Author's Note: What's sad about this is that it took me three sittings to write it. Well, actually, one was for editing, but still. I'm a little afraid of unwanted detail in this one, because I can sometimes go overboard when a concept has been floating around in my head for too long. Which really sucks for me, as it can ruin a perfectly good story before it's even out on paper. And you know what the worst part is? Since I got the idea for this fic, inspiration has failed to bite me in the ass. Not being able to come up with any new ideas makes me so emo. D:
But enough of my rambling. Onward!
They say that it hurts when you rub salt into a wound.
What about tears?
"First Lieutenant! First Lieutenant Hawkeye! First Lieutenant—"
Colonel Roy Mustang collapsed, his knees buckling beneath him. They, like many of his other joints, were injured badly and had reached their limits. The ailment did nothing to stop the colonel in his search; if anything, it made him even more desperate. Propping himself up on his elbows, he used them to crawl across the blackened rubble that, earlier that day, had been a factory. A singed metal plate dug into his navy blue military uniform, tearing through the sleeve and drawing blood as it jabbed at his bare skin. Thick, crimson droplets splattered in dime-sized ovals onto scalded wood, quickly drying at the heat around them.
"Damn it," Roy muttered, flipping onto his back and lying sprawled over the factory's pitiful remnants. The heavy military uniform was only complicating things. Wearing it made moving impossible. Sighing, the flame alchemist fumbled with the buttons for awhile before simply giving up and tearing the entire bulky jacket off of his frame. Was casting it aside worth the energy? Probably not. So Roy decided to simply remain on top of his jacket, cursing himself for letting the infiltration go so wrong. Maybe he shouldn't have burned the entire factory to a crisp in an attempt to keep the Homunculi from escaping, but after being severely injured in his battle with Envy, there was nothing else he could do. Pretty pathetic, how seriously a single being could wound him. He must look a mess, with his raven hair mussed, pale skin marred, cracked lips lined with dried blood. But even so, Riza had gotten even worse a beating. Roy's tongue shot out, licking the coppery substance from his lips. Riza…
"Shit!" the colonel suddenly bellowed, his voice billowing outward before fading into nothing, an unheard whisper within the silence. There were no buildings nearby, nothing for the sound waves to rebound off of. He was truly alone, and that angered him even more. "Damn it, First Lieutenant! Where the hell are you?"
He wasn't expecting an answer, but it came anyhow. She had a habit of surprising him like that.
"I'm here, Colonel."
And she was. Wounded, suffering. But there. Dark eyebrows furrowing, Roy rolled away from his jacket toward the voice's producer, numb to the rubble beneath him stabbing at his flesh, a thousand tiny knives intent on drawing blood. Soon, Riza's limp form came into view, and the flame alchemist was on his hands and knees, heaving himself shamelessly in his comrade's direction.
"Colonel," she murmured upon his arrival, her voice small and weak. Her callused hands clawed blindly at his, and he caught her by the wrist, checking for the strength of her pulse. Fainter than it should have been, but that was to be expected. Exhaling, Roy bowed his head in relief. She really had gotten a worse beating. Unlike himself, she was lost in the fire, causing layers of soot to cake her skin. There was a wide gash across her stomach, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed in the minutes that she had been lying there unaided. Her shooting arm had been broken, the slender limb twisted at a grotesque angle. He winced, guilt's serpent sinking its fangs into his brain and slithering downward toward his chest. It was his fault she was hurt so badly—he should have taken her with him when he escaped the factory, but she had insisted upon staying…
"Colonel," she repeated, the conviction in her soft voice snapping him out of his reverie.
"First Lieutenant?"
"I'm okay."
His face remained expressionless, but his grip slid down her wrist and onto her hand. A single tear welled up in his left eye, and he turned away so she wouldn't see him in his momentary weakness. For once, he would look up at the cloudy night sky instead of down at the debris below him. The salty fluid glistened in the pale moonlight as it rolled down his cheek, seeping into a cut near his mouth.
They say that it hurts when you rub salt into a wound.
What about tears?
No one else would ever know. Because Roy would never tell.
With fics like these, I usually test the physical accuracy of it all. But testing this one would involve self-mutilation and me crying, hence why you don't find out whether or not it really did hurt.
NOW PREZZ DAT GO BUTTONN, FO SHIZZLE MAH NIZZLE!1