Insanity.
That is how she describes the pain.
A burning, uncontrollable, and maddening agony; it rips and scalds and leaves its mark with biting teeth.
The cold is not for the weak.
But Riza Hawkeye has never been weak.
Perhaps that is why the young General has her transferred to the Fort. Regardless, it is something Riza needs: a challenge. While she misses Colonel Roy Mustang dearly, so much so her heart aches in his absence, it is not enough to deter the woman.
After her first two months, she has endured frostbite.
And, yet, has not budged.
The men start to respect her. They even admire her marksmanship. She is the best of the best, after all, and they ask that she teach them a few of her tricks.
It isn't tricks; just a gift.
Riza has been gifted to kill.
That is a fact which shall never escape her mind.
A life like this: defending her country, her people, through spilling blood –– Riza, soft, gentle Riza, was born for this. It is a side Riza's father never knew about.
His daughter. Who takes aim and allows the world to set her skin ablaze.
The first person to kiss her burns is Olivier.
Neither say a word about the tattoo glaring into her back. Not at first anyway. They don't necessarily avoid the topic, but, for now, the discussion is not required. Because, right now, all Riza wants to focus on is how warm Olivier is on her body; how gentle her hand caresses her back.
In a way, Olivier is like Roy. She doesn't talk about serious matters when it's personal. Olivier is frightened of personal.
However, unlike Roy, Olivier doesn't ignore the personal.
When Riza's back is bare to her, naked and vulnerable, her whole life ready to be torn apart and studied, Olivier is surprisingly tender.
She is soft.
Which is a startling contrast to her usual hard demeanour.
Maybe it fits. Maybe it actually makes sense. The stoic, heartless soldier is, in fact, the most loving. The most sincere. The most generous.
Really, Riza isn't that surprised.
Olivier has always been observant, always been aware of those who are troubled. After all, it takes one to know one. She took in Miles, an Ishvalan––a man oppressed by her own people. She has inspired women to join her Fort, to fight for their country. She has helped women realise that they, too, can do what men do.
And she was the first to notice Hawkeye for her excellence.
Riza may be experienced in the field of murder, but she certainly isn't when cradled in another's hands. So when she first kisses Olivier, when she first allows her body to be undressed, when suddenly Olivier is gentle and kind and so lovely, Riza allows herself to be taught.
Lovemaking is an easy skill to learn.
It's just finding the right person to learn from.
She trembles. And the room is cold. Everywhere is cold. Instead, she doesn't focus on the room, but on Olivier's palms, her fingers, her lips, her breasts and her stomach. And each time she touches her, feels her, embraces her warmth, Riza's pulse races, and the cold disappears. It vanishes. Forbidden. They come close together and the freeze is suddenly extinct.
All of it is simple. Loving General Armstrong is simple.
There isn't any judgement. Any expectation. It is just them, alone, the ice no longer preying. And with each kiss, each little touch of her burns, each little smile, is plenty.
She touches her wonderfully. Kisses her and tastes her in a way Riza has never known. The sort that leaves Riza moaning and gasping and clinging to the bedsheets. What allows her to forget everything for a moment, and be free.
Olivier's palms reflect that of a warrior. Raw and scarred, but pressed to Riza's, they're what keep Riza steady; alive.
They kiss each other's wounds. From burns, to deep cuts, to mere bruises; kiss each other's history, and do whatever is necessary to forget the pain.
Once it's gone––once she's warm, content and tired, themselves wrapped together––insanity no longer lurks.
What remains is peaceful, and while it may only be temporary until morning, Riza wouldn't have it any other way.