XXX
The edges of the yellowed photograph curl as his shaking hands lift it from the long-forgotten box, he gently, tenderly wipes away the caked layers of dust, a course reminder of how many years the shoe-box of outdated photographs had remained hidden.
The shorter man in the photograph had a look of untapped greatness about him; a wary, commanding sort of glare, with obsidian eyes that held no mercy. There was strength about him, in his stature, his uniformed muscles; the smirk playing upon his lips, as if he was hiding a grand secret only he was privy to know. The photo showed his youth, the skin smooth and flawless, and only the dirt from the surrounding desert marring perfect flesh. The photograph was a reminder of what he was before, before he had become cold and calculating, before he had dedicated his life not to himself and those around him, but to a title and rank; a life of privileged servitude.
The taller man in the picture was of stark comparison to his companion. His honey eyes were soft and friendly, half-hidden behind rectangular frames, but unable to lose a single lick of warmth and velvety kindness. His smile was open, and from a single curve of lips one could tell immediately that he was not in his position for grandeur, or rank, but for the love and amiability he had for his fellow companions. His arm was slung companionably around the shorter man's shoulders, his dog tags dangling heavily over his heart and his ripped and stained uniform jacket unfastened and falling below the frame of the photo.
The man's hands shook ever so slightly as he brought the photo closer to his eye, the lack-luster sable orb losing its shimmer as the man progressed further in age, further toward the inevitable finish of his existence. As he stared, the forgotten memories of long-lost years bruising his heart, damaging it in a way no physical anguish could.
He'd loved the other man in the photo. Loved him the way a man loves his woman.
He'd never voiced his emotions or acted upon them, instead opting for safe silence. He promised himself that he'd let his fledgling adoration flourish in the future, when neither party was in imminent danger each day, when each had secured himself a permanent position in the military…when each were able to sleep at night without worrying his throat would be slit in the hollow hours of nightfall.
That future had never come to pass, cut short by a foul assassination that none had foresight to predict. His fingers tightened on the edge of the dogged photograph as his heart clenched in pain, a slow tightening, a loss of breath and a cold lump lodging itself painfully in his too-dry throat.
"I never had the chance to tell you…" His voice was frail, thin and papery in the empty confines of his attic, the musty and disused space effectively closing off and hiding all the painful secrets of his military past. "I felt as though I had forever to tell you, but Goddamn it, I didn't." His shoulders sloped, ashen skin almost translucent in the brittle lamplight.
His heart hurt, the aching pangs of remembered loss, uncovered in a dirty shoebox in a forgotten corner of an old dusty attic.
"I have everything," Roy said softly, remembering his long, fruitful military career, his intelligence and ingenuity a proven asset to his country; the woman busily making dinner downstairs, their marriage quickly gaining on its twentieth anniversary; the two lilting, fair-featured daughters, hair as dark as night with intellects as sharp as his own busy with their various studies; the beautiful house, the memorable life many other men would murder for…
"But you." He finished lamely, his heart a void, his hands replacing the photograph in its forgotten cradle, the vivid ache of memories too much for a single painful day.
XXX
AN: I don't own FMA, I simply make the characters more angsty.
This is a bit of change from my usual stuff...it was written for my cousin on a whim. She enjoyed it, so I guess that's all that matters.
