To be so enamoured with the need to know, it must be painful. He's studying me like some bizarre creature. I have never felt this way before. I love it, but hate it too. It's tormenting.
Sometimes when I look at her it doesn't feel deep enough. Part of me wants to be that deeper meaning, or at least the man who finds it. But who can I do that if she won't let me in? Doesn't she know? Doesn't she know how painful this is?
Sometimes I think he'd fall apart without me. It's funny really, almost brings a smile to my lips. Without me what would he be? How big a blow to the ego that would be. Not that he doesn't have one substantially large enough to take the hit. I know he hurts. I can see it in his eyes, his face, the way he moves, the snap of his fingers. How do I let him know he could hurt without me and be just fine.
When I watch her move it is captivating. Always. She has an unacknowledged grace that I'm certain she would deny herself. A flow. It channels through her, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her fingers. Through the gun as she pulls the trigger. I don't believe in magic, no alchemist does. Fact and science rule the world and that is the one truth. Equivalent exchange. She knows that law well, the give and take. But there is something otherworldly about her, something magical. Whether I like to believe it or not.
When he talks it's always in that voice. The tone and timber change and shift, but it's always that voice. His voice. Indescribable somehow. I've never heard a voice like his before. I'm inclined to call it magical, but anyone with a brain shouldn't believe in such things. There's no magic in this world, only life and death. He taught me that. There are only extremes. Where magic chooses to fall in the middle is where it fails. You always have to choose and your options are always limited. But I will always choose him, if only to hear that voice always. I'll be damned if there isn't something magical about that.
I hate to see the hurt that casts shadows in her eyes. Burdening her is never my intent, but always my result. I feel as though I am failing her. A cheater caught redhanded stealing the answers off her paper. She becomes just as guilty as I and for that I can never be forgiven. I won't drag her down with me, with my vileness.
I hate to see the way he haunts himself in his dreams. The nightmares are always scrawled across his face, frowns and twitches smashing through serenity. I just want him to get the rest he so deserves. A few minutes of quiet peace. I can't help but feel as though I am the source of his distress. The more he wants me near the more I push him over the edge, I know this. It is written on his face while he sleeps. What a vile creature I am.
I feel brash saying love for love is nothing more than a feeling. A man can only follow his gut for so long before he must seek out reason. So where I am to look for such deep thought? She makes my mind so foggy and yet she is the reason I fight. I know what I am is for her. If love is a mere feeling of deep affection, what is its thoughtful counterpart? How can I take away the sentimentality and replace it with true meaning? Where is the equivalent exchange in that?
I feel like if love is to be true it should be a pure feeling. A woman can muddle it up with too much thought, contemplate too much the faults and benefits. It's laughable because I know that he puts no thought into he. He acts only on emotion and I have a deep respect for that. For him. I want to abandon thought for a while. For him. I want the freedom of just feeling, no more calculations. No checking the wind resistance, aiming, figuring targets, trigger pressure. It's all consuming, thinking, and it leaves so little time for love.
If I'm going to let go of her I want it to peaceful. No bad blood between us, that's how it should be. Preferably. I believe myself to be a strong man with passion for my goals. If I am to strive for excellence I don't want anyone I care for getting caught in the crossfire. I am not fond of using good people, people with potential. They are best left to seek out their own meaning. She has great meaning, I can see it in her. Should I give her up, it will be for the best, for her to seek out a better life.
If I'm going to chip through that ego I can't let my resolve falter. Sometimes it's difficult to care for stubborn people. My father was that way, my mother too for how little I knew her. Set in their ways, in their minds, immovable. He is like that but different. He is like a river, ever flowing forward with force, but he is malleable. He can change his course to suit occasion. That is the kind of stubborn I need, for I have inherited the worst of my father's traits. I will not give up on him because I need that malleability from him and I am far too stubborn.
To be stuck like this is a pain. I think, surely, that if we say more through a look there is something here. But what? I have never felt this way before. I hate it, but it is too intriguing.
To be so enamoured with the need to know, it must be painful. He's studying me like some bizarre creature. I have never felt this way before. I love it, but hate it too. It's tormenting.
"Lieutenant, I want you to accompany me to Eastern Command." Roy's words are practiced, stiff. Hours in front of the bathroom mirror.
"I think I can do that, sir." Riza smiles to herself when he's not looking.
The room is silent. They are both so caught up in their thoughts that they hardly notice how their breathing synchs. The way they both smile affectionately in the opposite direction. They can't see it and nor do they want to. For now, they are both content with serenity.