*pokes my head in the door* heard the royai fandom likes to suffer.
in case this is….weird to read, which it is–it's basically the royai story + my own little angsty twist where Roy doesn't know whether or not Riza survives after having her throat slit. yay!
white
Like snow on a hillside broken with tombstones. Like the landscape between the angry, sweeping lines on her back. Like inquiry, and innocence, and grief so deep it can hardly be recognized. Like looking at the sun too long, because he can't meet her eyes. Like the thread of pain in her voice when she asks:
"…Do you really have to go?"
"I have to do something."
yellow
Like the fetus of a flame, sharp between his fingers. Like the tremors of a country burnt beyond repair, and jaundiced with hatred. Like unwashed, rank soldier-smell, and piss, and gritty bread that sticks to the inside of his teeth. Like the eye of the desert, relentless on his sweating back as he marches, and burns.
Marches.
Burns.
red
Like the bubbling rivers on her ruined flesh. Like the eyes that follow him into his sleep. Like her screams. Like the eyes, lidless and swollen like overripe cherries.
She asks him to take it off her—she asks—begs—"I am so heavy. I am so heavy, I can't carry it, it's inside me and I can't, can't carry it—" and then it's done and he holds her, and lets her bleed and gasp on him, and soaks in every anguished second of it. It's the closest he's ever been to her—
but he wishes right now they'd never met.
brown
Like a graveyard under a heavy snow. Like the dunes at midnight. Like bitter coffee, and archive folders, and the walls of his small, dark office.
"I didn't know you would start bringing me coffee, Hawkeye."
"You're falling behind on paperwork. I thought you might need some help staying awake to finish it."
"You could just do it for me."
Like the gentle spark in her eyes as she silently mocks him.
"Do you really want one of your subordinates taking credit for your unparalleled filing skills, sir?"
green
Like the flag he worships. Like the grass after a wildfire. Like hope, and springtime, and strength. Like the first breath of new ambition, right under the snapping dragon of the old.
blue
Like the electric crackle that tingles up his spine—like alchemy. Like a stiff-collared uniform worn day-in, day-out. Like the ink on a note, passed quickly from a clenched hand in a narrow hallway. Like conspiracy.
Like cold, sniffing danger.
black
Like the pit of his stomach when the blade drags through her neck. Like the hole they're in—he won't let her die here—not in this place. Not now. Like the gaps in the moist, bared smile of the gold-toothed doctor. Like the gaps in him—the holes that are ripping open in every seam of him. Not here. Not now. Not her.
Like the tendrils that snare him.
Her blood is too dark. There is too much of it outside of her. It is too dark and pouring—an overturned ink bottle.
gray
Like the beyond of it. Like the beyond of everything.
"And what will you give me, Flame Alchemist? You've certainly taken enough from others."
"I don't care. I don't care."
"You don't care? Haven't heard that one in a while. Most people who end up here care about…something."
"Just send me back, please. I need to see her. I need to make sure—"
Like the laughter of the thing he speaks to. Eerie. Emptily amused.
"Oh, you want to see someone? Well, little human, it sounds like you do care about something after all."
Like the world when he returns. Like ashes—which are all that is left, once the fire goes out.