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The rain had stopped three hours ago, but the smell of it still clung to city like a second skin—wet concrete, rusted railings, and the faint ghost of ozone. Colonel Roy Mustang (no, General now, Ed had to remind himself, though the title still felt like gravel in his mouth) stood by the open window of his new office, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigarette burning unattended between his fingers.
Ed watched him from the leather chair that was too soft and too wide, one boot hooked over his knee. He’d been back in the city for less than a day, and already his skin felt too tight.
“You’re staring,” Roy said without turning around.
“I’m thinking,” Ed shot back. “It’s different. You wouldn’t understand.”
Roy’s shoulder moved in a silent laugh. The silver star on his collar caught the weak lamplight. He looked older—not old, never old, but aged in the way good whiskey aged: sharper angles, quieter confidence, less need to prove anything. His hair was still absurdly black, still fell across his forehead in that same infuriating wave. Ed hated it. No. He noticed it. There was a difference.
Or so he told himself.
The problem started two days earlier, at the annual Central Command reception. Ed hated galas on principle—stiff collars, smaller talk, and the particular stench of politicians lubricating their egos with cheap champagne—but Winry had elbowed him and said, “Go. You never see anyone anymore. It’s not healthy.” So he’d gone. Polished his automail. Buttoned his coat. Told himself he was doing this for her.
He found Roy near the bar, surrounded by the usual constellation of uniforms and sycophants. But there was someone new—a woman Ed didn’t recognize. Tall, sharp-jawed, with the kind of efficient beauty that came from good bone structure and better posture. Brigadier General something-or-other from the whatever command. She laughed at something Roy said, and her hand rested on his forearm for just a moment too long.
Ed’s teeth clenched.
Not jealousy. That would be absurd. He and Roy had been—what? Friends? Enemies? Coworkers who occasionally saved each other’s lives and traded insults like currency? They had never defined it, and Ed had never wanted to. Labels were for jars in a pantry.
But when the woman leaned in closer and Roy smiled—not his public smile, not the diplomat’s mask, but the real one, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes—Ed felt something hot and stupid unspool in his chest.
He walked over. Interrupted. Made some crack about Roy’s ego needing its own zip code. The woman raised an eyebrow, excused herself politely, and Ed felt a small, vicious satisfaction.
Roy watched him with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m always in a mood,” Ed said. “It’s my brand.”
That night, lying in the guest room of Roy’s townhouse (because the hotels were full, because the trains were delayed, because shut up), Ed stared at the ceiling and tried to name the thing gnawing at his ribs. Anger? No. He wasn’t angry. Annoyance? Too small a word. Mine, something whispered. He crushed it like a beetle.
The next morning, Roy made coffee. Black, bitter, the way Ed liked it. He set the cup down without asking, and Ed hated how much he noticed that. How much he noticed everything—the way Roy’s sleeves were always rolled now, as if he’d finally stopped caring about impressions; the new callus on his right thumb from signing too many documents; the fact that he’d started wearing reading glasses in private, thin silver frames that made him look less like a weapon and more like a person.
“You’ve been sulking for forty-eight hours,” Roy said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Give me a target or stop wasting the emotion.”
“I don’t sulk. I ruminate.”
“You broke a glass at the reception. On purpose.”
Ed opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it. The glass had been sweating. His grip had been too tight. The woman—Brigadier General Hale, he’d learned her name, had looked up with mild surprise. And Roy had laughed. Laughed, like Ed was a temperamental child.
“She was flirting with you,” Ed heard himself say.
Roy’s expression didn’t change. “People flirt. It’s a social lubricant.”
“You were letting her.”
“I was being polite.” A pause. Roy’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “Why does it matter?”
Ed stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor. “It doesn’t. I don’t care who you—I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s ridiculous. You’re you. I’m me. We’re—we’re colleagues.”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell.
Roy set down his mug. Slow. Deliberate. He crossed the kitchen in four steps, close enough that Ed could smell coffee and old smoke and something underneath—soap, maybe, or just Roy. The proximity made Ed’s automail fingers twitch.
“You’ve been gone for eight months,” Roy said quietly. “You wrote twice. You called once, at three in the morning, and you talked about the weather in Creta for twenty minutes before hanging up.”
Ed’s throat tightened. “I was busy.”
“You were running.” Roy’s voice didn’t rise. It never did, not anymore. That was the worst part. The Roy Mustang Ed had known at seventeen was all fire and ambition and sharp edges. This Roy was a blade wrapped in silk—quieter, deadlier, and far more patient. “You always run when something gets too close.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
The silence stretched. Outside, the rain started again, a soft percussion on the roof. Ed’s heart was doing something stupid—tripping over its own rhythm, the way it used to during fights when he’d pushed his body past every reasonable limit.
He thought about the woman’s hand on Roy’s arm. Thought about the way his stomach had turned to acid. Thought about all those months in Creta, lying awake in cheap inns, telling himself he was fine, he was independent, he didn’t need anyone.
Liar.
“I hate her,” Ed said finally, and his voice cracked on the last word. “I hate that she made you smile like that. I hate that she touched you. I hate that I wasn’t there. I hate—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I hate that I don’t have the right to hate any of it.”
Roy was very still.
“You idiot,” he said, but it came out soft. Almost tender. “You absolute, emotionally constipated idiot.”
“Screw you.”
“You’ve had eight months to figure this out.” Roy reached up, and Ed flinched—but Roy only touched his jaw, thumb resting on the hinge, feather-light. “Eight months of sulking across two countries, and you still can’t say it.”
“Say what?”
Roy’s thumb moved, just a fraction, tracing the line of Ed’s cheekbone. Ed forgot how to breathe.
“That you want to stay,” Roy murmured. “That you want to be where I am. That when you saw someone else take my attention, you wanted to burn the room down.” His eyes were dark, depthless. “Am I close?”
Ed’s hands came up without permission. One flesh, one steel, both trembling. He grabbed the front of Roy’s shirt and pulled.
“Shut up,” he said, and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate and graceless and tasted like coffee and the faint copper of a bitten lip. Roy made a sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then his hands were in Ed’s hair, and Ed was pressed against the counter, and the world narrowed to the slide of mouths and the stupid, perfect warmth of being held.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Ed’s forehead rested against Roy’s. He could feel the other man’s heartbeat—fast, unsteady, nothing like the calm facade.
“You’re a menace,” Roy whispered.
“You like it.”
“I like you.” Roy pulled back just enough to meet Ed’s eyes. “Have for years, you oblivious little shit.”
Ed laughed. It came out wet. “Yeah, well. Took me a while.”
The rain filled the silence. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistled. Ed didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
“So,” Roy said eventually, one eyebrow arched. “Are you going to stay this time, or do I need to start confiscating your boots?”
Ed grinned—sharp, real, the first genuine one in months. “Try it, Mustang. I’ll burn this house down.”
“Promises, promises.”
Outside, the rain softened to drizzle. And for the first time in a very long time, Ed wasn’t running anywhere.