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Edward Elric was the type of guy that used to judge anyone who smoked. Maybe it was related to his own struggle with his body — butchered, with two limbs less and hands that had committed human transmutation. It was only logical for him to criticize anyone who would put tobacco and nicotine and whoever-knew-what-was-inside-those between their lips, burning the bronchial tube and the throat, lips and teeth included. It affected plenty of systems, enough to make Edward make an educational judgement about anyone who would choose to corrupt their body like that.
That was, until he started to share his free time with General Roy Mustang. Three years after The Promised Day, Edward had asked to get his job back, if there was a possible career for a State Alchemist without alchemy. The General had smiled warmly, offering his watch back and getting him started on the Investigations team. It was only a matter of time until he began sharing space with Mustang — at first accidentally, meetings and quiet talks about what to research next. About Ed's next objective. Then came questions about Alphonse, that lovely blonde girl from Risembool, Miss Winry and Pinako. Then Teacher. His father. His own mother and the memories Edward held close to his chest, childhood innocence lost forever.
Edward asked back, always trying to know more about Roy in return. It was only fair to get information, in retribution. Equivalent exchange and all that.
Edward fastly learnt about Madame Christmas, about Vanessa and all the girls from the brothel. All Mustang's adopted family and sisters. He found out about flame alchemy, how the bastard had wanted to learn how it worked and how to do it by himself. How alchemy had won his heart by seventeen, and how his ability turned to be a weapon to kill thousands of human beings. How much the General had to switch his hatred from his superiors to a manageable rage to change the system from inside.
In those conversations, first in the office but slowly but surely changing settings to Madame's bar, Edward noticed the General bastard smoked — not the usual industrial ones, but rollies. Not a lot, if he compared it with someone like Havoc, who in the worst of times would smoke a pack of 20 in a day (even if that comparison was unfair — Jean had became handicap in the middle of the conflict with the Homunculi, and his legs never worked the same, even with the philosopher's stone).
Mustang would smoke one or two in a five-hour conversation with Edward, usually between glasses of whiskey. He would light it with matches he kept hidden inside his uniform, and he would smoke it slowly, almost dragging the time between every puff. The smoke would get out of his mouth in a thin line, lips opening slightly. He would always apologize to Edward about it, even if they were out and smoke didn't even get near the blond's lungs.
Edward Elric could smell it, of course he could. Tobacco was almost sweet on his nose, something between coffee and bitter. Ash and burnt.
Edward wondered if he had picked the habit back on Ishval, or if it had been after it. If he had learnt how to roll cigarettes by himself, or if Hughes had taught him after a harsh day in that living nightmare. If he'd had trembling hands the first time, paper-filter and tobacco stuck between sweaty fingers. If the war had damaged him enough to not care at all about his health, or if it had been a death wish; to open slightly the door for illnesses to kill him faster than stress and the military could.
Mustang never gave a hint or even an answer to Ed's questions, always giving him a lopsided smile and a glance that screamed contentment in feeling depressed. Suicidal, Elric would think every time. Maybe smoking was his way to feel less miserable about his nightmares, his paranoia and all the trauma he held inside — Roy never complained about it. He would get in this long ass rant about everything he hated about the military and all he had to change. How everyone lazed around and made his work harder.
Maybe the hope of dying young, leaving a strong foundation out of Amestris was why he kept the habit.
Edward tried the habit after six months in Investigations. It was only natural, to lean onto physical pleasure. Whiskey started to taste something besides pure alcohol and he would find himself savouring it, bitterness becoming comforting under his tongue. Roy offered himself to teach him how to roll his own cigarettes, what brands to buy and what paper to use.
"First, you either buy or build your own filter," Roy had explained, folding a tiny cardboard-like paper until it was a cylinder. "Then you take a cigarette paper and hold them together, keeping the filter in one end," Mustang did exactly that, showing him. "And then you take your tobacco and pack it in the middle, until you're satisfied with the quantity." Roy's tobacco was golden, the kind that was expensive and hard to get. Imported from Xing. "I usually try to get as much as I can, but that could change for you and your taste."
Edward didn't have a particular taste.
Mustang finished the cigarette, slowly, licking the paper in a quick movement. Ed couldn't even see his tongue.
"There you have, Edward," Roy offered the cig, smiling softly, eyes even so close and warm. He took another out of his uniform, and lit a match to light both cigarettes.
Tobacco tasted like bad decisions in Edward's mouth, bitter and sweet and like ash. Like he would regret this exact second for the rest of his life, with the image he had in front of him: Roy Mustang, the bastard, wearing his uniform jacket unbuttoned, a dark top hugging his chest. He looked disheveled, hair ruffled and with a cigarette between his lips. Eyes shining, full with regrets and words he could never say out loud. Lips full and pink, chapped and wet with saliva. How much he would like to kill the distance and kiss him.
Edward took one more puff, and after letting the smoke out, he saw how Roy (and when the bastard had gone from Mustang to only Roy in his mind) got closer, impossibly closer.
"Do you like it?" he asked, pressing his free hand to Edward's thing under the table.
"It tastes like shit and ashes, bastard," the insult sounded wrong but Edward didn't have anything better to say.
"That, it does, dear Edward," Roy said. And damn, his name sounded way sweeter than nicotine and tobacco. The blond wondered if there was a way to change the cured leaves on his cig to the way Roy would say his name, thick and sweet like honey, voice deep and throaty.
And wasn't that convenient for Mustang, that Edward realized there and then he was infatuated for Roy's charming personality, his voice, the way he was able to manipulate and get onto people's heads.
Edward drank his glass fastly, drinking the whiskey and hoping it would be enough liquid courage. He took one last puff, leaving the cig over an ashtray the bastard always left on his left side. He took Roy’s cigarette and did the same — no one appreciated losing a cig, even if it was as cheap to do as this one.
The blond took one last glance at Mustang, trying to find any kind of rejection on his body language and just getting something like lust out of the way those dark eyes were staring at him.
Well, Ed thought, fuck it, and kissed Roy with all the bravado and something like too-much-heat. His lips felt soft over Ed's, wet and sweet and tasting like smoke.
Roy kissed like he was on a battlefield — calculating and smooth, teeth biting tongue to make Edward whimper and grabbing him by the neck to move him as he pleased. The other hand, the one that smelled the most to ashes grabbed his thigh and squeezed the skin, fingers stabbing his muscle and sparkling something in his brain that felt exactly like setting something on fire. Flames blazing through his veins, hot and suffocating and comforting in a way that only pain could feel.
And what was one more mistake, pilling up with the other(s) Ed had made throughout his life?
"Come home with me."