Hi this is Roy.

Prologue: some misconceptions you have about us

misconception one.

I haven't known Riza Hawkeye as long as you think I've known her. Our lives seem eternally entwined, but to be honest we were more awkward nobody, strangely forced acquaintances when we buried her father. I was a bottled up mess when she first impressioned on me and all I could think of was: I can't really call you miss hawkeye? could I? He just died, my defacto father, master and maker and I'm so unused to saying that name to her particular face. I mean, master Hawkeye kept his family away from alchemy for good reason, and it was predictable that miss Hawkeye didn't know anything about me. Cue overly formal dialogue, where we both exchange light on recent events (master hawkeye dying midshout, etcetera) and tangential details like my job her job etcetera h. sheesh.

'thankyou mister Mustang.'

'It's no problem, please contact me if you need help.'

We were silent over graves.

Misconception Two

There is no heroism in how I joined the military. The young men you see in the streets, have boils in their eyes, to avoid enlistment. Partial blindness- the way people talk! I only said I wanted to be all heroic soldier, but don't buy any of it.

Being a talented alchemist paid ridiculously well, and it kept my droves of sisters afloat amidst raids and curfews. I could pay for a decent funeral, and I could live somehow with a clean conscience. This was what I wanted to so badly for him: yes master, becoming state alchemist will make you the state's property; but they will protect you like you are their property. You will be safe as long as you are an asset, and you will be paid well and you would receive medical priority for your ailing wife. Yes' a dog of the military' but you will survive the war, frankly you would live forever, master?

But then that day:

His wife is dead.

He is almost dead.

Forever is an incorrect concept.

My master following the flow of the argument breathes his very last: take the last of my research, and make my daughter not-dead then. And now maybe you'll see how thick and systematically complicated 'take-care-of-my-daughter-commitment' would mean.

But as always, I was wrong. She took care of me.

Third

There was a supposedly sexual encounter in which I seduce out of her the final cipher of her father's research, post funeral. An no matter how arousing this particular reverie quite is, (I mean, I understand it's popularity) It didn't happen. I mean, you saw us over her father's graves, we were overly awkward strangers not flirts. Not childhood sweethearts, oh god I am so sorry!

All the 'getting' I got was stacks of cold papers in the trunk of my car, and in all screaming technicalities: I didn't really get the whole damn research. Just like the original master Hawkeye, she gave me the techniques fundamentals leading me on thinking well yeah, I'll be flame alchemist. But in truth, the Hawkeyes always had the last piece, always held the gun, one key cipher not written in paper. Because any remotely sexual encounter would come much much later. And i think you'll be happy about this, right ?

Part one

Every nerve in my body was utterly confused,shellshocked with how to feel. There is misguided notions that we feel things one at a time, and here is gleaming proof that I felt plenty varied, standing outside her house about to leave with the engine of my car running.

guiltyexcited, gutted from loss, ecstatic for research to sing and dance, looming doubt with my morality, I mean was that philanthropy or bribery? the whole paying for bruial services? aching hypocrisy, anxiety and escalating levels of 'reeking sad'.

Forget the promises, or my weak approximation of this plain faced blonde. I'm dead sure of this: She buried both her parents within a span of a week, and it's unhinging -our striking similarity. I know how you feel, and I can't stand it, this house so suddenly empty a weakening of the chest. This face she has has when she says goodbye, marking a polite end to the necessary acquaintance. Stop it please. I can't leave you, even if I tried. I banged at the door.

'Miss hawkeye! miss Hawkeye!' (no answer)

'You shouldn't spend the night alone' I spoke through the hinge.

'Please. My sisters, (I know your are lonely) please my sisters, I promise you, are very very good company.'

'You Roy boy! are absolutely no fun' my sisters easily accused me. Colored drinks crowded our table, and the drunken stupor made my head feel both light and heavy. It's no fun Roy boy to drink self-blame for the death of a mentor, They looked at each other and laughed. It's no fun you're no fun, when no less than miss Elizabeth (your mentor's daughter!) is right beside you.

They're offended by our formality ,'how awful!just awful!' and jammed me to her side. You should at least be friends! They taunt and I don't feel anything but this numbness as a reaction to aforementioned mixed convoluted emotions. I have the research. He died. He died.

'Do it Roy!'

They announce screaming too loud, and fuss around the booth.

'Do what exactly Vanessa?' Me being bullied by my adopted siblings was thankfully amusing for miss Hawkeye. 'The four surefire questions that would get Roy –absolutely any woman.' There were loud laughs and outright demand for my live demonstration. They were just so noisy. I feigned reluctance; 'I mean I can't do it on my sisters'

'Try them on me.'

To my surprise miss Hawkeye asked me to do it, well. On her.

Eghm ehm. Okay.

I cleared my throat and draped my arm across her shoulders, putting my drunk face in close intimacy with her round brown eyes. I'm superfluous when I'm drunk , I whispered 'Elizabeth' with what allure my miserable heart had left.

'Do you have a boyfriend?.' She answered no, with a smile. The audience reeled, and made gesture of fixing my collar, I made a face that meant we were in business. 'Well now'.. I asked the next question

'Do you find men in uniforms.' I sweep my hand dramatically across the blue, currently creased jacket- 'Attractive?' My sisters kicked the seats. Miss Hawkeye is finding it hard to contain her laughter. This is ridiculous.

'Uhm, no mister mustang, uniforms are not my thing.'

'Do you find me attractive?' I quickly countered.

'Wait what.' I hold her gaze.

'Maybe.' I raised my fists; me and my sisters knew entertainment. And the ruckus they made was almost enough to wipe away my grief good lord, 'The last question Roy the last!'

'Do you believe the philosopher's stone exists? lead into gold?'

'metaphorically yes' she took a swig of alcohol, I well I didn't know what I expected.

My sisters cried coward breaking the silence, that's not fair! not part of the game, put back your arm over her shoulders, you're supposed to go through with the real questions you dolt-

'Wait, mr. Mustang what was the real fourth question?' As if it were of any significance miss Hawkeye. I think to myself, totally unimportant. But if it pleases you:

"I'm supposed to say 'can I kiss you right now?' then I do this". I leaned over and kissed her on the lips with no mock intimacy that was required for the usual surefire skit. She kissed back, it lasted longer than expected. and wow.

I said sorry, tore my hands away from her, then blamed the alcohol really.

I reminded her to contact me when I dropped her off back to the empty house.

But you're not obliged to help me mister mustang her voice says. I don't want your pity, her eyes whisper. She insists that it's been the nth time that I get off her porch and get away.

I said I wasn't on her porch: I was on her fucking welcoming mat.

(That would be funny later on.)

She snarled in frustration, and slammed the door to my face. At least tried to when I lodged my foot through the doorway (hey I get it you strong stubborn woman. It's inevitable that I'll be leaving you alone, I'm assigned in the camp for crying out loud and you are so rude and stubborn and sad and I'm just as confused as you and can we at least try to sort this out?)

I grip the door open.

'You're a dog person. right? You like them?'

She eyed me quizzically looking for something to snap back with.

'Okay perfect. Get yourself a dog and I'll stop pestering you.'

Then I did close the door, and I did leave her alone because that's what she wanted and I know that's what I wanted when my father died. I wanted to be alone and not alone all at once and all at the same time, and you manage to kind of pull off a paradox and move on.

She named it black Hayate, the dog I mean.

She doesn't admit it but after that incident, I feel I earned a bit of her faith.

She loved that dog, and every time I see her with him, I'm reminded that I did at least one thing right in this world.

I believe people forget how groundbreaking master Berthold's research was. His progress in scientia, thermodynamics is common knowledge to khemysts now, but you must understand that when I suddenly showed up with these papers, at camp, I was shot into stardom. I was a worked to the ground asset, and I was branded the most troublesome alchemist to the state's enemies. Not that I could blow anything up yet, but let me tell you, it was an economical and technological boon for my redesigns of smelting plants that are twelve times safer and more efficient. I contained the volatile gasses! But no one notices stuff like that.

I was suddenly critical-too-important in the moment, that I had alchemists bribing me for the research papers.(like they could read it right? But I coded my notes on them anyway, I was Berthold's protégée for a reason). And every time that I did look at those papers, in the privacy of my room with only Maes (my roommatebestfriend) to look on, he would tease:

'It's like you're looking at a love letter'

'I'm only coding coding my notes like a love letter, there's a difference'

'No but the way you look at it, It's like you're looking at a love letter. '

(I breathe heavily)

'This research is elegant, you don't understand.' I feigned welling eyes.

But pretty much, yeah, I was thinking of her. And through my tired dense mind I made the sudden realization that those same alchemists might go after her. And I was gripped with panic that I suddenly understood the dangers of heartbreak. I just had to literally break out of camp and find an excuse to talk to her.

'I'm fine.' (Okay, no, yea-?)

'You don't understand, this research is too important. They will coerce, bribe and do anything for it, you're not safe.' and I was stumbling on the phrases, out of breath.

'I'm Berthold Hawekeye's daughter. I'm always not-safe.' she says calmly.

'But in the worst case? you should look fo-'

'I shoot them in the head'. And she pulls a gun out with eerily graceful fashion as if to comically demonstrate the point.

'You don't know how to use that.'

'try me.' She cocks her head.

So that's how it happened, that a train ride away from camp I was drinking beer with miss Hawkeye and was positioning the emptied bottles on benches 100 of yards away in empty fields that dotted miss Hawkeyes hometown because

'okay you can't possibly hit that, with a rifle! MISS HAWKEYE' I mean, she has to be drunk by now and that amount of skill isn't just acquired by provincial ladies anBANG. I hear the clear shatter of the bottle, and my shattered dignity and I guess the Hawkeyes are not done being the master of me, and she almost knows this I think: with this almost imperceptible wry smile. And this is how Miss Hawkeye, yes, my unlikely other master Hawkeye, is a good woman friend who instructs and thoroughly embarrasses me in manly man marksmanship.

BANG. A tin can clacked to the ground.

I escape to her, on my off days in work, so that she could supposedly make sure I can handle 'coercion, bribery blah blah blah'. She explains. BANG clk harassment, bribery clack coercion nag clk are typical when BANGclk a crazed civil alchemist knowingly resists state orders to submit important research. The state. BANG BANG BUGHk. clkcck (She reloaded a magazine) the state would use any leverage, any weak point, any BAGHck mrs. Hawkeye and a ms. Hawkeye (sympathetic family) that BANG clack conveniently don't know any alchemy. "defenseless "etc.

She likes that I could supply her with new guns and ammo. She also likes hitching on pickup trucks to find more interesting expanses to shoot bottles and tin cans. She also thinks she messed up, with her mom getting sick.

It was in an abandoned town of Duazu, in this sugar mill, when her non talkative self told me how she liked shooting colored glass when she was smaller, pretended she was making thousands of precious stones. But that was personal, she bites her lip and she is saying too much. Already, I knew her favorite hiding places a pickup ride away, she had already said too much. We better get back to work.

She laid out an old bench out at the open sky, in the open land, setting tin cans and glasses that seemed to meet the horizon from far away. Today it was, aqua striped above the yellow rock. She handed me a loaded gun and told me to take aim.

My work stress felt so petite now, that one missing cipher my superiors were harassing me about. I was too embarrassed to concentrate let alone hit the damn bottle that was too far away. Not a single hit,not a single near hit, I'm going nowhere. I couldn't reach her.

'You're right.'

Yes. 'I know.' if it not be so inexplicably obvious.

'I meant You're drifting to the right' she said, seated on that carton box in this dingy warehouse that was big and wide that it felt like a cathedral.

'Oh.' I wasn't paying attention.

And though we vented frustrations on tin cans on a far off bench underneath a wide expanse of sky - she chided me for' lacking your focus mister mustang, you're losing your aim mister mustang.' I was offering the gun when she physically braces poor mister mustang into a correct stance and chided me to calm my breath. She was so close to me I could feel the heat of her body pressed against mine, when my fingers loosened into the trigger and my hand positioned the gun to take aim. Focus. Remember what you're protecting sir.

Bang, then a resounding clack on the far off distance.

Bull's eye, shot through the heart, cupid's arrow, whatever you call it.

Why am I so flustered in practice? I really like her calling me sir.

notes from a general's biography:

The war is desperately muddle, confusing and chaotic business. All materials of war are required to a have a certain solidity, a high margin beyond normal breaking strain. All other materials unnecessarily solid.

'The raw material in which a general must deal with is man. Industrial managers don't seem to get this. They think raw materials are things like iron ore or cotton or rubber. But an army [a nation] is made of people ...'

'An army must be made as hard as steel in battle and can be made so. ...armies are the most sensitive instrument, easily damaged. fragile. To handle an army well it is essential to understand . . .'

It sounded pretty much like alchemy.

Roy has met Gracia.

Of course he's met Gracia, if it be the last thing that Maes Hughes does before he goes to war. You have to meet Gracia, his small courteous wife who is so ineffably kind. After that I had it lying to Maes, I had it with him assuming that Clarice, or Amanda or heck even think that Vanessa would be my future wife every time they drop by the base to say hello. We've been in training together for three years now. So okay, Hughes.

'I'll admit it okay,: They're my adopted sisters, I'm an intelligence officer. They work at a brothel as a cover. I'm not in a relationship with any of them.'

The words sink through his head like stone.

'mm. so I was always right.'

'no you are never right.'

'it's that Hawkeye'

'the who?'

'You heard me. The girl you think of when you stare misty eyed into those research papers' his eyes grow wider now. 'I knew it!' he leaps around like the child boisterous in the seat, I can't believe I've let him drive. I wholly regret this. He didn't laugh; he did't mock: it's odd because he was in this genuine excitement and sheer happiness I just so wanted to hit him. Or just do something cruel to him. He stopped talking for a second only to smile at me mockingly.

'Okay, okay. I'll ask about her later.'

It lasted, for like, ten minutes.

'So then, we need to talk about why miss Hawekye is avoiding you, right?'

'Do we have to?'

'Yes, two months of you moping about has to stop.'

'...'

'Roy, just say it'

'I think she has the last missing cipher, the one I was telling you about. She's hiding it from me, I think because it's too dangerous.'

'She hiding it from you, cause she loves you'

I shot a glance at him. likeIi don't know how to reply.

'She's too guilty about strapping a bomb to someone she already knows so well. and heck if someone did love you they'd tell you to give up this flame alchemy bullshit. So yeah Roy, quit it, stop it, give up already you'll get killed.' Maes as usual sounded as authoritative as a mother, and as insistent and bonafide as any other could be.

'God, Maes (I could feel my literal brows knotting) this was my masters great work, the magnum opus, you don't understand.'

'Well you want your master's magnum opus?!'

'Sure!'

'You want a freaking philosopher's stone that turns lead into gold?

'Why not?!' (this was sarcastic)

'Well I have it right here.' He jabbed at my chest with his fist. 'Solid gold. That's your master's magnum opus, if you know anything about alchemy.' We were tightlipped after that short-lived argument. This. This is why people will never know how much I miss my dead best friend.

I have one regret. If you could call it that.

I was staring outside her house all dressed up, my head a little whoozy with borrowed confidence and with the biggest smiles. I was being pushed around my Maes, Everyone tended to do this these days.

You know, getting married and all.

And maybe I should and I shouldn't and even if I failed in all things I could fall back on hughes favorite phrase. At least I can call myself a husband, I'm a lover. I peer though the glass, guessing at what she was doing or what she'll say what she'll do if it's such a big deal. I think I can almost see her. I'm rendered immobile.

'You're kidding me.'

'I'm not. I literally can't feel my legs Maes.'

'what's wrong.' he asks

'maybe, I just can't talk to her'

'oh gaddamit Roy we need to get moving !'

And this was how I went to Maes' wedding without a date. For crying out loud roy! Maes would yell. It's just a date. The wedding I tell you, was definitely beautiful.

To be clear. I had topnotch marksmanship skills, She was still avoiding me, She still made it impossible for me to talk to her, I wanted so badly to reach out to her

But read this: She called. Me.

I identified her voice immediately (of course), and easily under the layer of formality, knew she was agitated, worried and slightly paranoid.

'Mister Mustang, my father's birth certificate. Berthold is not his real name! And I know this seems out of nowhere but, if you have any information on this, I would literally give you a state alchemist's watch right then and there. I know this sounds absurd but'(this was more words than she says in a day, I found it wholly endearing that she's stumbling on words right now, like a torrent, a cascade drowning our previous silences..)

'Wait, I know exactly what you're talking about'

She stops.

'I'll tell you about it, if you show up with the watch' It was a tease, a conjecture, a bait but she said:

'I'll be at your lab this afternoon'

She hung up.

What was typed on the sheet of paper I offered to miss Hawkeye upon seeing her in my lab:

Pierre Eugène Marcellin Berthelot (25 October 1827) was a french khemyst with a scientific commission on thermodynamics research for applications on the franco prussian war. He pioneered the fields on saltpeter extraction , and nitrogen compounds. Notable are his studies on mechanisms of explosions, how slow flames can have abrupt accelerations under pressure, and subjected to gaseous mixtures. Most notably Pierre Berthelot was adamant to the press that his explosives research would have Peacetime applications.

'Simply put, he was your father's ideal, and he named himself after him to always stand by that virtue of hope in peaceful application of science. Explosives research not necessarily being evil' I looked at her stoic face, which took skill to discern, but she was distraught. She reads it again. 'This guy is real?'

'Uncanny similarity right?'

Now I wasn't expecting it -but she did hand me a state alchemist's watch tucked into her side pocket, placed it on the table. It was my turn to have my head turning,with this most unlikely genuine thing, so still like a cold fist.

'How did you get this?'

'Read it' (I did: Berthold Hawkeye Flame Alchemist)

I stopped.

'But he never joined the military.'

'That's what he made you believe.'

I let it sink in, picture my master in a uniform. No, never. What? She seemed to want to be talking, but thought carefully of her words.

'My father loved my mother very much.' was the way she started.

'And he thought that maybe the military could save her when she was dying. He'd offer his loyalty and beloved research as long as they just fucking save her. She was his weakness. But she died, and he was also dying because she was his other half and you don't live when you lose half of your body. (sounds just about right) He just withered, I can't stand it. That's why I never bothered to tell you about it.' She motions me to get the watch. I could discern, beneath her perfectly neutral face, this subtlety lurking in the surface: she was in turmoil, she can't stand it. Me being in the room.

'Okay. I'll take it.'

I grab the watch and disassemble it, rushing it's silver case into the flame, losing shape. I grumbled while turning the case over. These two contradictory bertholds we attempt to remember: one that named himself berthole a peace keeper, and the other who would turn give the state the world into flames to save his wife. Rather watch the world burn without you in it- I don't know what master would do, but you know what miss Hawkeye, I'm accepting the watch.

'I have a mold for stud earrings. We'll make these into earrings.'

She stares me down but I continue working methodically, the glass clinking on the tables, not waiting for her consent. I just goes on pouring it into a mold I've miraculously located, and say in this inaudible whisper more to myself than anyone in this room.

'I keep thinking Master died without consoling his two contradictions, his two protégées. Unless you want a ring... but that wouldn't work, would it now..crap.'

LET ME TELL YOU A FEW THINGS:

YOU DON'T GET IT. SHE WAS NEVER MY WEAKNESS. (SHE WAS THE STRONG ONE.) I WAS HERS. I WAS HERS.

And I don't think you really get it when I say people will kill for this research, they would kill me carefully, so that I'm barely alive. And though I never had the whole research you sick shits, they bloated me with water, and fisted my gut to be "symbolic" because I am the perfect person to hold hostage, dangled in her eyes, soaked cold through and through limpid. But she did it. She saved me like a proper heroine and a real protagonist.

Half dead, I heard her:

'I'm so sorry.' (strappedabombtoyourchest) my limbs feel still, the world is blur.

'I need you to live.'

Oh she loves the way her father does, such dangerous alchemy. Her tears I'd like to think, became mixed with the water.

I guess this is the part you already know about. A baptism of fire and water, the part where I come out blazing, familiar -stronger. This was one of those points of life when you can't possibly feel things one at a time. We have this misguided notion that things happen, one at a freaking time.

For example, I never expected that she would be the first to confess that she loves me, that the last cipher was tatooed on her back, and her father's secrets be so powerful. that people glare with me when I took my state alchemist examination, creating explosions, their eyes with this mess of fear, greed, awe. I'd see myself as the weapon they wanted, and I'd see it coming and I want you to run away with me. Guns at the back of the pickup, just you and me again, we'll escape this damned fate, we'll make havens in each other and I'd kiss her. Back then when I could, holding her hand kissing those wrists for her to follow me. Run away with me, please.

But there was the war. Where the last standoff was in Ishval, war to end all wars. And frankly, I didn't care who won anymore, as long as it was over. Maybe I chose not to talk about it, but those hospitals full of screaming bodies, the young faces drafted beside me, the rations, the curfews the taut tension of barely breathing. Maybe I'd want to go with war after all, if it's the price to pay for a semblance of peace.

To stop a forrest fire from consuming all life, parts of the surviving forrest are purposely burned to starve the flames of oxygen. Save the majority, it's all in the downwind, and in all honesty I was willing to go to hell. I will play god and grant the soldiers their prayers: please, god, quick deaths, then send them all into atonement.

As long as it will be over. In an insane convoluted gesture- a peacetime application, sir Berthole.

This is her first time saying it, I follow you anywhere, even through hell.

Is it just me but I imagine hell as cold shivering expanse? The stuff of nights, where the body mimics death but will not allow you rest. That it doesn't matter dear sir, that I have a pin on my chest and laughter now rings in the streets and out their is finally, peace. In my mind, in my nights, I will never ever have that - only accented (ishvallan?) voices, my body losing warmth, and blood or maybe sweat running slow, cold. fullstop.

Her caresses save me, her warmth on my back, the sensation of my arms bracing my shoulders, her whisper to my ears to focus on the target, hundreds of yards away. The sound of her breathing. her bullets igniting full of forward motion, flight. I soar through ranks and leave the wind hot from the friction.

We've aimed at the sun, it will be displaced. There are other stars, with hearts afire.

author's notes: Pierre Bertholet is real, was so pleasantly surprised when I found out that I had to put it in the story. RnR love Maria :)