One-sided romance is a lonely thing. It is a flurry of wishes and lust, furtive glances and stammered greetings in the places where contact could not be avoided. The hallways at HQ, the cafeteria on the days when his brother decides he wants to eat there, plunking himself down at the table among Mustang's subordinates.
And they all stare, still haven't grown used to the fact that he is no longer the walking intimidation that he had once been; that his soft voice and love of kittens now have a more appropriate image to go along with those traits. And he can do nothing more than blush, avert his eyes, find great interest in the spaghetti on his military issue tin tray and edge closer to his brother, look anywhere but up, where he knows a great lustful demon looms, waiting to devour him.
Infatuation is dangerous.
But if life has taught him anything, it is that going against his instincts always ends badly. Omission could tear a person to shreds, lead them to broken and rubbled substitutes for lives and Alphonse has vowed, a long time ago, to never let his feelings go unspoken.
Such things are easier said than done, however. So he opts for a more subtle approach. Muttered excuse on his lips, claims to a trip to the bathroom and he finds himself three halls over, slipping through the doors to the most familiar room in the building. Note hastily scribbled, slips furtively between the pages of a book, left for discovery, request for a rendezvous in some skanky Central alley later, when the sun has dissipated, left tendrils of dark and cold curling their way around the city.
--
He slips out the door, caution screaming, fear for a sleeping figure; a brother who could wake at any instant, find him gone and demolish the entire city in a desperate search for him. But he has to go; makes his footsteps as light as he can as he creeps down the stairs, hits the pavement with a dull thud of his boots and doesn't stop. He flits his way through the dull orange glow of street lamps and sheltered shadow, feels his breath wheeze in his chest, still not quite used to physical activity, but doesn't pause to catch his breath until he reaches the specified meeting point.
He leans against the alley wall, air hissing through his teeth, and observes his watch carefully. Three minutes to go. And they march by in a maddeningly slow procession, stealing his sanity a second at a time.
Three minutes pass, and three more, and the streets are empty and there is nothing but the harsh neon of the signs hang above the doors of bars and the sweep of bitter chill drifting through the alley to keep him company. He feels his optimism slip through his fingers, lets five more minutes pass, and turns to go.
The sound of running stops him, harsh boots striking against damp pavement, and Alphonse's breath catches in his throat, heart jumps a mile and he knows who it is when the footsteps slow just before the mouth of the gap between the two buildings. He draws in a steadying breath, steels his resolve and thrusts a hand out into the street, fingers groping, finds jacket lapels and tugs the figure towards him.
Eyes screw shut, lips collide, tongue slipping forward, forcing it's way into a warm mouth that tastes of...tobacco?
This isn't Fuery...
Alphonse's eyes fly open, hands fisted in the man's jacket pushing him away, mouths break apart with a gasp of surprise and he looks up to find not black hair and eyes framed by glasses as he's been expecting, but blonde hair and blue eyes; eyes that are as wide as saucers, mouth hanging open in the most obvious expression of shock Alphonse has ever seen.
Slowly, Havoc reaches into his pocket, draws out the note Alphonse had scrawled earlier and extends it towards the boy. "Y-you wrote this?" He asks, when he finds his voice.
A pause, mind groping for an explanation, awkward laughter to fill the gap. "Yeah, about that," Alphonse says at last, feeling his cheeks blaze even as he opts for honesty, "Look. It was a mistake. That note was was supposed to go to someone else."
"Who?"
"Why do you want to know?" The mortification is slowly sinking in. He wants to bury his face in his hands and pretend he has not just kissed this man. He wants to go home and fall asleep and never leave his bed again. He officially fails at romance, he thinks.
"Look, after a kiss like that..." Havoc pauses, lights a cigarette with a chuckle, "I wanna know who I'm supposed to be jealous of."