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It began with shrimp.
Just a plate of beautifully arranged, irresponsibly expensive shrimp that Roy Mustang had decided to prepare himself because he was feeling domestic and vaguely triumphant about it.
Ed had been leaning against the kitchen counter of Roy’s townhouse, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching with narrowed eyes as though seafood were personally suspicious. The late afternoon light filtered through tall windows, painting the kitchen in warm gold and making the steam from the pan curl like something theatrical.
“You’re staring at it like it insulted your height,” Roy observed mildly as he flipped another shrimp with deliberate finesse.
“I’m evaluating whether this is edible or if you’re trying to poison me,” Ed shot back, though there was no real venom in it. They had been living together long enough that the rhythm of their bickering felt less like friction and more like a shared language.
“You’ve eaten shrimp before.”
“Not cooked by you.”
Roy placed a hand over his heart. “How wounding.”
Despite his suspicion, Ed ate. He always did, eventually, because Roy cooked like he approached everything else: with precision, indulgence, and a faint desire to impress.
For the first ten minutes, nothing happened.
They moved to the living room with their plates, Ed sprawled across the sofa like a cat who had declared ownership of the space, Roy sitting more properly beside him, though one leg stretched enough to brush against Ed’s thigh. The house felt quiet and lived-in, a far cry from the sterile officer quarters Roy had once occupied. Books lined the walls. Papers threatened to colonize the coffee table. Ed’s boots were by the door in a position that suggested he had kicked them off mid-stride.
“Admit it,” Roy said, sipping his tea. “It’s excellent.”
Ed huffed. “It’s tolerable.”
Then Ed scratched his neck.
It was absentminded at first. A faint irritation. He frowned slightly, rubbing just beneath his jaw. Roy noticed because he noticed everything about Edward, even when he pretended not to.
“Problem?” Roy asked.
“No,” Ed said automatically. Then he scratched again, harder this time, fingers dragging down to his collarbone.
Within minutes, the irritation bloomed into something more aggressive. Heat crept under his skin. His throat felt strange, tight in a way that did not belong to simple annoyance. He shifted upright, expression souring.
“What did you put in that?” Ed demanded.
Roy raised an eyebrow. “Salt. Pepper. Butter. Basic culinary competence.”
Ed opened his mouth to retort, then paused. His tongue felt thick. He swallowed, and it didn’t go smoothly. His brows drew together, confusion replacing irritation. He stood abruptly, plate abandoned on the coffee table.
“Ed?”
“I feel…” He stopped, scowling at his own body as if it were misbehaving out of spite. “This is stupid.”
His skin had begun to flush, red spreading across his cheeks and down his neck in uneven patches. Small raised bumps followed, angry and fast. He tugged at his collar like it had personally betrayed him.
Roy was on his feet now, the ease draining from his posture. “Edward.”
Ed’s breath hitched, shallow. He inhaled again, and it came thinner than it should have. His eyes flickered with something that was not fear exactly, but a sharp awareness that something was wrong in a way that could not be insulted into submission.
“I’m fine,” Ed insisted, which would have been more convincing if he wasn’t visibly swelling around the eyes.
Roy closed the distance between them in two strides. He cupped Ed’s face gently, ignoring the indignant noise that followed. The skin was hot. Too hot. Ed’s lips were tinged slightly darker than usual, and when he tried to speak again, the words came slurred at the edges.
“You’re not fine,” Roy said, voice calm in a way that only happened when the situation was decidedly not calm. “You’re having an allergic reaction.”
Ed blinked at him, affronted. “To what? Milk?”
Roy almost laughed at the absurdity of it. The great myth of Edward Elric and milk allergies had followed him for years, fueled by childhood stubbornness and public tantrums over calcium. But this was not milk. This was something sharper, faster.
“The shrimp,” Roy said.
Ed’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. “I don’t even hate shrimp.”
Another breath, and this one rasped.
Roy did not waste another second. He guided Ed to sit, steady hands despite the acceleration of his own pulse. He moved through the house with brisk efficiency, retrieving the emergency kit he kept precisely because the world had never stopped being dangerous just because they had chosen a quieter life.
When he returned, Ed looked smaller somehow, hunched slightly, eyes glassy and irritated. He was still trying to glare through it, which would have been impressive if it weren’t undermined by the way he leaned instinctively toward Roy’s presence.
“This is humiliating,” Ed muttered thickly.
“Nearly suffocating is a stronger word,” Roy replied, administering the antihistamine and preparing the injection with practiced steadiness. “Hold still.”
“I am holding—ow, bastard.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
The injection worked gradually. The tightness in Ed’s throat eased first, then the sharp edge of his breathing softened into something more manageable. The swelling around his eyes receded by slow degrees, though the rash lingered stubbornly across his skin like an insult that refused to leave.
Roy stayed kneeling in front of him until he was certain the worst had passed.
Ed sagged back against the sofa cushions, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. His hair stuck slightly to his flushed face. His usual sharp energy dulled into something pliant and warm.
Roy brushed a strand of hair from Ed’s forehead. “Well,” he said softly, relief threading through his voice, “that answers that mystery.”
Ed cracked one eye open. “Don’t,” he warned weakly.
“I will never again entertain the milk allergy theory.”
“I was twelve,” Ed grumbled. “Milk is disgusting.”
Roy smiled, unable to help himself. There was something unfairly endearing about Edward like this. Still prickly. Still ready to argue. But softened by vulnerability he would never willingly display.
Ed shifted, then without comment leaned sideways until his head rested against Roy’s hip. It was not dramatic. It was not announced. It simply happened, as naturally as gravity.
Roy’s hand found his hair again, fingers combing gently through golden strands. Ed huffed but did not protest.
“You’re enjoying this,” Ed accused, voice muffled.
“Immensely.”
“Sadist.”
“You were very fierce,” Roy continued lightly. “Glowering at shellfish like it committed treason.”
Ed made a weak swatting motion that lacked any real conviction. His breathing was steady now, though fatigue tugged at him visibly.
“Next time,” Roy said, “we’ll stick to something less… oceanic.”
“Next time you’re cooking something new,” Ed muttered, eyes drifting closed, “you’re testing it first.”
Roy looked down at him, fondness overtaking the remnants of fear that still clung to his ribs. He bent slightly, pressing a quiet kiss into Ed’s hair.
“Yes, Fullmetal,” he said gently. “I’ll risk my life before yours.”