by Moe Shmoe
Pairing: Fuhrer x Ed
x-posted to FMA_yaoi, FMA_rare and FM_alchemist
He blinks away fatigue for what feels like the thousandth time and yawns, fingering the pages of his book thoughtfully. Ed had found from the beginning that the library had a way of causing the hours to slip by painfully fast and even now as he looked at his watch, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
3:30 in the morning.
He stifles a yawn and staggers to his feet, book tucked lovingly under his flesh arm. Now there was just the bit of finding Alphonse (it amazed him how easy it was to loose track of a six foot tall suit of armor) and getting back to the dorms.
“Al!” he calls drowsily into the tombs of books, his voice sinking into the innumerable volumes of Central Library. “Where did he go?”
“Why, if it isn’t the Fullmetal.” Came a voice that was too smug for his liking, and Ed tossed a rather irritated glance over his shoulder. His eyes strain through the waning light of his oil lamp, taking in the form of Fuhrer Bradley himself. Ed had never been particularly fond of the Fuhrer (instantly melons came to mind) and was the only one who didn’t fawn over him hand and foot.
“What are you doing here?” Ed snaps a bit more abruptly than he’d meant, but it seems to bounce off the Fuhrer like light on a mirror.
The King only smiles and shrugs, something that sends a rush of chill up the young alchemist’s spine, that same eerie confidence lacing his voice. Perhaps one grows surer of oneself when they are the most powerful person in the most powerful country in the world. Ed doesn’t think it’s much of an excuse. “You’re not the only one who enjoys the written text, Fullmetal.”
Ed makes a low noise in the back of his throat and chooses not to answer. He had heard many a story of the Fuhrer’s kindness and wisdom, but Ed doesn’t like the way his dark eyes dance with manipulation.
“Aristotle. Plato. Socrates. Their philosophies are astounding.” He eyes the young alchemist, and something flickers past them that Ed can’t identify. “Surely you are familiar?”
Ed snorts. “Of course I am.” He eyes a few books on the subject stacked to his right and he runs an unfeeling hand over the leather spine.
The Fuhrer chuckles and steps closer, seating himself in a chair only a yard from where the Fullmetal is seated, tucked amongst his books. “Of course, how thick of me. Is there anything you have not read, Edward?”
He notes the loss of formal title but keeps his face unreadable. “Shakespeare.” He states, watching with a flair of amusement the way the Fuhrer is caught off guard.
“Shakespeare? You have read through every alchemic text in this library several times apiece, and you have not delved into the art of poetry and drama?” His eyebrows are knit with concentration, as if any normal child would read old literature for pleasure.
“Waste of time. How does romance have anything to do with science?” Ed scoffs ignorantly, not taking his gaze off the face of the Fuhrer. He is still wary in the man’s presence, and the feeling unnerves him.
The King sighs thoughtfully, leaning forward so Ed can see clearly the deep blue of his one good eye, and the way the leather patch has teased the skin and made it raw. “The culture and tragedy can be good for a burdened soul, at times. Shows us we are not alone in the affair of the human heart.”
“I don’t have time for any romantic notions.” Edward repeats, making his way towards the door with his alchemic and astrological theories still clutched to his side. He depends on logical and proven tactics rather than intangible and emotional ways, solving all his problems with solutions that he perceives to be solid.
In a flurry of movement that occurs almost faster than he can think, Ed realizes why that predatory look on the King’s face made him so nervous.
By the time his mind finally catches up, the Fuhrer is running his hands down his torso, under the thick red fabric of overcoat. “Perhaps you should give Shakespeare a try, Edward.” He is saying between the kisses he plants on Ed’s neck. “You’ll find that there is nothing more scientific than love.”
Ed makes a strangled gasp of surprise and drops his book. “I doubt that groping a subordinate was exactly the kind of science Shakespeare had in mind when he wrote his sonnets.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.” The Fuhrer answers truthfully, already bored with the planes of chest. He toys with the idea of dropping his hands lower. “But even science can be interpreted differently, depending on the scientist.”