Ed tilted his head down, looked up under Greed's bangs — and there, he saw a familiar, shaky grin.
Ling was an expert at this shit, he really was: making Ed feel too bad to say no to him, throwing out weird, cheeseball compliments that made his cheeks fire and froze his brain before he could brush them off
Stay observant! Amestris needs you!
Hadn't he survived a month on a deserted island when he was ten, equipped only with a little knife and one pair of shorts? He was tough. He was rugged. He could fall asleep anywhere. He could totally do this.
It was honestly not a kiss.
Ed should have remembered this from that month on the island, back when he was a kid: you can only be in the great outdoors so long before you start dreaming of hot showers. And of dumping the people you're travelling with in them.
"There is no corresponding word in your language. There is consort, but most people seem to think that that is some kind of advisory position. Then there is wife, which is a bit closer to the true definition--"
Ling tried to cover his way with sly smiles and clever lines; he played at being a fool (and did it very well), when he was anything but.
It started with Ling's lips simply pressed up against Ed's. Well, of course it did. That was how kisses sort of went, but this was, well, a bit surprising.
He gently turned Ed's head so that he faced the camera, and with just a little luck, Ling would catch that amazing expression Ed always had when he came.
Ling. Ambitious, greedy Ling. He deserved what he got.
It was well known around Central headquarters that Roy Mustang was lusting after the visiting Major-General.
Of course he came through the window.
"Hey, Ed, you're awfully cheery this morning."
Tomorrow: having to talk to fucking Hohenheim. The day after tomorrow: the apocalypse. No pressure, eh?