Anticipation
It wasn’t something he was used to.
Ling fiddled a bit with the overly elaborate edge of his sleeve, noticing a loose thread and willing to concentrate on it with the obsessive intensity of a kitten. Anything to distract him from the shivery bit of discomfort that was inspiring a fidgety anxiety that rivaled his most splendid attacks of boredom. Holding court had always been tedious, but he had never been infected with such nervous energy before.
No. Not nervous. It was a rallying against being held still, a muscular coup that wanted him to bolt from the hall, toss off the irritatingly constrictive court robes and skip the country.
He was even willing to trudge across that damn desert again.
Anything to get rid of the annoying sense of wanting to go that was making his life intolerable.
Ling enjoyed being a creature of comfort, of indulgence. He enjoyed being indulged. But he didn’t think he could explain this away with any panache.
He waved agreement at the next petitioner, hoping he hadn’t just settled to give away anything he particularly liked, and motioned the next to be let in.
Ling heard him before he saw him, and all of his twitchiness centered into his stomach, launching a flight of spastic butterflies, before settling in his groin. Edward Elric stalked into the hall, a wad of papers clutched in one hand, looking pissed as ever to be playing courier.
Ling made a note to send something nice to Mustang.
It wasn’t something he was used to, but when disembodied wanting shifted to a more familiar anticipation, Ling grinned.
Maybe he could get used to it.
Provided he was offered enough opportunities.
