Sometimes he wonders whether Al knows. His brother doesn't appear to need sleep in the same way that Ed does, but there are times when he seems to go� somewhere else. Mostly it happens at night, or occasionally when Ed's negligent attitude to cheating at cards has soured their relationship on long train rides. The eyes dim, the armour stills unnaturally, and it usually takes a poke or a couple of tries at calling his name to bring Alphonse back. Sometimes Ed wonders where exactly it is that the soul goes during those little absences, but mostly he's too busy being guiltily grateful for them.
He stares across the dingy hotel room in the darkness until his eyes start playing tricks on him; is Al asleep, or isn't he? His brother usually chooses to sleep sitting up against the wall, to save the bedsprings, and anyway it's the rare hotel bed that's long enough to fit him these days. Ed's almost sure that his faceplate is turned away, towards the door, and he really wants to believe that Al's just being overly concerned about their safety, because the idea of his brother knowing about this is just horrifying.
Still, he's as silent as he can be as he rolls over, wincing against the creak of bedsprings and pillowing his head on his metal arm. Left-handed out of sheer necessity, he reaches for the loose drawstring waistband of his shorts, tugs the fabric impatiently out of the way. He's achingly hard already, and he grits his teeth as he fists himself tightly, eyelids falling shut at the pleasure of it.
Four years of necessity have made his left hand almost as good as his right once was, and adolescent hormones have long negated any lingering tendency it has to clumsiness. Flinging his head back in the darkness, ignoring the few strands of loose hair that catch and tug in the joints of his automail, Ed clenches his jaw as he strokes himself rapidly, intent on getting off as quickly and silently as he can. Not just to save himself the humiliation of being found out � he squeezes his eyes shut tightly and grinds his teeth as he comes in sharp bursts, unable to stop the spasmodic twitching of his body as pleasure signals are misinterpreted by metal nerves, and he's certain that a muffled groan has escaped despite all his efforts, but he can't care right now, he's too busy feeling it�
His silence isn't just for himself, it's for his brother. Because Alphonse Elric is fourteen years old, and he doesn't have a body to betray him with hormones or startle him with the sheer pleasure of touch. And Ed isn't going to betray him, either, by making it obvious just how much he has grown.