(Spoilers! End of series!)
Edward had never been kissed by somebody with a beard before, at least, not as far back as his memory could serve. Then again, he couldn't rightfully recall the last time he had been kissed at all; he'd never really cared for affectionate contact since the incident with Al; had kept all people, even those he loved, at a tentative arm's length. Considering those circumstances, his last kiss properly would have likely been one from his weak dying mother, or perhaps one of the healing pecks his teacher administered for scraped knees on days when she was feeling particularly benevolent. He really didn't expect much in that area of physical contact; only really ever hoped or considered ever being kissed or hugged by his brother, maybe Winry in the distant future if time and circumstances would allow, and he most definitely, definitely never expected, of all people his father. He hadn't been much of a parent when he'd had the chance; hadn't taken the initiative to fill what he believed to be predominantly the mother's role of doling out bedtime kisses; didn't really sink in to the full parental logic before the time when he relieved his family of the burden of his presence.
Whatever flighty reasoning of his had fueled that particular inadequacy, Edward was certainly not expecting the small delayed guesture as he lie half asleep on his worn but sterile cheap cot, papers and blueprints strewn about him like confetti, a lamp shining harshly from the hallway of their small Munich residence. He was far too surprised and off gaurd with his exhaustion to react at first, but to tense up, and debate with inward fury whether or not it was an altogether unpleasant thing. He only played dead, one eye cracked half open to the ungenerous view of a few of his research papers gathered up hastily in one of his father's large meticulously clean, but worn with age hands. The bristles of whiskers against his cheek were rough, discomforting, almost ticklish, and though the lips enframed were softer in juxtaposition, it felt like a canyon of contrast stood between this and those kisses he remembered from his mother.
It was only brief; a quick almost momentary impulse. One of the rough hands flicked a bit of golden hair from the younger Elric's face, as Hoenheim muttered thoughtfully, almost passively,
"I suppose that was long overdue," and pulled the rough wool comforter over his son's haphazardly sprawled sleeping form.
When Hoenheim had reached the door, having tidied several of the boy's flippantly disregaurded messes, Edward let out a noise, as though he had finally released a long held breath he had been holding the whole time, and decided to break his facade of unconsciousness for a small grunt of recognition.
"'Night, y'old fart," He mumbled, shifting once and burying his face in the lumpy pillow.
The blond man smiled.
"I love you too, son."