Better Than

Russel had never forgotten Edward Elric. If one considered it, it was a difficult proposition for a person in his situation to do so anyway. He’d assumed his name, pretended to be him, lived off the proceeds of such a deception, and finally been shocked when presented with the reality. The short reality. (Although actually referring to Edward Elric’s . . . deficiency in height was a sure way to get your arse handed to you.) After realising that the older brother was actually the shorter of the two, Russel had noticed – in the kind of objective way that he catalogued everybody – that he was quite attractive. A well-muscled body (moving like an acrobatic snake, oh my, and the black jacket did nothing to hide it when it flipped up and the tank top stretched against rippling skin), long blond hair in a plait (loose wisps framing his face, and scowling most of the time did nothing to hide the fact that he was just pretty), the stubbornness writ large on his face, but somehow, the most appealing thing about him was his absolute dedication to his brother and his principles, so much so that you had to wonder which he would pick when push came to shove. . . . Okay, so maybe Russel’s appreciation hadn’t been solely objective. He had heard vague rumours about Edward’s disappearance, followed by Alphonse’s emergence from the suit of armour. He had also heard rumours that Al was searching desperately for his brother, using alchemical means, and that suddenly, Edward Elric was the one searching for a missing Al – and had assumed they were just that: rumours. But a single blond head bent low over a glass of some unidentifiable spirit seemed to give the lie to all his assumptions. Russel frowned at the body sitting at a table a short way from the bar. It was familiar, true, with the lean lines of the body and the ever-so-faint line of metal between glove and jacket on the right arm. But the hair was not in a braid, and the jacket was faded denim instead of the rich black Fullmetal had sported. He was taller (though not by much), and there was defeat in his posture. The Edward Elric he knew would never have shown defeat. Concern, perhaps, and a momentary disconcertion, but never defeat. But then, the Edward Elric he knew would never have been drinking away his sorrows in a pub with an Alphonse-shaped hole beside him. Without making any conscious decision, Russel found himself making his way across the room to where the man-who-could-not-be-Fullmetal was sitting. He slid onto one of the empty stools surrounding the table, careful not to put his arms into a wet patch on the fake wood. One bloodshot golden eye glowered at him. “So it is you,” Russel said, and felt deeply gratified that his voice came out smooth and steady. “Fuck off, Tringham,” Fullmetal responded, his voice hoarse. Russel raised an eyebrow and stared at him, noting the deeply indented frown lines on Ed’s face. He didn’t respond, and merely took a sip of his own drink while studying the other man. They had both grown up, he realised – Edward was not that tall, but definitely a fully grown man rather than the half-baked child he had been when they first met. Russel himself had had his own trials, and thankfully come out the other side the better for it. Fullmetal, on the other hand, looked worse. He searched for a topic of conversation. “Still looking for your brother?” he asked, and realised it was the wrong thing to say before the last word had even left his mouth. Edward’s fist flew towards him, and it was a testament to how much the smaller man had drunk that Russel was able to catch it before it hit him. Snarling, Edward launched himself towards Russel fully, apparently not caring that there was a table with two drinks on it in the way. “Easy, easy!” Russel said, leaping off his stool to press against Fullmetal, grabbing his wrists. “Didn’t mean to cause offence.” “Bullshit,” Fullmetal snarled. “If you have to ask that, you know – you know—” His face crumpled, and he pressed his face into the front of Russel’s shirt. A moment later, he felt something damp against his chest, and sighed, turning his face towards the heavens. ‘Why me?’ he mouthed, but was sensible enough not to expect a response. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.” Edward started shaking his head over and over, moaning, “No, no, no,” and Russel concluded that without Al, any home wasn’t home. It made sense, sort of – he didn’t know what he’d do without Fletcher living a few streets away from him. They’d both grown up enough not to need to live in each other’s pockets, but Ed and Al hadn’t been given that chance. The unaccustomed surge of pity made him feel unusually generous, and he found himself saying, “Okay, I’ll take you to my place, then.” Dealing with a drunken Edward Elric was the last thing he wanted to do at this time of night, but his words seemed to calm the other man down, and so Russel realised there was nothing for it but to follow through. He manhandled the smaller man out of the pub and called a cab, and somehow when Edward burrowed into his side he found himself not caring about the unfinished drink he’d left inside. The cab ride was mercifully short, and thankfully it seemed as though Edward wasn’t drunk enough to be throwing up any time soon. Despite not being drunk enough to puke, Edward was certainly drunk enough not to have full control of his motor skills. Russel slung his arm over his shoulders and manhandled the inebriated blond up the stairs, carefully manoeuvring him into his bedroom and onto his bed before sitting beside him. Edward fell back, flopping limply onto Russel’s pillows. The denim jacket had fallen open to reveal the same old black tank top that Russel remembered Ed wearing, but definitely a few more muscles than he recalled. In the dim light of the room, the way the black fabric fell against Ed’s left pectoral suddenly made Russel’s mouth go dry. Shaking himself, he rolled up Ed’s trouser leg and began unlacing his boots, tugging them off one by one. Ed’s socks came off, too, plain black that he rolled up and placed inside their corresponding boots. That task done, Russel eyed Ed’s belt, wondering whether it would be a good idea to take the other man’s trousers off – either for Ed, or for him. While Russel’s eyes were determinedly fixed on his belt buckle – just the buckle, of course, definitely no other place than the buckle – Ed shifted slightly, and Russel’s eyes shot up to his face. Ed’s eyes glimmered with reflected light, barely open, and watching him. The (relatively) minor amount of alcohol Russel had consumed that night surged to the forefront, saying, The hell with it, and Russel leaned forward and kissed him. Ed’s mouth was slack, unresponsive, but when Russel drew back Ed leaned forward, following his lips. That was all the encouragement Russel needed, and he found himself with his hands tangled in Ed’s hair, kissing and kissing and Fullmetal was responding, somewhat hesitantly, hands clenched on Russel’s biceps like he didn’t know what to do with them. Russel nipped, kissed and sucked his way down Ed’s neck and across his chest, tonguing his nipple through the soft cotton until Ed moaned, once, softly. Russel was half afraid that Ed would be too affected by the alcohol he’d drunk to get hard, but the brush of his palm across the front of Ed’s trousers put the lie to that, along with making Ed moan again, and he had to make him do that again, just like that, a throaty little gasp that was a bit too strong to be just a breath of air— Ed’s trousers were open, Russel’s fist clenched around his erection, and he couldn’t quite recall how they’d got there. His own unattended hard-on pressed against his zipper, but he didn’t want to pull away because Ed’s hands were in his hair and Russel was kissing him again, hard, and he couldn’t quite work out if Ed was trying to pull him closer or push him away – but then Ed was coming against him, arching, making that sound, and it was intoxicating, sleek muscle and blond hair and Edward Elric in his bed, gold eyes staring at him from behind veiled lashes— Russel swore and yanked his trousers open with the hand not covered in Ed’s come, grabbing Ed’s hand and lacing their fingers together before wrapping it around Russel’s erection. Russel set the pace at first, staring at Ed, but after a moment he slid his hand away and let the other man take control, holding the golden gaze that was washed colourless by the dim light of the room. Somehow it was better doing it like this, when the only thing he could see clearly were those eyes, reflecting what little light there was in the room and it could have been anyone, anyone, but he knew it was Edward Elric in his bed, with his hand around his dick, eyes slit and watching his face, listening to the sounds he made. It was better than anything else, knowing that he, Russel Tringham, had made Ed moan and come bare minutes before – better than the most expensive whore in the world, better than Edward coming to him sober and aggressive, better because he was the one who set the rules and controlled this game or whatever the fuck it was they were doing— And then Russel was coming, gasping, into Fullmetal’s hand. When he opened his eyes again, Ed was still looking at him. Russel got up, a little unsteadily, and looked down at him. “You can stay here until you sober up,” he said, his voice hoarse. “After that. . . .” Russel shrugged, and grabbed his bin, putting it beside the bed in case Fullmetal threw up during the night. He walked out without saying anything else, because he already knew what Fullmetal would do after that. And it was better to think of him as Fullmetal than Edward or even just Ed, anyway.

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