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His hands are paler than they once were. Not white, not bleached; they’re still browned, nicked in places with scars and reminders, but once they were almost golden in hue. Now they have dulled to something less loud, less vibrant. Like he’s a forgotten thing left in the sun until the colour has washed from him.
He’s still beautiful, Edward thinks. Ling has never stopped being beautiful, even when he has no right to be.
“What’re you looking at?” Ling lies on his side with his cheek propped on a pale brown fist, white bedsheets twisting about his long legs while early morning light bathes him blue. His mark is stark black on his chest.
“You.”
“Ah-ah, I’m the soppy one, remember?” Ling taps Ed’s nose.
“Fine, then. ’M looking at your dumb face.”
“That’s more like it.”
Edward grins and it’s easy to melt into the kiss when Ling presses him onto the bed, lips softer than butter and the hand on his hip as gentle as a promise. It almost tickles.
“You smell good,” Ling murmurs into his mouth.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
Ling wrinkles his nose. “True.”
“Asshole.”
Ling pulls back. He traces those faded fingers along the line of Ed’s jaw and tilts his head just so, saying not for the first time, “You look so pretty with your hair down.”
“It’s a mess.”
“Happy birthday, Ed.”
“Ugh, don’t. Twenty-three’s a bad number.”
Eyes sparkling, Ling’s lips stretch into a smile. “You’re just sad that you’re older than me but still shorter.”
Ed doesn’t have the energy to argue with that, which sucks balls because Ling gets this look on his face when he knows he’s right. Smarmy bastard.
“Can you believe it’s been a whole eight years since we met?” Ling rolls onto his back, eyes cast upwards, scrutinising the too-fancy ceiling. The Xingese royal palace is beautiful, yes, but Ed more than often aches for the simplicity of home.
Ed presses closer to Ling, resting his head on his exposed chest and its mark until heartbeat is all he hears. A warm arm wraps around his shoulders.
“God, we were such idiots,” Ed groans. “Fifteen. Do you ever wish you could shake the stupidity out of your past self?”
Ling snorts and it rumbles through him, low and loud against Ed’s ear, like a cat’s gentle purr.
He twirls Ed’s hair and says, “It all worked out though, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. Guess it did.”
“Alright, that’s enough snuggling, your automail’s way too cold for me. Get off.”
“What? That’s, like, discrimination.”
“Go find someone to get us breakfast, won’t you?”
Ed starts to object, but Ling smiles sweetly and it’s so fake, but, God, Ed is so in love. He’s the biggest idiot in the whole of Amestris, and he’s in love with the idiot who runs the entirety of Xing.
“I hate you,” Ed mutters as he extracts himself from under Ling’s arm.
“See if you can get pork buns. I’m in the mood for pork buns.”
Ed rolls his eyes and says, “You always are.”
“Oh, you know me so well.”
They sit under the largest tree in the garden; Ling with his back against the bark and yellow flowers at his feet. It’s too cold, really, to be out by the river at this time of year.
“I don’t think Lan Fan likes me.”
“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that exact sentence.”
Ed whines and drapes himself over Ling’s lap, discarding his journal and pen in favour of being a pain in Ling’s ass. He didn’t think he’d like it so much—acting so very touchy like Ling is. He went years with only Al for contact—and it kills him to think it, but did that even count?—until the touch of hands that weren’t his own became intrusive. Often, he flinched when Ling first started sidling up to him like personal space wasn’t even a thing.
Fingers run through his hair, gradually moving to rub circles into the angry scars on his right shoulder that still trouble him from time to time, and Ed sinks into the touch like a lifeline.
“She really doesn’t like me.”
“How so?” Ling sounds like he’s had this conversation with others before.
Ed tries to find the words. “Whenever I’m with you in front of her, it’s like she’s trying to kill me with just her eyes.” Ed plucks a small flower from beside his head, one of the last survivors before Winter takes it, and twirls it between his fingers. “How does she even do that? Like, I didn’t think pure hatred could be expressed by just—”
Ling shushes him. He takes the flower, yellow like butter and dainty as silk, and threads it in Ed’s hair. Ed makes a face.
“She’s getting used to you and me being together like this.” He picks another flower, this one lighter yellow, and places it beside the first. “She is my bodyguard, after all. It’s her job to be suspicious.”
“I know, but I just—I mean, what if she’s right? To be suspicious.”
Ling stills.
“Why would she be right?”
Blood creeps to Ed’s cheeks, hot and shameful under Ling’s gaze. He bites his lip and blurts, “It can’t just be her, can it, who thinks we shouldn’t be together? You’re—” he takes a deep breath to steady himself but it doesn’t seem to work at all—“you’re an emperor, and I’m—I’m just me.”
There’s silence for a long while. The hands in his hair don’t feel warm any more.
“Ed.”
He closes his eyes tight until the blackness swallows him.
“Hey, look at me.” Ling shifts, forcing Ed to sit up too, the two of them facing each other under the drooping red foliage. Still, Ed doesn’t open his eyes. “Edward.”
“No.”
Ling makes a noise that Ed has learned is a laugh. Tentatively, his eyelids flutter open.
“It’s funny, you know,” Ling says. So soft it could be whisked away by the wind. “That you think you’re not good enough for me. Ed, you’ve done so much. Lived through it all and I just—” that laugh, again—“I was stupid at fifteen—we were both so stupid—but even then I was smart enough to know that you were the strongest person I was ever going to meet.”
“Oh.” Ed sniffles, snotty and horribly unattractive. Ling looks at him like he’s witnessing the stars for the first time.
“Are you okay?”
Ed shivers, a breeze tugging at his hair. He blames his embarrassing current state—tears pricking at his eyes and wetness dribbling from his nose—on the cold.
“Fine,” Ed mutters. Ling looks uncertain, but he settles back with only a hint of concern denting his curved features. Ed smiles at him in reassurance, but he can’t bring it to meet his eyes.
New Year’s is different in Xing, Ed learns. For one, it isn’t even in January—the end of February signals the beginning of the year, which is endlessly perplexing and somehow fitting. It only makes sense that such a confusing country would birth such a confusing leader.
“What does that writing say?” Ed points to a red and gold banner, one of many that adorn the hall. Tables heaped with food line the edges, and what Ed imagines must be at least a thousand people sit at them or drift across the vast stretch of flooring.
“It says, Edward Elric should stop hogging all the bok choy and leave some for me.”
Sticking out his tongue, Ed brings the plate closer to himself and piles more into his bowl. Ling makes an indignant noise and takes some for himself. Ed swats at his chopsticks. They fight with them briefly, but Ling’s superior chopstick skills win out, and they dissolve into the kind of laughter that feels like bright sparks over skin.
“You’re so greedy!” Ling complains, and Ed can’t help but see the irony in that statement. “No wonder you’re getting fat.”
“I am not!”
Ling raises his eyebrows. Ed looks down at himself. The traditional Xingese clothing Ling forced him into—all red and gold silks with swirling patterns and clean lines and a high collar that’s just loose enough not to be choking—does well in slimming him down. He puts a protective hand over his stomach because, no, he’s not fat, but he doesn’t spar as much as he used to, and maybe he’s a little softer in places as a consequence. His blush must match the red of his silks.
“You’re so cute,” Ling coos, leaning close to pepper kisses on his cheek. “So pretty.” His hand comes to cover Ed’s on his stomach. It’s larger than his but just as calloused. “So beautiful.”
Ed groans and hides behind Ling’s hair in an attempt to get away from the glances of literally everyone at the party. He suddenly regrets that the emperor should have to sit on plain display at the head of the centre table.
“We agreed that you’d stop being so fuckin’ sappy.”
“It’s New Year’s Day. Give me this, hm?”
Ed pushes him away with a smile that matches Ling’s. He reaches for more of the fish—it’s so good, so different from home yet maybe even better with whatever sauces they drown it in here—but Ling catches his wrist and tuts.
“Hey, we discussed this,” Ed accuses. “Don’t make that noise at me. I’m not a dog.”
Smiling in an apology that Ed accepts wholeheartedly, Ling pulls him up until standing. Everyone in the vicinity turns to them.
Then Ling cocks his head, and says, “Let’s dance, my love.”
He’s being dragged onto the dance floor but Ed barely notices. My love.
“Did you just call me—”
“Do you not want me to?” Ling sounds nonchalant, even amused, but there’s a tightness in his eyes that betrays his nerves.
“I... no, I like it. It’s...”
“Romantic? Heartwarming?”
Ed snorts. “Gonna say cheesy, but sure.”
They’re on the edge of the ballroom now. Many have taken the emperor’s cue and gotten up to dance. The room is a flurry of twirling silk.
Ling seems to notice something. He mutters, “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Then he’s swallowed by the crowd like he was never there in the first place. Ed tries to call after him, but the music has risen and he’s drowned in it.
“Fuck’s sake,” Ed mutters. Dances aren’t his scene—granted, he’s only been to a few: yearly ones in the Resembool town hall, as well as drab military functions that involved tasteless food and hoards of entitled old men. Nothing this extravagant.
He breathes deeply and scours about him, hoping for a familiar face. He’d even settle for Lan Fan right now. No luck—he’s a stranger here, out of place and invisible. There is no clothing or hairstyle—pulled up into a bun with gold clasps—that can change that. People chatter, a thousand conversations all in Xingese. Ling has been teaching him; Ed’s always excelled at languages, at learning, so he’s doing okay with it. Now, though, he can’t make out a word.
Except. Except two people not far from him, nameless Xingese nobility, who talk just loud enough for Ed to decipher every syllable.
His stomach lurches. He can see Ling returning, parting the crowd. He lights up upon seeing Ed waiting for him. Closer.
Ed turns and slips out the door.
Light and music alike pour from the open doorway. Ed wants nothing more than to block it all out—it’s mocking him with its joviality, saying you’re out here moping like a fucking baby while your boyfriend is probably dancing with someone else.
He bites his lip until blood blossoms over his tongue. Growling, yanks his hair free of its stupid-posh clasps, tangling it in the process until he has to pull a clump out, chanting fuckshitshitfuckshittyfuckingfuck the whole time. He tells himself the stinging in his eyes is from the pain.
It’s dark, probably midnight already, and white stars wink overhead. Ed isn’t sure where exactly in the palace he is—just another one of the countless balconies. He can see the garden—their garden, his and Ling’s—from here, yellow lanterns hanging like small moons. Swearing again, this time softer, he wraps his arms around himself, pressing his bitten nails into skin and bowing his head.
“Ed? What are you doing out here? I thought we...” Ling trails off, presumably at the sight of Ed looking so damn sorry for himself.
Footsteps come closer, almost in time with the low thrum of the distant music, and then Ling is at his side, but Ed can’t force himself to look at him.
“You look like you’re about to cry.” Trust Ling to get straight to the point. Then, more tender, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little homesick, is all.” Ed would sound believable if his voice wasn’t nasally with mucus.
“Is this about the other day?” Ling says. Ed can practically hear the begging in his voice, the plea for Ed to just meet eyes with him, to communicate for once in his life, but Ed thinks that Ling should know by know how fucking useless he is at that.
“I just—I don’t know, it’s so dumb and pathetic and shit, but I just—I heard some people talking just now, and I know I shouldn’t care ‘cause I’m stronger than that or whatever, but I just—” Ed gasps for breath, and Ling’s watching him with so much patience and understanding that Ed feels sick to his stomach—“They said that you were making a mistake, courting me. A foreign commoner. Where’s the diplomatic advantage in that?” He wheezes around a laugh.
Ling looks—troubled. His brow creases and his mouth makes soundless shapes.
“Edward, I... I didn’t realise you cared so much about what people thought of you. I told you, you’re strong. What should it matter?”
“Because it’s not just about me anymore, for fuck’s sake! It’s—it’s about the fate of an entire country, your country, and you’re finally where you’ve wanted to be your entire life and trust me when I say I’m not worth sacrificing it for!”
Ed isn’t sure what he’s expecting. Maybe rejection, maybe an argument, or maybe there’s that small part of him that holds out hope that Ling will do his usual thing and smile and kiss away Ed’s tears and tell him it’s fine; he doesn’t care because they’re in love and it’s okay—
“Is that all I am to you?” Ling’s knuckles are bleached white as he clutches the stone railing. His words simmer. “Just an emperor? Is that all you can see me as—a title?”
A weight drops in Ed’s stomach, and he has never felt heavier or colder—not when they first attached the metal limbs; not in the aftermath of panic attacks and flashbacks that never got easier; not when he lay at the bottom of a mineshaft in the snow with a metal beam too large to fit his hand around sticking out his belly.
“Ling—”
It’s then that Ed realises they’re not alone anymore.
The figure is masked and clad in black and how didn’t Ed notice them earlier but he doesn’t have time to think further because suddenly there’s a blade—a long, wickedly curved thing with a razor edge that glints obscenely bright when light from the door catches on it, and they’re lunging, and Ling has only just noticed, and there’s no chance in hell he’ll move in time—
Ed does the only thing he knows how to do, and he sacrifices.
The blade goes through his left side and out his back. It rips flesh, tearing though muscle, and he’s gasping around horrific wheezes as it’s pulled out with a wet squelch. The assassin curses in Xingese. Ling’s shouting Ed’s name, but he’s far, far away, sharp pain the only thing on his mind except—it’s okay, it’s okay because it’s me and not him. That’s okay.
He stumbles back as if doused in liquid denser than water. When he goes down, legs fumbling over one another and thick red wetness dribbling between his fingers, the last thing he hears is Ling, and he wishes he could say sorry for being so fucking dumb before he—
Blackness takes him before he hits the ground.
He could almost be asleep. His eyes are closed, serene, and there isn’t a line of worry on his pretty face. His breathing is shallow but in no way quiet; in a room with just them, it’s deafening. Blond hair pools around his head, reaching across the expanse of white pillow like rivers of molten gold.
Ling just wishes he would wake up.
Edward looks too small under the thin sheets and winding layers of red-splotched bandages—he can only imagine what Ed would say if he heard that, because he’s not small, and he actually grew an inch just this past year alone, thank you very much. He suppresses a smile as he slips his hand into Ed’s still one. There’s a short scar on Ed’s knuckle from that time he was trying to cook; they both quickly learned that he can only use knives in a fight, and onions are a lot trickier than people.
“I’m sorry,” Ling whispers. His voice breaks. It falls on deaf ears. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
Outside, the first fireworks spark, booming bright, lighting the room in hues of red. He told the staff not to halt the celebrations. It’s New Year’s Day, and the whole palace, the whole city, is here to celebrate it. The fact that Ling’s entire world is falling apart around him hardly matters.
He thanks the stars above that Mei Chang was here today to join the festivities. He has personal alkahestrists, of course, but none with the skill of that girl. Ed won’t be happy that he owes his life to her, but Ling will be sure to tell him tough shit, you’re alive, and that’s all that matters.
He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if his desperate cries for help hadn’t been heard, if he had been left there to blubber helplessly as he pressed sticky red hands to Ed’s gaping side and tried to see his face one last time through his tears.
He’s never fallen apart like that before. He didn’t know he could.
The fireworks boom on. Ling looses himself to the agonisingly slow passing of time.
Some ten minutes later, Ed’s fingers twitch, his tan brow creasing with pain, and it takes everything Ling possesses not to jump from his seat and hold Ed to his chest.
“Ling...?” Ed slurs. His yellow eyes seem to be struggling to pry open.
“Yeah. How—how are you feeling?”
“Did... did I get stabbed in the head? It feels... it feels like it.” He winces, and Ling wants nothing more than to use his thumbs to smooth every line of agony twisting Ed’s face.
“In the abdomen, actually.”
“Oh.” Remembrance seems to hit Ed round the head. “Oh.”
“You’re okay, though. You’re gonna be okay.” Ling pulls the covers up to Ed’s chin when he sees the way he shivers. His automail leg is always doing that to him—seeping the hard-earned warmth. If Ling could swap his own left leg for Ed’s steel one, he would in a heartbeat.
“The... the assassin. What happened? Are you okay?” Ed’s eyes are open now, bleary and glossy but awake.
“I’m fine, Ed. I killed—I made sure that assassin wouldn’t be making any more attempts on any else’s life.” At Ed’s frown, Ling grins. “It’s okay. I’ve experienced worse attempts.”
Ed grunts. The booms outside are culminating in flashes of yellow and red that light the room up for short seconds before fading back to darkness. Ed flinches with each.
“Do you want me to close the curtains?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s, uh, pretty.” Ed bites his bottom lip between his teeth. Ling imagines leaning down and kissing him. “Actually, can you open the window? I wanna see them properly.”
Ling scoffs. “You’re already cold, Ed. I’m not making a popsicle of you just so you can see some pretty lights.”
“Please?” Ed whines.
Ling hates when he uses that voice.
He rises and flips the locks on the large windows across from the bed. Like this, the entire night sky is on display, lit with blooming flowers of red sparks. It’s not as chilly as he thought it’d be.
“There. Are you happy now—?”
When Ling turns back around, tears wet Ed’s face. He rushes to his side, hands fluttering uselessly, unsure what he did wrong. He seems to be feeling a lot of that as of late.
“What happened? Does—does it hurt? Should I get the—”
Ed shakes his head. He sets his jaw in that hard defiance, pushing himself up and furiously attacking the offending tears. Ling tries to force him back down, his heart going funny at the thought of Ed reopening his wound, but he can’t be dissuaded. Ling settles for helping him get upright comfortably.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Come on, Ed, please, talk to me...” Please just tell me if it’s something I did.
Shuddering a breath, Ed deflates. “I’m sorry for what I said. You’re—of course you’re more than just a title. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
Not for the first time, Ling wonders how he got so damn lucky.
“It doesn’t matter anymore. You had every right to feel that way. I guess... I guess I didn’t consider what people might think. You’re strong—so strong, Ed—but no one can go that long with eyes on them like that.”
Ed snorts. “You managed.”
“Did I?”
Silence settles, interrupted only by the clamour outside. Cold has weaved its way in, a weary traveller in the night, and Ling’s hairs stand on end. Ed looks content, though, so he doesn’t move to shut the window. There’s a breeze rustling his hair, and although his skin has a pallid sheen from his wound, his eyes are impossibly bright. Everything about him is impossible.
“Hey, Ling, I—”
“Marry me.”
Ed’s eyes go wider than Ling thought possible. He gapes, breath not coming at all, and in that moment, twisted in white sheets and lit up with sparks of red, he has never looked more like a god.
Ling doesn’t take his eyes from Ed—he doesn’t know if he could, even if he wanted to, and why would he want to do that, anyway?—as he presses a chaste kiss to the back of his hand. He breathes in Ed’s scent: blood and sweat and a hint of apple from the soap he uses because he doesn’t care that it’s supposed to be for girls, it smells nice, and it makes him smell nice, and it reminds him of home and fuck if Ling wants to take that from him.
“Edward Elric,” Ling whispers, “I know this is sudden. I know we’re still finding our way, and if you wake up tomorrow and realise it’s too fast and you want to slow down, then—then I’m with you on that, too. But right now, I love you, and nothing would make me happier than to be your husband.”
Alright, maybe he overdid that. Ed isn’t big on the sappy stuff, he knows, preferring little things over time rather than heartfelt confessions complete with gentle kisses, but fuck it, what does Ling have left to lose anymore—
Ed throws his arms around Ling’s neck, and he’s vaguely aware of the moisture dripping onto his shoulder that can only be tears, and the way he aches a little with the awkward position, dragged forwards into Ed’s embrace, and how warm Ed is, how sturdy the curve of his shoulders is and how the skin of his cheek is soft like the silk of a cheongsam.
“Fuck yes,” Ed says.
“Yeah?”
“Fucking hell, yeah.”
After three heartbeats—Ling counts, tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump—Ed pulls back. His cheeks are a splotchy red, or maybe they just look that way under the glow of the fireworks. Ed cries a lot more than he used to, and that makes Ling so damn happy he can’t express it in words; words are not enough because it means Ed is finally letting go, finally allowing himself to be more than just strong—
“Maybe this is a little fast,” Ed says, and Ling’s stomach swoops, “A little too like lightning.”
Ling’s heart bursts when Ed grins, his yellow eyes aglow, and says, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”