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Edward thinks the Lieutenant Colonel stinks. He only just met him, Ed hadn’t even said anything to him for the whole ten minutes he was present in the Rockbell house, but he stunk. Horribly. It stung his sensitive nose with its metallic tinge, a scent so unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, invading his nostrils like a lungful of sulfur. It was absolutely rancid, and Edward could certainly go on and on about it.
The long and the short of it; Roy Mustang didn’t smell human. He didn’t smell like a werewolf either, though, and Edward knew werewolves. How could he not, when he was one himself? His brother was a werewolf, his parents were werewolves. He grew up around werewolves and humans, he knew what they smelled like. Just a few weeks prior, Alphonse had smelled like grapefruits. Edward was always told he smelled like oranges. Winry smelled like lemons, with a sharp tinge of oil. His mother used to smell like spring flowers. Scent was very important to a werewolf, it's how they distinguished friend from foe, pack member from rival, even emotions and mood could be determined from faint changes in smell.
Edward can’t remember what his father smelled like, and to be honest, he didn’t really care. He hadn’t spared that bastard so much as passing thought since he turned tail and left years ago, leaving his mate and two young pups behind. Abandoning one’s pack was the worst betrayal a werewolf could commit, and Edward would hold it against that man till the day he died. Alphonse didn’t think the same way, but then again, he’d always been the more rational one between the two brothers. Or rather, the calmer one, the more patient one. Al would always talk about him with what could be described as fondness, always wondering about when he’d come back. Ed never liked it when their dad was brought up. When he was younger he would often just storm away in a huff, but now that he was older and he knew what swear words were, any sentence that included the name ‘Hohenheim’ was greeted with a response that probably should've come from a pissed off sailor and not a young boy. Sometimes his rants would leave people stunned, and have them wondering where he picked up all this language, especially at his age.
Edward glares daggers into Mustang's back as he leaves, that blonde woman who’s name he didn't catch following closely behind. His nose twitches. She smelled human, a bit like gunpowder. Gunpowder and blood, two scents that oddly complimented each other in context, but not at all when they met a particularly sensitive nose.
"Will you sit in that chair wallowing in self-pity? Or will you stand up and seize the chance the military can give you?"
Mustang’s words hang heavy in his mind, as well as the decision he had ultimately come to. He, quite literally, had made Edward an offer he couldn't refuse. A path had been opened up for him, one he didn't even know was there. Did he have any other choice but to follow it and see where it could take him?
Edward's eyes are full of fire, the inferno raging behind the brilliant golden color of his iris.
-
It’s been a year since their attempt. Edward, lying down in his bed, crosses his arms over his stomach. The feeling of his new automail port, and the arm itself, was foreign to him. It felt cold as the metal limb made contact with the one still made of flesh. He turns his head to stare out of the window, watching the nearly-full moon as it rises higher and higher in the sky, dancing with thousands of stars, netted between the constellations. It tugs on Edward’s soul, like some primal urge buried deep within his core, begging to be released from its cage, for the muzzle to be pried off. Every werewolf in Resembool felt this way at the moment, that force on one’s soul that would only get stronger and stronger until the moon was full, when it couldn’t be contained anymore, and spilled out like an overflowing sink.
Long blond hair spills down over his shoulders and the white pillow under his head, he hasn't cut it in a while. When he would shift, it looked like a shaggy mane on the back of his neck, a far cry from the short ruff of fur he used to have in years prior. He’d been getting better at braiding it, he found that putting it up kept it from getting tangled in anything. That, and he also thought it just looked good. Winry was good enough at braiding to do it for him, but Edward thought he should figure out how to do it himself, especially if he was going to join the military. Winry wouldn't be able to braid his hair for him if he was halfway across the country doing god knows what. That is, if he passed the State Alchemist exam at all. He hoped he would.
No, he will do it. His brother was counting on him to find a way to restore their bodies to normal, and if this is what it took to find it, then so be it. Edward was nothing if not stubborn, almost stupidly so.
Alphonse sits on the other side of the room, reading a book. Lights shine under the armor’s helmet like little red eyes. He can’t sleep. Edward turns his head again to stare upward at the ceiling, contemplating and wondering. Thoughts run through his head, some induced by the moon, some created by his own brain. He settles on one thought, a question.
“Al?” He speaks, though his gaze does not turn. His voice echoes in the room, quiet and a bit subdued. Whether it was due to sleepiness or nerves, he didn't know.
“Yeah, brother?” Metallic plates of armor clank together as Alphonse looks up. His voice is soft, an incredible contrast to the rather hostile look of his new– and hopefully, temporary– body.
“Do you.. Do you still feel it? The moon?” His brother was silent for a moment, as if he was asking himself that question as well.
“...I do. It’s strong, but this body won’t let me change. I’ve tried before.” The armor clinks, signaling to Edward that he’s turned his head somewhat, likely towards the ground. The silence continues. It’s not comfortable. Memories flash in Edward’s head, of him and his brother and their mother, back when all three of them were together. It makes the tug worse. There was so much he wanted to say to his brother, questions and statements that tugged at his mind with much the same intensity as the moon itself. He just couldn't will the words into existence, and they remained caught in his throat, they died on his tongue.
A specific memory plays back in his mind, of their first full moon. As natural-born werewolves, the change wasn't as painful as it could have been, their bodies are already prepared for shifting the moment they left the womb. That wasn't to say it didn't hurt, because it did. The bones in one’s body breaking and reforming, flesh and muscle growing over the altered limbs, nerves sprouting off each other and growing like mycelium under a mushroom, that was bound to hurt.
But the pain Ed and Al experienced was nothing compared to what their mother experienced during her first full moon. Previously, Trisha Elric had been human, but Van Hohenheim was a werewolf. Ed’s mother had told this story to the brothers before, how she had asked Hohenheim to turn her after they had gotten together. They were never married, but they didn't need to be. They didn't need some piece of paper and metal rings to prove their love for each other. Werewolves were incredibly loyal creatures, willing to stick together no matter what, come hell or high water, and so Trisha always waited for Hohenheim. She waited for him, all the way to her deathbed, and he never came back. It made Ed mad, so incredibly mad, to know that he would just abandon them all like that, practically at the drop of a hat. He wondered sometimes what spurred him on to leave, but thinking about it would more often than not just piss him off. He also wondered why his mother wanted to be turned, she never had told them that. But maybe that was because she thought it was obvious. Maybe, she just wanted to be closer to him, to understand him more. Maybe she wanted to empathize with the man she loved.
Ed outstretches his metal arm, examining it in the dark. He splayed the fingers, turned the wrist, closed the hand in a fist and opened it again. It was a bit bulky and heavy, but then again it was a giant hunk of steel and wires, it would be stupid to think it wouldn't be heavy. Winry had done an amazing job with the construction of both automail limbs, even if she had run into a few dead ends regarding the fact that he was a werewolf. His body would change every so often, at the very least once or twice a month, and that change in body structure needed to be accounted for. A transformed werewolf walking around with two limbs that weren't the right size or shape for their body would be inconvenient at best, and dangerous at worst.
So, Winry had to take some creative liberties. It caused a bit of a delay, she had to order some new parts and she ended up having to remake the leg from scratch at one point, but she was able to finally get the mechanism to work. She likely wasn't the first person to make automail for a werewolf that was compatible with the full moon, but the fact that she pulled it off mostly on her own with barely any prior knowledge was something she was very proud of.
"It might be a little slow, to fully change that is," Winry had told him after the arm was attached. "But it should work as intended!"
Recovery from the surgery to attach the ports wasn't exactly the easiest thing to begin with, but it was especially difficult for someone like Edward. His bold 'one year' declaration was met with a surprise- and more than a little concern- from both Winry and Granny Pinako, but ultimately he held fast. Lo and behold, he was right as rain a year later, moving his new arm and leg with relative ease. It was still a little weird, being that he couldn't exactly feel with his arm and leg anymore, but he was able to move and fight just fine. That was all that really mattered. He was just eager to get back on his feet again. When the full moon came around again, he was able to run as a wolf again. Even though it was only a year, it felt like it had been forever since he last ran like this, paws made of metal and flesh thundering along the ground, trampling grass and flowers along the way. He wasn't sure what time it was when he finally got back home from gallivanting around in the countryside, but it looked to be nearing sunrise.
While it felt amazing to finally enjoy the moon again, there was one thing that dampened his mood. He was alone, when he usually wasn't. When he was tracking rabbits in the woods for the fun of it, he heard no twigs snap behind him, no bushes had been rustled as Alphonse stumbled out of them, startling off anything Ed might have caught a glimpse of. There was no golden-furred companion for him this time. Instead, he sat at home, bound in silver and waiting. Ed had darted off so quick, Al couldn't even follow him, as much as he wanted to. He had no way to track his scent either, he had no nose to put to the ground. The howls of werewolves carried all throughout the town, family packs taking into the night under the silver glow of the moon, rejoicing and indulging in their animalistic instincts. Ed even raised his head up at one point, Al could hear him louder than any of the others. He never would go too far.
When Ed turned back on his side, he couldn't see the moon out the window anymore, which meant it was getting rather late. Later than it was previously, at least. He really needed to sleep. Tomorrow was a big day; he'd have to catch the early train over to Central City, and then he'd have to submit an application to take the State Alchemist exam, which he had to go to Central Command for. His new opportunity was waiting for him, just a few hours and a train ride away. His heart pounded in his chest as he thought and thought about it, his brief goal of going to sleep at a reasonable hour drifting farther and farther away from him.
It was then that he remembered the man, doused in blood-stench, that was also going to be waiting for him. It had been a year since he'd last seen the guy, but his scent never left him. Not once. It made him screw up his nose in disgust, it made him want to hurl. He remembered back then he'd likened it to sulfur, and his thoughts have changed little on that matter. Fortunately, he was able to keep his dinner in his stomach. Cleaning vomit off of white bedsheets was not something he wanted to deal with at this ungodly hour of night.
But why did he respond to it like that? He never minded the smell of blood before, so what made this particular scent so revolting? He supposed he could find out whenever he saw the Lieutenant Colonel again. Roy Mustang, even his name felt like acid on his tongue. Where did this feeling come from? It had to have been an instinctual response, he barely even knew the guy that well, he had no real reason to hate him this much. His brain was built for analyzing, but even so it left him stumped. Confused, even.
Hatred and confusion is a pretty interesting mix of emotions, one that Ed doesn't like all that much. He doesn't like not knowing things. He doesn't like feeling confused. He doesn't like Roy Mustang.