The clamor outside should have been deafening. Fortunately the thick, bolted door muffled the panic enough.
"Damn," Mustang muttered under his breath, clutching his side – an old wound was opening. It was the least of his problems. He leaned back against the dampened wall and breathed out slowly. "Do you remember, Lieutenant –" he began to ask his subordinate.
"Yes, Colonel," she replied.
She was only other person in the room at the moment, and she was showing clear signs of her own wounds from the current battle. But her eyes were focused, in spite of the blood streaming down her cheek. Mustang gave his lazy smile. "I didn't even –"
"It doesn't matter," she interrupted again. "I remember."
He knew that she did.
::::
It'd be hard to pinpoint the moment she knew he'd change her life forever. It could've been when she found his sweater folded neatly on her bed the day he'd left for good, combined with a final note of apology which was soon to be damped by eighteen year old tears. It could've been when he'd been at the house for three weeks longer then than any of the other apprentices. Or maybe it could've been when first he walked in the door. Because really, no one had ever looked on her with interest before, and no one had ever shaken her hand.
Whatever the time, whenever the moment, Riza knew, arguably had always known, that her life was to be pivotally involved with Roy Mustang's. If he'd have her – if he'd let her.
And did this make her weak? She'd lie at night betimes, and wonder if she was weak for giving freely her existence to this man. And she always came to the same conclusions. It wasn't just for the man. It was for the man and what he was going to do. The dream they never lost focus on. The dream which felt at times as though it would always be staring at them from the distance. A mountain, far off, your ultimate goal, which never gets any closer, no matter how many hours you've trekked. But that wasn't true: they'd attain this dream. It was the cause for the great struggle – the hope of a brighter tomorrow.
Could there be any weakness with such things at stake? She'd try to adjust her position and the burns on her back would swelter; she could hear the dry flakes of skin crack while feeling the cotton of her sleep shirt being tugged by the pus from her sores. And she's always come to the same conclusions – if she was weak, then she always had been.
::::
Roy Mustang would like to say he knew right away that his Master's daughter would forevermore change his life. That he knew seeing her smile, he'd ache all his days to make her smile again. That he knew by the very hitch of her breath when he introduced himself that her undertakings would mirror his, that they'd be side by side, that they'd never part nor would want to. That he knew the instant their hands touched that the Hawk's Eye would he his great story – in both love and adventure.
But no one ever knows these things.
Not even Roy Mustang.
And certainly not at sixteen.
What he did know was that this girl was beautiful – far more so than he had expected. Certainly not as graceful as she would grow to become – and Roy had no way of knowing that – but undeniably pretty, and deep to boot. She had quietness about her, a solemnness that he knew even then he could identify with. A calm before the storm.
He glanced over her in that moment. She looked near about fourteen. Young, certainly, but not too young to think about. And again, Roy sensed that she had depth. More even than she knew.
It wasn't until he mentioned her father that the first cracks showed.
It had been so quick, so subtle, that there couldn't have been any way that she'd noticed it herself. But the mention of her father left his lips, and out went the color in her cheeks, dim went the shine in her eyes, and her body twitched, jolted, evaded. Less than half a moment later and her cheeks were rosy again, her eyes were their amber delight, and she stood with a straight and steady spine. But Roy paid mind, Roy saw it and he took note of it. He'd want to know later what it meant.
::::
She liked the tilt of his jaw. She wasn't quite sure why. Only, one particularly warm evening in October she noticed as she mended from the living room, though the crack in the door where young Mr. Mustang was studying, that he had a particularly nice tilt to his chin. He was assured, and curious.
Her father stepped into view, and it occurred to her that she did not particularly like the tilt of his chin.
But she liked young Mr. Mustang's.
This was a Tuesday. He'd been there four days.
He liked the drop of her hands. He didn't quite know why. Only, if occurred to him he'd never seen hands like hers – they were strong yet delicate, feminine, warm. They were a young girl's hands, yet it was clear they would never let go of anything important, she would not let anything slip from her fingers.
It was still very early on. Master Hawkeye was still going over the basics, some of which Roy knew, some of which he didn't, none of which was flame alchemy. Master Hawkeye had sent him to the kitchen – said it was time he ate. And true, Roy was hungry. Even if he hadn't been there long, he knew Master Hawkeye wasn't going to join him. The man seemed never to eat, though Roy supposed he must at some point – he simply never saw it. So Roy walked into the kitchen, hoping for company in the form of the third resident of the house. And his wish was granted, she was just taking the kettle off. "Young Mr. Mustang," she said when she saw him. "Some tea?" she asked, setting a plate of biscuits on the table.
"Love some, Riza, thanks" he answered, and she smiled. Damn, he'd have to warn her about that smile someday; small half smile though it was. Or no, perhaps it was better she didn't know the power she possessed.
They made idle chatter for a moment while the leaves steeped. By idle chatter, it was more Roy trying to get her to smile again, succeeding once or twice. She bent her head in such a way to imply he should sit, and she stirred a bit of milk into his cup. She sat it before him, joining the table, and Roy saw it then: the drop of her hand. The turn of her wrist which he near blushed when he realized he wanted to brush his lips across it. He was a silly sentimental boy – certainly felt like one. She didn't, or pretended not to, notice him blush.
It was a Wednesday. He'd been there for two weeks.
She liked the crispness of his laugh. She wasn't quite sure why. Of course he had, as everyone does, different manners of laugh for different occasions. But she'd begun to notice that each of them were crisp. And one breezy morning found her cap flying off her head before she'd even had a chance to notice it.
She was on her way to school, so she was already a certain level of uncomfortable, and this did nothing for her nerves. Before it touched the ground, however, Riza caught a glimpse of young Mr. Mustang dropping the milk pails, to retrieve it from the sky.
He approached her – strutting? And he held the cap out, suddenly with some sheepishness.
"You just came from milking the cows?" Riza asked.
He nodded, and turned to see the mess which had come from his quick drop. Both buckets were empty. "You won't tell your father about this, will you?"
Riza couldn't help but smile, and she finally took the cap from his outstretched hand. "No," she assured him. "No, I won't. And he shouldn't be out for a few hours yet, if you care to head back."
He laughed here. Crisply. Not because what she'd said had been particularly funny, and not because he thought it amusing to poke fun at her. It's possible he wasn't even sure why he laughed. Probably never gave it a second thought. But he gave a soft, "thanks, Riza," and let a little wink slip out before turning and fetching the pails. Riza went on her way to school thinking how she liked the crispness of his laugh.
This was a Thursday. He'd been there for one month.
He liked the crinkle of her nose. He didn't quite know why. It was a rare happening, after all. Her half smile, charming and time-stopping when she called upon it, was powerful enough. But sometimes she laughed, and laughed so genuinely that her nose would crinkle, the tip displaying that she is unsure how to express this much joy. It didn't crinkle with every laugh. But it could crinkle with any laugh.
And Roy went so long not even seeing it, for she had been clearly wary of him at first. But he was chopping wood one day in the brisk early December afternoon. His thoughts had wandered from alchemy back to the figure who had wormed her way into his thoughts when not focused. Because he had been busy, and he had not been able to talk to her for two days, and had not seen her smile for three.
There was a certain charm then in how self-aware he was in order to admit that he was a foolish boy for spending his thought on her. He admitted it was unlikely she was doing as much for him. And there were plenty of girls in town he could get to know if he ever took an interest in getting to know them. But he went on chopping wood, trying to think of what to say to Riza when he saw her so he could assure he'd get to see her smile.
While he was still in his thoughts, she came down the lane a bit quicker than usual. He stopped to see her flushed cheeks. "Do you like lamb, young Mr. Mustang?"
He wiped the sweat from his brow, and any plans of conversation he may have had disappeared, for all he could do was nod in response.
"Wonderful! I have not had a chance to make lamb for you since you've been here." She told him. "We – we couldn't afford it. But I've just been to see Mr. Barton, and he gave me a most remarkable price." And there it was, he noted. The tip of her delicate nose crinkled. "You are in for a treat, young Mr. Mustang! Today is a nice day after all."
"You work so hard, Riza," he told her. "And your suppers are always a treat! You don't need to do anything more."
She smiled again. "I like to stay busy. Besides, my Father likes lamb, I think," she shrugged, "the plates are always empty the next morning." She nodded and bounded inside to begin. Roy knew he had another goal, not only to see her smile, but the crinkle of her nose as well.
It was a Friday. He'd been there seven weeks.
She liked the line of his shoulders. She wasn't quite sure why. And she had never before given the matter any real or particular thought. Riza observed from the boys in town and the boys she saw at school that there was a certain line of the shoulders they acquire around that age – of course young Mr. Mustang should be no different. She need not trouble herself to take the time to notice it.
The house had started to grow cramped. Some may have argued familial, had they noticed. But for Riza it merely felt cramped. She had known the house to hold only two since her mother died. Only two and the occasional apprentice. They were all supposed to be interchangeable. They were all supposed to have left by now. Left, and condemned the house to its usual two. What made the house feel cramped was not so much the addition of the third member. It was the creeping thought in the back of her ever-loyal mind that she knew perfectly well which she preferred to be the remaining two. And her heart ached at the thought, though she could not pinpoint a logical reason. It was maddening – not to be logical!
As a result, Riza had taken to spending her evenings on the porch. No one noticed, and so she was not bothered. It was January, yet she was warm enough wrapped in her coat, sitting on the bench by the window with her feet tucked in under her. She was reading by the dim light, seeing perfectly well with those impeccable eyes of hers. She did not recognize yet just how impressive they were. And suddenly the histories of her country seemed to fade from her, the book dropping into her lap, her head leaning onto the glass. She was not often one for daydreaming, but in this moment she allowed her mind to wander.
Snapping back to the moment, however, she realized just how cold she really was. She could see from the angle she sat a short view of her father's study, and it appeared late enough that he was allowing the young Mr. Mustang some rest. Her father would not rest, of course, but he would remain in the study alone until morning, and that was as close to sleeping as he really got nowadays. Having shut the door, young Mr. Mustang turned, and caught sight of Riza's face outside. Her nose was red as could be. He smiled and nearly bounded across the living room to the front hall, and bent out the door to tease "You'll catch your death out here!" even if there was genuine concern in his asking her to come inside.
"You're right," she said for lack of any true comment. She must've been sitting there for hours for all she knew. And in standing, several things happened: her feet made contact with the patch of almost invisible ice by the bench, she discovered her legs were quite numb from having sat one them so long, and she fell to the ground quite wordlessly but with a most comical and endearing look of terror on her face.
Young Mr. Mustang was by her side only seconds after she realized she had fallen down, and she apologized for having nothing else to say, really. "Don't you dare be sorry, Riza," he said genuinely frightened. "Are you alright?"
"I am, I am," she assured him, trying to stand, but her feet were still numb.
"Are you really? Can you stand?" he was holding onto her shoulder, and she was unwittingly trying to push him aside.
"I am quite alright, young Mr. Mustang," she said with some spirit in her voice he quite liked. Liked it so much, in fact, that rather than see her struggle a moment more, he simply picked her up.
"Here we are then, if you're alright I'll just take you to your room, and not one step further," he grinned cheekily, and his crisp laugh may have made an appearance or two, but Riza was trying desperately to find her voice. She'd never been picked up before, or expected to really, she was perfectly able to walk. But they were already halfway to the staircase.
It was then, with her arm wrapped around him, that she noticed the line of his shoulders. My, but it was a sturdy line. She didn't need protecting. Even then, she knew that quite well. And, in spite of that, she knew if ever she did that this particular line of the shoulders could protect her.
"Thank you, young Mr. Mustang," she said, with no intention of doing so, breathily. He set her on her bed, and she could feel the blush spreading all across her face.
He stopped at the door, leaned in and asked her with what would later become a trademark grin, "Don't you think it's about time you were calling me 'Roy', eh Riza?"
It had seemed impossible, but she blushed evermore. "No, no, young Mr. Mustang, I don't," but since she smiled so nicely when she said it, he decided then to let it slide for now.
"Goodnight, Riza" he said, closing the door.
"Thank you again… Roy," she whispered to the night.
It was a Saturday. He'd been there fourteen weeks.
He liked the softness of her step. He didn't quite know why. Pouring night and day over his books, when not doing the chores which cleared his conscious of room and board and tutelage, he could always hear Master Hawkeye before anything else. Before he saw him, before he felt his angered breath. The man was always angered, not always a Roy, not always at anything. But his steps were always heavy. They almost always dragged.
But he knew the third resident had a different step. Knew this for a few reasons. He knew she was always running to and fro on the property, completing what chores she wouldn't let him touch, heading into town for school, heading back, reading, cleaning, caring, being. She was everywhere in the house, even if he didn't see her, because the evidence was everywhere. The house could not have been as welcoming as it was, and there were many a house more welcoming than the residence of Hawkeye, if it had not been for her. The simple truth was that Master Hawkeye was going to take no action to make it so.
One night, after Master Hawkeye had sent him away for rest, Roy sat in the kitchen sleepless. Notes sat before him, trying to be productive though his eyes passed over the words unseeing. Turning slightly, he saw a cup of tea, steam dancing. There was a sliced apple beside it. He had not seen her enter, he had not heard her set it beside him, he had not seen her leave. He turned just in time to see her skirt turning the corner, her ankle tilted so gently. And he quite liked the softness of her step.
It was a Sunday. He'd been there for three months.
::::
On the day Riza turned fifteen, she came home from school feeling more tired than she felt allotted. Her teacher had just posted the years results for the board, and she had come out top again, for no small amount of effort. But she went alone to check the posting, and she walked home alone after seeing them. John Dash and Richard Morton had gone up together and jumped hollering to see they were in the top twenty. Sally Mae had gone to her group crying because she had been last. They comforted her, it almost didn't even matter a moment later.
When she got home she felt the house was empty, though she knew it wasn't. She knew that study would never be empty. It didn't change how weary she felt, even at fifteen.
The first flickers of rebellion Riza had really ever noticed licked her chest. She did not want to be in that house at the moment. She did not want to complete her chores just yet. She did not want to begin the summer readings her teachers had suggested. She wanted none of it. She wanted out.
And so out she went.
It was a warm day; she needed only a cardigan with her dress. She stepped out the door and met no questioning eyes, though as it was something she rarely did, she felt perhaps she ought. She was still walked assuredly until she was at the gate, because now there was the question of where she was going. She followed that road daily. It led to the town of modest size where she attended the school and shopped for their necessities. It was not where she wanted to be just now. Roy Mustang stopping at the gate made up her mind for her.
"Heading into town?" he asked.
"No, young Mr. Mustang, I am not." She nearly huffed, which she realized was not fair because he really couldn't have known that she was upset. She started to head left into the tiny wood on the skirts of the property, when she heard him calling again.
"Care for some company?"
"No," was all she said for a moment, before adding dejectedly, "Thank you."
"A penny for your thoughts?" he called out once more.
This time she turned towards him. This was a mistake, she knew, for now the sun was angling on the tilt of his jaw and she almost told him everything she was bothered over. Even if she did not understand them, they would have poured from her mouth in an instant. "Young Mr. Mustang, I know that we have a comradeship of sorts, please do not think I am not grateful for your friendship. But it would make my only one, and therefore you need to understand that I myself cannot understand the protocol. I am leaving. I am going to walk away from you now, and I don't know when I am going to walk back. But I must ask that you do not follow me, and that you do not interrupt me again." She stopped, surprised by her own words. They did not sound like her. Four bounds later, she was at the gate again. Close enough to bring a hand to his forearm, adding "And I must ask that you do not hold it against me, young Mr. Mustang."
True to her word she turned once more and headed towards the wood. She spent the next several hours there, thinking of nothing but how nice the air smelt and how delightfully spooky the shadows appeared beneath the patches in the leaves. She sat beside the little rivers, flicking assorted pebbles into the water trickling unconcerned.
When the sun dipped beneath the mountain, all sense of rebellion had left her for the time being. Riza felt a certain amount of self-induced guilt that there would be no dinner yet prepared. So she trudged along home wondering how she was going to make up her little outburst to her Father's apprentice.
She entered the kitchen to find Roy Mustang scooping beef stew from the stove. There was a bowl and slice of bread on the counter in its usual spot – her Father would eat from that plate later if he desired. But there were two places ready at the table, awaiting only the bowls he held in his hand. Riza stood unmoving in the doorway, until Roy laughed, gestured to the table and said, "Happy Birthday, Riza."
She sat, but still couldn't find her words. And it seemed he had learned his lesson from the gate, so they ate in silence. But that made nothing terse or awkward or dark. In all actuality, it was the most enjoyable meal Riza could remember spending. They enjoyed every moment of sitting beside each other, no words needed to cause a bonding; instead they bonded in the moment alone. They cleaned the plates silently, they tidied the table silently, and she left him at the staircase silently. He turned to go to the living room, likely to spend his evening pouring over notes. Such was his routine. She entered her room for another surprise of the night. She stood in her doorway, with her eyes fixed on the book on her bed. There was an envelope atop it. Her name was written on the front.
Riza-
I know better than to push you. Yours is the only friendship I have as well. But I don't want to see it eat you, the loneliness. If you cannot or will not talk to me, will you write it? You won't need to let me see it, but if you ask it of me I will always read it for you. I'm just down the hall, but this book is just at the foot of your bed.
Happy Birthday.
And please, call me Roy.
She held the envelope in one hand, the empty book in her other, and stood unaware of the next proper action. So without thinking any further, which seemed indeed to be her trend for the day, she placed them back on her bed and descended the stairs. Roy was sitting in the living room as she knew he would be, facing the fireplace which was barren due to the warm May evening. His back was to her, and so he did not notice her until she was standing beside his chair.
He jumped up to greet her, but she had flung her arms about him before he got the chance. "I wanted to thank you. It was a lovely birthday, Roy." The moment lasted longer than they two could recall. She filled with the scent of his jumper, the speeding beat of his heart on her cheek, her arms bent up to feel the muscles of his shoulders. He could rest his chin on the top of her head, the scent of her hair filling him, his arms latched around her shoulders, her warmth and softness closer than he'd known yet. He tilted his chin and placed a gentle kiss atop her head, for which she blushed but made no other reaction. They stood there longer than they realized. And when she pulled away, it didn't feel like long enough. Yet they said nothing else about the matter, and for the second time she ascended the staircase silently, to sit before the journal at her desk but ultimately write nothing that night, going to bed a few hours later with a head full of thoughts, and not one of them complete.
::::
It was getting ridiculous. Roy could understand secrecy to a point. He knew the importance of intellectual property. He knew that flame alchemy was terrible, terrible business, only to be given to the right hands. But had he not proven himself? In the year and a half since he had become a member of the Hawkeye household, had he not followed Master Hawkeye by the letter? Had he not proven himself everything that was amiable and worthy in a pupil?
The old codger still doubted him. Either his ability or his ethics, Roy was not sure. And it infuriated him.
Not that it mattered. There was no way he could perfect flame alchemy at this point, even if master Hawkeye showed him that very day. Not before he left for the military. For Roy Mustang had made up his mind. Alchemists are for the people, and he could not sit idly by when he could be of so much more use in a unit. Not that he didn't desperately wish he could learn flame alchemy. It would prove most useful, he was sure, but over time he had become a rather competent alchemist, and knew that his basic skills at least would serve for now.
He would leave at the end of the month, he had decided. For then he would be of age. He had not told Master Hawkeye, knowing of his hatred for the military. And he had not told Riza, fearing her response. He did not really know Riza's opinions towards the military, was only now realizing he had never bothered to ask her. He only knew that Riza would not appreciate his leaving.
And as much as he wanted to leave, Roy also felt there was something holding him to the house. A quiet tiny voice whispering wait, no, not quite yet during moments he let his mind wander, before he could stop the nagging. He decided it meant he really felt under-confidant without the addition of flame alchemy to his arsenal. He wasn't sure at this point whether he was lying to himself or not.
He entered the living room with a heavy heart he daren't show. Riza was sitting by the fire. Her back was to him.
"Your father's given me the evening off," he told her.
"You asked him about flame alchemy again and he threw you out for the night?" she hadn't even looked up from her book. He checked, hoping it was the journal he'd given her, but it wasn't. He'd never seen it out – she'd never asked him to read it.
"Yes," he laughed. "Yes, he did." He sat in the chair across her. "So, would you like to spend the evening with me?"
"This was how I was going to spend the evening," she told him, but then looked up and Roy realized he may after all look a little worse for wear because her expression softened. "What were you planning to do instead?"
"I don't know," he admitted, standing and holding out his hand to her. "Care to come?"
There it was, he noticed gleefully. The smile, the crinkle, dammit he had her! They had their thin coats on and were going up the path past the gate soaking in the July night. Roy looked her over in the cover of the eve. She'd passed to age sixteen two months ago. It suited her, if possible, even more than fifteen had. And she still didn't know it.
They wandered the little wood where little over a year ago Riza had stomped out her frustrations. They talked of everything and nothing, of cabbages and kings, of the world and themselves, and eventually circled back round again to everything and nothing before falling again into their comfortable silence.
With the silence of the night being broken only by the gentle brook, Roy felt himself compelled to tell her. It simply wasn't fair that she didn't know this would likely never happen again. No matter how desperately he wanted to assure it would. They sat on the boulders by the edge of the water, her dainty feet bare and dipping occasionally into the stream. They were seated close. His arm lay lazily about her shoulders, and she rested in the crevice of his body. Even while having decided he was going to tell her he was leaving, he found instead that his arm was bending. His fingers were winding their way inexplicably into her short flaxen hair. Her spine stiffened at the gesture – it was an unfamiliar one in their years of friendship, but not one that either of them did not enjoy.
She turned to him with questioning eyes. The confession was on his lips, he was going to tell her the truth. Then a cloud moved, and moon shone brighter than ever, her amber eyes alighting, and Roy Mustang could simply not be blamed. A fire awoke in him with or without the knowledge of that particular alchemy, and to-hell-with-it was the motto as he dipped his head to catch her lips with his.
There are many ways a first kiss can go. Many ways for better or for worse. To be perfectly fair, this kiss was magnificent.
The moment after, far less so.
Riza had pulled back with an emotion akin to terror in her eyes. Roy sighed realizing this was never a good sign. She stood shakily on the rock, and Roy stood to join her, beginning to apologize.
"I think, perhaps, you have misinterpreted our relationship, young Mr. Mustang," she stuttered.
"No, no Riza," he cried, "You cannot 'young Mr. Mustang' me again, not now!"
"What would you have me do?" she pleaded.
"Why did you pull away?"
"I did not expect it," she answered.
"Neither did I," he admitted.
"Then why did you do it?"
Roy stood before her, unable to answer. His head was still swimming from her scent, his lips sill tingling. Lord, he hoped she was feeling the same. After all this time, if she didn't feel the same— "I was going to tell you," he paused. "And then I didn't. I just realized that I was going to miss you so much, Riza. Especially if I had never been given the chance to… to do that, and so I did."
"Tell me what?" she asked breathlessly. Her arms were folded. "You are leaving?"
He nodded.
"For the military?"
He nodded.
"When?"
"The end of the month."
She sat again on the boulder. He joined her, and placed his arm about her again, though not without some hesitation. "I had always expected it. It's the thing to do, with our generation. Particularly with alchemists. You join the military. You do your duty to the people. For you feel it is your duty, unless you oppose military as a rule. As you'd never expressed that much, I assumed the rest." There was silence again. "If you leave, you have to become Mr. Mustang again – I can drop the 'young'." She whispered. "I cannot have you come home to be Roy. You'll be gone, unfamiliar, new. You'll be Mr. Mustang."
"Riza, I cannot be selfish." He told her. "When I am not with you, it seems like the only course I could possibly take. Then you enter the room and I know it's going to take all my strength to leave."
"I am not going to ask you to stay," she stated. "I wouldn't dare. It's just –" she grew quiet. Roy feared she may be crying, but he could not see her face as was. She turned and stood again, and Roy was afraid she was going to leave, but she bent at the pile of coats they had left a few feet away, her satchel sitting on the top. She pulled the elusive journal out, and flipped through it. Roy stood to join her and she showed him that each page remained blank. "I cannot ever think of what it is I want to say about you. I don't suppose there are words. If there are, I cannot find them." She pushed the journal into his hands. "I never needed it because you were always there, right down the hall. You're my best friend, Roy Mustang, my very best friend. And I don't – I don't want to be lonely again." The moon reflected small tears on her cheeks. Roy's heart ached worse than he could say.
"I know you have to leave," she reiterated. "Just please, please Roy, do not forget me." She bent towards him, and their lips met a second time. There was no terror this time. There was no hesitation. There was almost no time, it felt, though it also felt they had all the time in the world.
::::
The month went by painfully fast. And the months to follow, painfully slow. Her father fell into a deeper darkness. He would have no more apprentices. The house felt more empty than it had in years. The only thing that grew less empty was the little book that was now close to two years old.
When Riza was a month shy of seventeen, her Father left the study to climb the stairs of his own house as he had not done for ten years. At first startled by his presence in his door, Riza grew more frightened as he explained just why he had come.
Flame alchemy had been perfected. Now, all that was left was that the notes be recorded. That they be recorded in a manner which ensured both their secrecy and their survival. On Riza this task had fallen, his progeny, the only remaining person he could trust after Roy had left, though it was a faulty trust, figured like cheesecloth.
Riza did not return to school that week. Her father took her to the study, and by use of alchemy placed the first workings of a tattoo on her bare back. He had not asked her outright, had not even ordered her outright. But he did not, either, outright imply that denying him would be any sort of option. Riza awoke on the floor of his study where she had fainted from the pain a few hours beforehand. She dared not move knowing the pain the air shift would bring to her back. She felt her father place a damp cloth on her and did not make a sound. A few hours later, he helped her to her bed, where she remained until hunger prompted her to the kitchen, though she did not leave the house for a few more days.
When a month had passed, and her back had healed, her father brought her again into his study and they passed through the routine again.
Five months it took until her back was completed, all the information necessary encrypted and encompassing from the nape of her neck to the base of her back. When first she was able to shower after it was completed, she merely stood before the mirror in horror. She did not understand the markings. She knew they were the markings Roy would give anything to see. She entered the shower and cried for the very first time over the tattoo, allotting for the physical pain, the emotional trauma, the shame and her cowardice. Any and all wicked thoughts that could worm their way into her mind and she sat under the water crouched around her knees, the hot water pouring on the aching, festering skin, accepting it as penance for crimes she could not justify even to herself.
::::
He stood before the Hawkeye estate for the first time in two years. Roy Mustang felt ashamed his visit was so overdue. How many written and unsent letters sat in his coat at this moment? How many telephone calls had he almost made? How many train tickets from his new town sat on his bedside table, for he had never boarded?
She would be right to hate him. The one thing she had asked, not to be forgotten, and he couldn't do that. Not that he had forgotten. Not that for one moment he could ever forget. But she had no way to know that, and it was all his fault.
Now he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, where he could see her busy at work. She was always busy. She preferred to be busy, and he knew this about her. But what perhaps had changed in the two years of loneliness? Hopefully nothing.
Stepping in, she turned to meet his gaze. She didn't miss a moment, and ran to him across the room, brushed her lips across his cheek and wrapped her arms about him. "Mr. Mustang," she whispered. "Come home at last."
He set her down, for he realized he had lifted her in their embrace, and looked her over. There was no hint of resentment on her face, to his relief. Trust her to understand him, he should've known. But there was a new sorrow in her eyes he could not yet account for, though there seemed to be a joy trying to push it from view.
"My Father's seen better days," she told him before he could engage in conversation. "We'll have time later," she assured. "You should go and see him." And so he did, not knowing what awaited him. Not knowing it would be their final meeting.
::::
Riza felt that perhaps she should be crying. That was the thing to do, wasn't it? To cry. To mourn the passing of your final parent. The last family you were aware of in the world?
She couldn't.
And she felt worse about that that she did about the passing.
Roy stayed to help her with the funeral arrangements. He did not trust her outward calm. He knew that he'd never forgive himself if she ended up needing him whilst he was away. At the funeral attended only by they two, Riza knew she had made up her mind. Roy Mustang was the only one worthy of the knowledge of flame alchemy. The only one she knew, after all.
Only she had no idea how to go about showing him. She thought better than to speak. He understood, of course, once she had barred her back to him. When he did not speak for some time, she turned to him in confusion. There was repulsion and dread across his face. He had bent, supporting himself on the furniture and looking as though without it he'd be on the floor. "He did this to you?" he asked in a tortured voice, hoarse and filled with bile.
"They are the secrets you need for flame alchemy, Mr. Mustang." she insisted. "You need to interpret them. Pay no never mind to how they got there, I beg you," she turned away once more.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."
For some time he stood behind her, analyzing. He had a notepad; he was furiously working away with it. At one point he asked if it would be appropriate to touch her back, and she made no objections. Her skin danced beneath his touch, the markings for the first time beginning to feel less cursed. His touch blazed, and she hoped that he too felt and recognized the sensations. She would feel quite the fool if he did not.
Hours they stood there, hours upon hours. Her spine never wavered. The light had long left the room, and still they dared not move. When she shivered in spite of herself for the first time due to the cold, it was as though time began again for them. Roy's hands dropped and he cleared his throat, muttering something about good for today. She bent to grab her long abandoned blouse, and he whispered her name hoarsely once more. Hands covering her chest, she turned to face him. He looked so ashamed.
"Mr. Mustang, you have done nothing wrong," she assured him. "You are not to blame for these notes, and I am happy to share them with you." The words seemed to pass above him.
"Can I?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow. "I have missed you," he admitted.
It would be difficult to claim who moved first. Likely the moment was a mutual one. They met, their arms clasped, their lips together, eyes clamped shut for fear of seeing the emotions the other would be sure to display.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Roy stuttered, backing from her. "I shouldn't have done that." Riza was too breathless to respond. He backed into the shadows of the room, and she could hear the door when he left for what had once been his room, and for the time being would be so once more.
Two weeks more it would take for him to understand the notes. All the while it went as the first day had, hours of their being simultaneously inches and worlds apart. And then he was going to leave again. And Riza was frightened, because she could not imagine him ever having to return again, with her father gone. She was at the door to see him off, when she held out the old journal to him. It was nearly full.
"You had to use it?" he asked.
"You weren't down the hall anymore." She reminded him. "But I was very happy to have it. And now, I want you to read it. I want you to know what those two years were like. Just in case you are in danger of forgetting again –"
"I never forgot," he reminded her.
"No, you never forgot," she agreed. He was halfway out the door. "Mr. Mustang," he turned. "That's a nice sweater," she answered lamely, courage melting from her in an instant, only to come roaring back before Roy responded. "Dammit!" she cried, tugging on his shoulder and turning him back to face her. Their lips met as they always should have. Without the fear, without the terror, only with the passion required in this final meeting, what they feared may be a final meeting.
She led him back into the house, and shut the door and the world behind him. "I'm sorry," she began to say, before Roy's reaction came in full. He begged her lips to part, deepening their kiss past what they two had shared before.
She was tugging on his jumper, aching to remove it, to feel her skin dance beneath his touch again. She slipped out of her cardigan while he pulled her dress over her head. The trail of clothes soon led up the stairs until they were at her bedroom. She in her knickers and he in his trousers, he left her lips to turn her on her front, lay her on the bed and meet her back. She felt his lips at her neck, before they descended to her shoulders, down her spine, back up again, the pattern followed over and over again with kisses as though they were healing her. The dark feeling from the tattoo she'd been cursed with seemed to lift with his touch. She squirmed beneath him, breathing heavy, attempting to beg for him once more. He turned her and hovering met her mouth again.
"Don't you dare 'Mr. Mustang' me here, Riza." He asked of her gruffly. And in compliance only utterances of Roy fell from her lips that night.
She saw the sweater first. The letter afterwards. She stood in the doorway several moments simply analyzing it – the knit sweater she'd absentmindedly admired, folded now surprisingly crisp in an orderly square. The letter almost looked like an afterthought, as though at first he'd felt the sweater would speak volumes all on its own.
And it did. Nevertheless, curiosity burned though Riza's entire person desperate to read the letter. And yet she was still.
She backed away, still facing her room and didn't turn her back until she was at the stairs. She went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, sat alone at her table, her eyes occasionally drifting to glance at the ceiling, at the room, the bed, the envelope she knew was above her.
Why was she afraid?
Three sips in, she set her cup on the table, skipped upstairs two at a time and bolted for the door where once again she paused. Roy Mustang had left for real that day, after she had awoken that morning in his arms. "Do I have to be 'Mr. Mustang' again?" he asked her sleepily. There were many ways she could have answered him. Perhaps more delicate introductions to the subject. She couldn't manage any of them.
"I am going to join the military." She told him.
"When?" he asked without hesitation.
"As soon as the house sells. I have no need for it."
"So I will be 'Mr. Mustang'?" his arm seemed to tighten about her.
"And I will become 'Miss Hawkeye' to you."
"No," he insisted. "No, you've been 'Riza' right from the off."
"And now everything is going to change."
"After one night?"
"After one blissful night," she turned to him and kissed him a final time. It was the first time her kiss had felt so truly sad.
"I can't convince you?" But he knew even then his words were empty. "This could be my last chance to say it."
She looked at him imploringly.
"To tell you that I love you."
"You've never needed to tell me," she assured him. Such was their bond. As meaningful as their words were, their actions, their implications meant all the more. Riza knew for many a year that Roy Mustang loved her, even if until that moment he had never said it.
And so to find herself standing with an envelope in hand, an envelope which could say potentially everything and anything and perhaps nothing at all, she feared it.
Somehow it opened.
Riza-
I could say so many things right now, and you would have known them already. That doesn't mean I need not say them. That does not mean it won't do you good to hear them. Everything is going to change for you, Riza, entering the military. Not the least of which is going to be our dynamic. I just need you to know though all the wavering and all the inconsistency and all the doubt, that through it all Riza I have loved you. And that when I told you, I meant it. I can't have you doubt that. Not for a moment – you can never doubt that!
Our story is far from over. This segment has been one for the books. I'm still your best friend, Riza. You're still my very best friend. Our paths met four years ago, and for the rest of our lives I will dare not untangle them.
-Keep me, please, as Roy
The first set of tears to stain that page fell then. Others would fall later in Ishval. More later in the years following. Eventually the letter would be lost, in spite of Riza's best attempts. An earthquake would damage her home, a nearby wire would fall and set flame to the neighborhood. Less than ashes would meet Riza as the remains of this letter.
But she never forgot it even then. And in her heart of hearts, he was always Roy. And on a few lucky occasions, quiet moments, memories which would never fade, he'd get to hear the name from her lips, as opposed to 'Colonel', 'General', eventually 'Fuhrer'. When he'd ask if she remembered, she replied that she did.
Because she always did. Because the two of them never forgot. Even into hell.
::::
A/N: I suppose I meant for a stronger ending than this one. If I find the heart to continue this on, I will. I just feel far more confidant about the beginning, but there, we can't win 'em all -
My first Royai, I hope it was at least decent, thank you!