Substitute

It’s during nights like this when Ed doesn’t truly know where he is. The room spins and the ceiling seems to crash down on him as whiteness seems to gather behind his eyelids, sending stars flying across his vision. The bed seems to sink under him, his body moving of its own accord as it writhes and squirms under the sensations of those soft lips teasing him, that tongue caressing him with just that little amount of roughness that sends sparks flying up his spine.

At least, that’s what Alphonse Elric sees, looking up at his older brother practically clawing at the sheets, a keening whine coming from parted, ruby lips. He should have felt guilty as he ran his tongue over a straining erection, tasting the salty tang of precome that seemed to leak continuously from the tip. He should have felt guilty that he was practically preying on his older sibling’s weakness, coming to him in the shade of the night to do unspeakable things while Ed was still in mourning.

…And when he was asleep, no less.

But it wasn’t like he would accept the attentions when he was awake, and it wasn’t like Al had the heart to ask him anyway. The way his eyes were always so distant, looking out into something that wasn’t there, but at the same time searched Al’s own gaze for something. They were together, finally, after all the suffering and pain they went through…only for Ed to seem like a dejected kitten left alone in the rain.

Or perhaps that’s what he really was: a mourning lover who still clung to precious memories (like the ratty old journal that he didn’t think Al knew he had, or the light brown jacket he used as a makeshift pillow or blanket when they had to rough it out at night), trying with all his might to move on despite losing the one person he had ever truly loved, with much more reverence and passion than anyone else.

Even more than me.

The bitterness that ran through Al’s veins at the thought almost caused him to bite down, though he stopped himself before he could; that nipping jolt would have surely roused Ed from his pleasure-hazed slumber (though it was a wonder how he could still be asleep, kicking and crying out like that), and Alphonse wasn’t exactly in the mood to explain just what he was doing in his bed, sucking him off while he was sleeping in the silent hope that it wasn’t his dead lover that he was seeing in his dreams.

Was that really why he was doing this?

“Alfons, bitte…”

Alfons, please…

The German again. Al’s stomach did another flip; he cursed the bile that started to rise in his throat, and the tears that started prickling in the corners of his eyes. Whenever he was close to the edge, he always did this. It always sounded throaty, purring even—something that he wouldn’t have expected out of his loud, seemingly dense older brother.

He had never expected that his brother would beg (yes, that’s what he was doing…begging) for anything, and everytime he listened to that husky, lust-drowned plea, calling a name that was his but wasn’t, dammit…it sent a thick stone dropping hard onto his stomach.

It was funny though—ironic, perhaps.

Alphonse had always hoped that Alfons Heiderich was just a substitute—a stand-in for the one who his brother truly loved…something he would leave behind once he got what he was really looking for.

But as he was crouched there now, desperate, grasping, sucking his brother’s cock, for Chrissakes…it was all-too-clear to him who the substitute really was.

And it hurt. It hurt.

“Alfons…I’m…!”

…Coming.