex, and as it is, he only manages
to grunt in frustration after a few minutes, needing more.
There is a bit of confusion and a tangling of limbs as they shuffle on the
couch, Al making room enough for Roy to lean forward over him, bracing himself
on one hand. His other hand reaches down between them, and Roy's breath
stutters as he strokes himself a couple of times, spreading his precome down
the length of his cock, smearing some on the red ring of Al's hole. Roy lines
himself up and guides the head of his cock into Al, sucking in a breath through
his teeth. The little of Al's body he can feel is a fucking tease, but he wants
this to last so he presses in only a little more before holding himself still,
giving Al time to adjust, as well. He chokes off a moan as he finally slides
all the way in, the tightness and heat enveloping him sending shockwaves of
pleasure outward through his entire body.
His self control only lasts for so long, though, and when Al shimmies under
him, clearly needing Roy to move, Roy pulls almost all of the way out, a slow
roll of his hips and a drag of skin-on-skin that has both of them gasping
before he pushes back in. He goes slow for the first few thrusts, deliberate
and almost methodical, but it doesn't take long for them to work up to a decent
rhythm, Al rocking into the couch every time Roy fills him. Soon, though, the
friction on Al's cock is almost painful; he pushes himself up, bracing himself
on his elbows. From this position, he's able to push back harder against Roy's
thrusts, changing the angle to let Roy get deeper inside of him.
For a while, their ragged breathing is all that fills the silence of the room,
of Roy's whole house, and their movements start to get sloppy and inconsistent
as they get closer to climax.
 
Al doesn't know his history with Mustang—doesn't know Ed's history with
Mustang—and neither of them are stupid enough to bring it up.
Al's been told almost everything of the four years he spent with his brother.
He knows what role Mustang has played in their lives; he knows what Mustang has
done for them (and even what he has done to them) over the years. But there is
something not-quite-right with the stories he's been told about them and
Mustang, some absence—something missing that no one seems willing to address.
But Al's a smart kid, and Mustang's a fool, so it's not hard to fill in the
blanks.
He keeps as silent about it as everyone else; he never asks around, never
confirms his conclusions. Nothing good would come of it, he knows, so what's
the point? It remains an unspoken not-truth between them, and Al never knows
where he truly stands. He shapes his relationship with Mustang out of fragments
and half-formed suggestions; he makes it look how he wants it to, with no clear
idea how it should. Mustang of all people doesn't tell him otherwise, and if he
notices that Al isn't exactly the kid in the armor he knew so well, he doesn't
say anything.
If Al has to be half his brother to fill the void that Ed left behind, so be
it. He'll do it gladly, every damn day for the rest of his life, if he has to.
It's a small price to pay.
 
Mustang's thrusts get more and more frantic, and even though Al has a harder
time matching his rhythm, it scarcely matters at this point. Arousal burns
bright in Al's gut, threatening to overwhelm him, and just the stretch of his
body around Mustang's cock is enough to keep him on the edge.
Through the haze of pleasure both sharpening and dulling his senses, Al notices
that Mustang's pace has slowed, that his thrusts aren't going so deep. He feels
Mustang shift his weight, now holding his cock still inside of Al, and suddenly
there is a tugging sensation on his skull as Mustang pulls Al's hair out of its
ponytail and lets it cascade over his shoulders. Mustang resumes fucking into
Al almost immediately, but one of his hands stays in Al's hair, obviously
costing him some of his leverage, because seemingly to make up for it, Mustang
grabs a fistful of Al's hair and pulls on it as he thrusts. Al's head snaps
back from the force of it, and sharp pinpoints of pain erupt all along his
skull, making his eyes water and bringing him back a little from the brink of
his orgasm.
Al adjusts to take more of Mustang's weight, but he can barely breathe with his
head thrown so far back, his neck stretched and exposed. White spots start to
flicker in his field of vision as he can take little more than rattling,
shallow breaths, but the sensation goes straight to his groin and he bucks
under Mustang as an intense wave of pleasure rolls through him. He can't help
but moan, a low rumble of sound that he feels more than hears. Mustang all but
purrs at this rare loss of Al's self control, and Al's almost tempted to do it
again, to see what other reactions he could tease out of Mustang's usually so
unreadable demeanor.
All such thoughts are pushed aside, though, as Mustang starts to pound into him
at a furious pace, his thrusts getting shallow and erratic; Al knows Mustang
won't last much longer. Impossibly, his grip in Al's hair tightens and then
he's panting out words—Al, Al, fuck, Al—and then he's coming, spilling inside
of Al and shaking as he rides it out.
Mustang still has composure enough left to pull out of Al when he's done and
collapse on the other side of the couch, allowing Al to shift and finish
himself off with one hand rough on his cock. Al's been close for so long that
it doesn't take much, and he can still feel Mustang inside of him as he fucks a
few times into his fist and comes. He spills onto Mustang's couch but doesn't
feel particularly bad about it, and does nothing to clean it up.
 
Al may not know how to define whatever it is that he and Mustang have, but it's
something that he wants, something that he's pretty damn sure they both need.
Despite the rather less-than-affectionate nature of the sex they generally
have, they are perfectly polite to each other in public—even most times in
private. Their relationship doesn't feel contemptible or shameful to either one
of them, and most of the time they don't even feel like they're keeping it a
secret. They know, somehow, that they'd both openly admit to whatever it was
between them (if anyone was suicidal enough to ask), and they haven't even been
very good at hiding it (sex in Mustang's office with his entire staff on duty
isn't exactly inconspicuous). It's never been awkward, or unequal, or anything
but consensual. No one has looked at Al as a kid since the first time he was
ten years old, and no one questions Roy except Riza, and even she lets this go.
On their better days, it feels more to them like a healthy, functional couples'
sex life than it does two people longing for something they can never have
again.
On their worse days, it's the closest they can get to having it back, and it's
almost good enough.
 
Several minutes pass in silence as they collect themselves. Roy puts his
clothes back on with shaking hands, and Al brushes his fingers through his hair
before putting it back up, pressing gently on the tender spots on his skull and
glaring weakly at Roy. Roy shrugs and looks as apologetic as he ever does
(which is to say, not at all) and follows Al to the door.
"You don't have to leave, you know," Roy tells him, but Al shrugs in turn.
"I should be getting back; I still have a lot of work ahead of me if I'm to get
those arrays to you by tomorrow."
Roy nods, accepting Al's explanation. Al opens the door and Roy makes an
unconscious gesture as if to clasp Al's shoulder in farewell, but Al's already
turning away and Roy yanks his hand back as if burned.
Al doesn't shut the door behind him and Roy stands unmoving in the still-open
doorway, watching Al make his way leisurely down the street.
Al doesn't look back, and Roy stares into the distance long after he is out of
sight.
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