Title: Of Slipping Fingers
Author: Twilight Lament
Rating: G
Genre: FMA/Drama
Characters: Roy x Riza
Length: ~ 500 words
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist. This fan work is meant to be a commentary on the original work and is a not for profit piece.
Summary: Roy lets time slip right through his fingers.
He stands with her – her arm curled through his and he can feel the nervousness in her frame. It's a barely contained tension that is so unusual for her and its one that he feels in the pit of his stomach as well because he teeters on the moment when it will be too late. The clock ticks behind him, reminding him that time isn't on his side and if he's going to do something it better be now.
His mouth opens and she looks at him. Her face is nothing more than a gauzy covered illusion held to reality by the connection of their entwined arms.
His mouth closes and he swallows the words because he can see the happy yet nervous smile on her lips.
Happiness – contentment – and the gleams of edgy need. If he's ever seen her like this before, the memory is lost in the haze of time and of too many things lingering between them.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Music marks the fade of the final second he has. When the doors open he doesn't falter and he likes to think that it's because of his unwavering steps that she moves forward with that lethal grace and firm self-confidence for which she is renowned.
It's a lie, but a comfortable one.
"Who gives this woman's hand in marriage?" The spell breaks and he finds his voice – pleased that it doesn't crack.
"I do." Just like that her arm slips away from him and loss of her heat is poignant and painful.
The ceremony passes in a blur of times remembered for him – of all the chances he'd possessed and passed because he couldn't let go of the past. Past love and past hate had frozen him in time even as he moved forward.
His eyes never leave her and for a short space in time, he inflicts further injury on himself with the image that he's not sitting in the first row, watching her slip right through his fingers. He imagines that it's him lifting the airy obscuration from her face. The illusion shatters into a thousand pieces of piercing glass when a blonde haired, blue eyed man leans forward with an expression that mirrors hers; pieces of glass that all stab him in the heart.
The man in question looks at him with a fleeting smirk before the final words are spoken and the bells in the top of the building proclaim their union to the entire city. That expression calls him a fool, an idiot, and second best. His hand twitches on his leg and he considers the unthinkable. It's only because he could never steal her happiness and replace it with horror that keeps his thumb and middle finger from scraping across each other.
At the reception, he dances with her, spinning her around and enjoying her flushed cheeks and quiet smile. That smile is his smile; even the smooth bastard currently enjoying raucous congratulations and back slapping never gets that smile. It's a small salve to his wounds, but it's the best he has.
And because – even though it would be easier to distance himself from her – he can't let go of his present again and get lost in the past, it's enough.
For now.