A/N: Oddly enough, this story started out as a title. It's kind of odd, really, because I don't buy RoyHavoc at all (It's not bad, I just don't see it - I prefer pairing Havoc with either Riza or Fuery, and Roy belongs to Ed). But I was shelving one day (I LOVE being a library aide), and this title struck me as the perfect title for a RoyHavoc fic. Actually, I can't believe no one's used it before! Anyway, I couldn't come up with a story to go with the title for months (literally), and then a few weeks ago this finally came to me. I like the way its turned out, so far at least. And so you know, this will be a three-shot, no more and no less, so no begging me to update. I'm already in way over my head with my RoyEd fic, The Dance Lesson, so I don't need another long-range story. I hope you like this, though!
Disclaimer: I do own FMA, really I do - just not in this dimension.
I.
If the element of fire belongs to Roy Mustang, smoke belongs to him. And it is strange, Roy thinks, because he never thought of smoke as something separate; there was fire, and the smoke that came from fire, and the two always went together. He never thought that smoke could be an element in itself.
That was before the day a sullen young lieutenant walked in with his transfer papers, saying he was the newest member of Roy's staff. A cigarette hung lightly on his lips even as he spoke. He didn't know then that he would never see his mouth again without it, but he still knew that there was something about the way he smoked that was different from anything he had seen before. He does it intensely, as though it is not a habit or a desire but a compulsion, as though he would be empty and incomplete without it.
Roy sometimes wonders if he could live without his cigarettes. If it is some sort of deficiency, that he cannot take in oxygen, but must fill his lungs with the smoke in order to breathe. It would not surprise him if he needed cigarettes to live; he has made the smoke so much a part of himself.
It was impossible to deny that smoke was a separate entity, once Roy knew him. The smoke defines him. It can always be seen, a faint but perceptible haze that spirals around his head when he sits and trails after him when he walks. No one ever looks for him; they look for the smoke, because he can always be found there. It is easy, too, to tell where he has been, where he likes to drink his coffee and eat his lunch and stop to talk. Any place he frequents soon acquires the dim scent of smoke; not unpleasant or overpowering, just a soft reminder that he has been there.
He wears the same scent, after so many hours spent surrounded by smoke. It permeates his clothing as surely as if it were woven into the fabric; the warm, acrid smell of his uniforms is so familiar that no one notices anymore. The smoke clings to his fingers, too, and his skin, and his hair as it dissipates slowly, so that he wears it on his body like a perfume.
Roy knows that anyone who kissed him would taste the smoke that he breathes, would find their mouth filled with it, would be flooded with the bitter taste that is such a part of him.
Roy thinks it is right that he has chosen to define himself with smoke; it suits him perfectly. He is like smoke in many ways. He is easy to see; he never tries to conceal his actions, his feelings, his dreams. Everyone who knows him knows every plan he makes; knows every girl has fallen in love with; knows that he is a loyal enough soldier to follow Roy into death.
However, he shares another quality with smoke; anyone who tries to touch it, hold it, capture it, ends up closing a hand on empty air. For all his openness, Roy knows that no one knows him as well as they think. They know what he does, but not why he does it. They know about the girls he chases, but not what he looks for; a lover, a wife, a friend, sex, or something else entirely. They know he is loyal to Roy, but not why he follows him, or what he gets out of it. He keeps his motivations and his heart secret, and anyone who tries to look deeper than his surface might as well try to ensnare the smoke.
Before he realized this, Roy sometimes wondered why smoke did not belong to him too, because he was fire, and smoke and fire are parts of one thing. Now he knows better. Fire is one thing and smoke is another. The fire he is named for he creates out of air and nothingness; it burns no fuel and creates no smoke. Roy never thought about that before he met him. Smoke is not a part of his identity. When people think of smoke they only think of him. That is the way it has been, for a long time.
Roy wonders when exactly things began to change.
A/N: If I offered to be your personal slave and perform vile and malicious acts on your behalf, then would you review?