Prompt: imagine your otp smoking cigarettes as the apocalypse burns down around them. somehow it's their fault. idk. there's probably electro rock playing
"We have to stop meeting like this, you know." The black clad girl smirked and blew out a cloud of smoke.
He chuckled, and when she held out the carton with a raised eyebrow, accepted a cigarette and the lighter. She watched him quietly as he lit up and pretended not to notice her piercing eyes on him. He looked no different than the last time they had run into each other in this war zone. The same long black ponytail, immaculate black clothes despite the constant falling ash and thick smoke, same sharp toothed grin, just like the one he flashed her direction.
She wondered how he stayed the same while she had transformed from caterpillar to butterfly. Then she dismissed the thought as a romantic notion she had no time for. Not in this changed world.
The city she had the run of as a child was nothing more than a husk of itself. The bombs Drachma had dropped three years prior had destroyed East City and the countryside around it. She had no idea what her hometown looked like.
She hadn't been there in ten years, after all.
"When was the last time we met up, Ed?" He asked, lolling against the crumbling cement of an apartment building. Her shorn gold head turned toward him and tipped to the side, quietly inviting him to continue. "Was it when you had a gun to my head in Central? Or helping evacuate Briggs? When was is, doll?" He was mocking her, gently, about their uncanny ability to find each other in a destroyed country. If she believed in anything other than herself and her abilities, she would say it was fate. She knew it wasn't.
She blew a smoke ring at his head in retaliation.
But honestly…it was nice to see him again.
She had been separated from her brother for Truth knew how many years, once he'd gone to Xing and vanished. Winry…well, she'd never truly recovered from having to bury her best friend. Teacher had vanished. The last time she'd seen Mustang and Hawkeye had been before the fall of Central. Perhaps a bomb had got them, she thought morbidly.
She found she didn't care. And that…that disturbed her. Just how much had she changed since the war started?
Soft electric guitar sounds floated through the air, barely heard over the crackling of the fires. Someone's radio still worked and played. Drachma still dropped bombs from time to time. "Hey," he said, stubbing out his cigarette. "I like this song. Wanna dance?"
A hysterical laugh clawed its way out of her throat. He doesn't say anything, but offered her a hand in place of words that wouldn't mean anything. "Sure, thanks, Greed."
The pair would make an awkward, interesting spectacle, waltzing in a ruined city as smoke curled about their bodies, she in her ripped up and bloodstained clothes and he in his circumstance-defying perfect clothes.
If there'd been anyone alive in this apocalyptic world to see them.