Tequila, Rose and Cigarettes: Prologue
Ed knew that his posture left something to be desired—years of hunching over textbooks and notes with no regard to self lent to that inevitability, yet he never felt it more than in his nights spent on the town with Mustang's men. Habit now, more than desire, drew Ed to the local bar where the office would collectively get their kicks after the humdrum of military day-to-day life was abandoned. One drink turned to three or five and by that point even Hawkeye was sporting a small smile; every member, even Mustang himself, indulged in the simple social ritual. Falman and Breda had an easy slouch as they sipped their beer, relaxed, yet still tight at the shoulders—a product, perhaps, of their years in the service. Havoc with characteristic cigarette always lit lounged always to the left, letting one long elegant arm, tobacco clutched lovingly between his fingers, trail the ground as he nursed his gin and tonic. Hawkeye was the picture of control, even in the summer heat, as her crisp blue jacket lay upon her slim shoulder rather than the back of the chair, like the rest of the men had done... her slow appreciation for her single glass of merlot (no more than one, despite how long they lingered) lent an air of sophistication, easy to see when accompanied by her ramrod posture and graceful grasp on the stem of her glass. Hughes sat close to his friend, touching Mustang's wrist to punctuate a particular detail in his story... green eyes matched blue with equal humour and friendship, and Ed found himself bristling at their closeness, longing to worm his way into the confidence of the impenetrable life of the Brigadier-General. In fact, even Mustang was the picture of friendliness (albeit that so of a superior) as he knocked back whisky after whisky, always neat and never acting out of bounds, no matter how far in he got in to the night. He conversed easily with his subordinates and best friend with an easy charisma born from a man that never knew inadequacy.
To his mind, it seemed that only Ed was the odd man out, with his single shot of tequila heating over sadly melting ice cubes. He nursed his drink, not ready for the grass of fuzzy alcohol stupor that would eventually break down his impeccable façade. Ed wasn't dressed for the military, nor did he care that his lazy demeanour set him apart from the others. His family, big as it may have grown with the addition of Mustang's office, didn't need appearances to dictate inclusion. Ed, of course, felt off without Al's presence—yes he came, but only on weekends when classes didn't occupy his mind and time—and when he was there Ed had to be particularly wary with his gaze, lest it fall upon the object of his obsession. Not that Al would mind... his little brother cared nothing but for his happiness, however, when happiness was so ostensibly out of reach Ed felt compelled to ease the hurt, not just from his own soul, but also that of his newly human brother's.
Ultimately, Ed felt alone. Not because of exclusion, mind you, but because of the low, simmering spark in his stomach, something that refused to be ignored. Every night at the bar was absolute torture as he sat mere feet away from the man that had stolen every conscious thought and invaded every waking dream—Mustang. Ed had seen the attraction coming a mile away; starting as a childhood crush and then blossoming into something more as the chase for the stone and the search for Al's body faded away into blissful past. The fact of the matter was that the eldest Elric was loathe to spend any time more than necessary around the Flame Alchemist because he simply couldn't handle the raw need that dragged upon his nerves.
Roy—no, Mustang—was a ladies man at heart, and there wasn't a chance in hell that he shared the same proclivity toward male flesh that Ed did. It was a perversion, one that should be studiously avoided, if the general sentiment of Central was to be believed. Ed did not believe that. Night after night these easy social gatherings took place, oblivious to the longing glances cast from aureate eyes upon the marble and sapphire god that was an untouchable commanding officer. And so Fullmetal sat, cushioned between the warm comfort of Havoc and Hawkeye, spared from most conversations, save for the most simple pleasantries. He was free to watch with a careful eye, every action and reaction of his closest threat sparked across his nerves, each individual gesture igniting a new flame, a new facet open for observation.
Ed inevitably lost himself amidst the dull heat of his own troubled fantasies as he quietly observed the dark haired enigma that was his superior. Thank god he wasn't know for being egregious, or the game would be up. All he had to do now was wretch his attention elsewhere wand find another object to be obsessed upon. We'll see how that goes.