Can I start by saying I'm glad you saw me naked in the hallway last night?
It could have been anyone else. Al, who's seen my bare butt more times than is probably psychologically healthy. Riza, who's too professional to ever say anything anyway. Hughes, who would have been too wrapped up in photos of his daughter to even notice. Havoc, who's so straight I could use him as a ruler.
But no, I'm so happy it had to be you. Do you hear sarcasm? Because you should.
I'm so glad you got to see me, red-faced from the steam, and dripping. My life wouldn't have been complete without giving you the opportunity to see the lovely scars I got to commemorate my auto-mail surgery. Not to mention the fact that my shoes make up a good three percent of my height, on a good day, and I'm sure you noticed that too.
So, congratulations Roy Mustang, for being the only person who never should have been given the chance to see me naked. Let alone in the hallway.
Now, I'd also like to say that I don't wander around starkers in the middle of a military base just for shits and giggles—Black Hayate made off with my towel, that little bastard. By the time I realized it, it was already too late, and silly me for thinking I might be the only person insane enough to be awake at four in the morning.
How was I supposed to know you have insomnia?
Why are you even living in the dorms anyway? Shouldn't you have enough money for your own house by now? I mean, I know the military has some of the tightest fists around, but still. A Colonel shouldn't be forced into mingling with the lower classes, you know. I'm sure it's not good for your complexion. Although, maybe you can find Hawkeye and let her know to keep her mutt on a leash—don't worry, I'm not referring to you.
You really should have said something, you know. It's not fair to embarrass me like that and just walk away. You didn't even have the decency to make a joke about my height, you asshole. I had the perfect comeback, too, something about you being too old see right, or something like that.
Shut up. It sounded better in my head.
And somehow even at four in the morning you still managed to look better than me. Aren't insomniacs supposed to have bags the size of Drachma under their eyes? And what did you do, freshly style your hair before you left the bedroom for your ass-crack-of-dawn stroll? There's no way it looks like that naturally, and don't even try to tell me otherwise. At least button the top button of your uniform, for God's sake. Not everyone wants to see your scrawny-ass chest. Speaking of, why don't you go eat some breakfast—it looks like you need it. Did that one sting a little? Sorry, I meant it to.
What right did you have to kiss me, anyway? Did I have some sort of sign pasted on my forehead? 'Free smooches for those who qualify?' Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but you're not a part of my target demographic. I'm not looking for the tall, dark, handsome type. No fucking way. Did I mention that I prefer younger men? Well, I do. I don't give a shit about psychological maturity. As a matter of fact, I don't prefer men at all.
How about them apples?
Well of course I reacted, you jerk! You pinned me to the wall—naked, I might add—and started making out with me. That's not exactly a gender-specific action, you know. A kiss is a kiss. Just so you know, I've got lots of experience, too. Yours wasn't even really that good, in comparison. Just saying. Not that I blame you for wanting a piece of this, but really, fourteen years? Don't you think that's a bit much?
So what if you still look like you're twenty-five? Can you even grow a beard yet? For the record, I started shaving when I was thirteen. Don't laugh, you bastard, I'm not kidding. Ask Al. He'll vouch for me.
You'll lose your job, you know. If this ever leaked, you'd be out on your ass before you could say 'court-martial'. I wouldn't miss you, of course, but Hawkeye might. Fuery, too, probably, and I like Fuery a lot more than I like you. Apparently the military takes shit like this pretty seriously. It's a big deal, fraternizing with a subordinate.
Granted, maybe I should have struggled a bit more when you dragged me back to your bedroom. But, in my defense, I'm still technically a teenage boy. Every day is a desperate, heart-wrenching battle with my testosterone—what's your excuse, you creep? I figured your libido would have started cooling its heels in front of the fire by your age. What was it again? Forty?
Oh, thirty-four. My bad.
You know, you really should have gone about this differently. Didn't anyone ever tell you that dates came before sex? I don't know about you, but where I come from you usually give someone at least a bouquet or something before you deflower them. The only gifts we've ever exchanged were insults, unless you count all that fucking paperwork you've made me do over the years. I know it might have been too much to ask, but some non-hostile interaction would have been nice. Even dinner would have been ok. I'm not easy, you know—you just caught me a little off-guard, is all. And naked, I suppose, but that's neither here nor there.
I hope you're not waiting for me to suddenly burst into praise about your bedroom skills. The only reason why I felt so hot was because of the goddamn fireplace—and who the hell has their fireplace on in the middle of the summer, anyway—and you only got me off because you were lucky. That spot behind my knee just happens to be ridiculously sensitive, and so what if I find collarbones sexy? Is that a crime?
What do you mean I was crying, you asshole? I have allergies. Dust, if you must know, and I don't even want to hear about the last time you cleaned that sty you call a bedroom. I hope you washed those sheets, by the way, although I must admit that the satin ones were a nice choice. Probably the only classy thing about you.
Thanks to you I didn't even get to bed until seven o'clock, and I had a meeting at ten. My evaluation. I don't know what they expected, but it was almost certainly more than what they got—unlike a certain pyromaniac pedophile, I need my eight to ten hours. The examiners probably thought I was a total idiot.
And no, I wasn't thinking about you. Not even for a second.
You look really young in your sleep, you know. You could almost fool me into believing...well, never mind. It doesn't matter. You've probably already forgotten about the whole thing. After all, what's one more notch on the Flame Alchemist's bedpost? You said my name wrong, anyway. No one calls me Edward anymore, except for Granny Pinako sometimes, and as much as I think you two would get along, I don't think you want me to associate you with that old hag. Even if it didn't sound completely awful, when you said it.
What the hell are you even doing here, you loser? All day, the only thing I wanted was to crawl into bed and be dead to the world for the next ten hours. Are you going to kiss me again? Take me into the barracks and attempt to make up for last night's shortcomings? Well, good luck with that one. Even if I had my own private room, I wouldn't touch you again with a ten foot pole. Don't look at me like that. I don't need another one of your awful kisses making my day any worse.
You know, someone really should clean this hallway.