Skyline
by Frankie'N (formerly No one and Nobody)
A/N: Hi, readers! If you're new here, I hope you like this oneshot. If you left a positive review/favorited this before: thank you for your support! I just wanna let you know that after— wow would you look at the time— ten years, I've decided to spruce up some of my old stuff. I now present to you the new (and hopefully improved) version of "Skyline"
Edited: July 2018
Mandatory Disclaimer: I am not the brilliant mastermind that owns FMA. Unfortunately.
Skyline
Roy reaches for the sky, his palms outstretched.
The wind whistles loudly in the summer air, as if taunting him.
Rightfully tempted, he curls his hands into fists, trying to catch the breeze.
For a second he thinks he has it, but the wind brushes past his fingertips soon enough.
Slipping through his fingers.
His sigh is heavy as he attempts to meditate on his surroundings, hoping to distract himself.
He soaks up the fresh, green grass… the tall, willowy trees and their gently rustling leaves… and the sky. The sky— the bright, clear infinity overhead.
Atop this small hill, there is more sky than land.
Atop this small hill, there is more possibility than reality.
He stares into that abyss, seeing nothing but cerulean blue and soft-white.
A face flashes into his memory, and he closes his eyes.
He sees her then, as if the day they had parted had never come.
He tilts his head toward the clouds, eyes still unopened.
Moisture dampens his cheeks, and he almost wishes he can conjure up the excuse of rain like he used to, but the bright summer sky is open and unrelenting and unforgiving of his tears.
When he opens his eyes, he is engulfed once more in the endless mixture of white and blue.
The sun shines merrily overhead, blinding him. He squints against the light, raising an arm to shield himself from its brilliance.
But from that blinding light, he makes out a hazy silhouette, slowly coming to form as it approaches. The silhouette morphs into an image— that of a beautiful woman with long, cornflower-yellow hair. She wears a subtle, knowing smile, and calculating eyes as sharp as a hawk's.
He chokes on a gasp of air. "R-Riza?" he ventures, disbelief stealing the wind from his lungs.
She reaches out to him, her palms outstretched.
He reaches out to her, and he's trembling. But their hands touch; their fingers intertwine.
She smiles at him.
He shuts his eyes tight, and takes a deep breath or two, deathly afraid that his mind is playing tricks on him again.
When he finally gathers the courage to open his eyes, she laughs softly and squeezes his hand.
Tears spring anew. They slide down his face like droplets of rain, one after the other, until he loses count.
Here. She's here. She's really here.
"I've been waiting for you," he whispers breathlessly.
Her smile never fades. "I know."
And his heart aches. Ten years' worth of yearning buried deep within his soul take hold of him. He tugs on her hand and pulls her close, embracing her and losing himself completely.
How long has it been since he had last held her like this?
He wants to bask in the image of her, so he takes a step back to admire her in full. He can feel himself smiling, beaming with joy.
His eyes light up with a long-forgotten enthusiasm, sparkling back to life. "What do you want to do today?" is his first question for her. "We can do anything. Anything you want. You name it."
Riza releases one of her hands from his hold and uses it to run her fingers through his hair. "Roy..." she begins, but then she stops and shakes her head, as if unable to finish. Quiet, profound sorrow burns brightly in her amber eyes.
"No." he admonishes in response to her unspoken apology. His tone is nearly as firm as hers had once been. "No guilt for now. Just— I know!" he exclaims suddenly, his eyes alight once more. "The kids. Of course. We'll go see them first thing. They'll be thrilled to see you." He's bursting with excitement as he tugs on her hand again, pulling her away from that little spot atop that little hill.
"Roy," She pleads. "I-I can't." her voice shakes. Her voice never shakes. He should have taken it as a sign.
"Yes, you can! You're here..." he turns to her and holds her face in his trembling hands. "You're really here." he whispers. "You're back, and everything's alright now. Everything's alright..."
"No, Roy. I can't." Somewhere at the back of his mind, he acknowledges that he should be afraid at the prospect of her strange refusal, but all he can think is that he has sorely, desperately missed that firm edge to her voice. "I can't. I left. How can they-?"
"They love you!" he interjects. His eyes quickly grow weary, but the most sincere of smiles remains plastered on his face. "You are their mother. They loved you then, they love you now, and they will always love you."
"But I left!" she protests— passionately, hysterically, and unlike herself. She tries to hide her face in her hands, but they're shaking too violently. "I left-!"
"They understand why you left!" he grabs her fingers and presses his lips to them, relishing in the way she shivers in response, just like she used to. "We understand."
He manages to calm her, but there are tears, still, in her eyes. "Lisa doesn't even know me," she whispers.
"But she met you." he smiles, and proceeds to pull at her again. "How can she forget the way you smiled at her on the very first day she came to us?"
The corners of her lips turn upwards at his melodramatic words, but her eyes are sad. She shakes her head. "Can we do something else?"
They sit on the grass, side by side.
"This is what you want to do?" he asks. "I don't see you in ten years, and this is what you want to do?"
He can almost hear her raising her eyes to the heavens in silent exasperation. "What did you think I wanted to do?" He makes sure she is watching him from the corner of her eye before he turns his head to flash her an impish grin.
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Funny," she all but snorts at him, her tone dry. "You already have three daughters to look after, in case you've forgotten."
"But no sons!" he teases, the grin on his face only growing more mischievous as she swats him away.
"What more could you want than this?" she stretches her arms sideward and gestures to the wide expanse around them; dewy, knee-length grass the brightest of greens swaying softly in the wind and racing outward endlessly. Indeed, it is a beautiful sight to behold.
But he looks to his left, and there she is— smile even lovelier than he remembers. She's here, next to him. And to call that beautiful would be a crime.
Because like every other word he has ever used to describe her, it isn't nearly enough.
He feels around for her hand amidst the patches of grass and grasps onto it. "What more could I want?" he echoes in a daze.
She smiles at him. "Tell me about the girls." she says, and he happily complies.
First there's Arabella, who has grown into a ravishing young woman of nineteen. The last time Riza laid eyes on her, she had short, messy hair like that of a boy's. It had suited her personality back then. Now, her raven-black locks are long and alluring, and her youthful spark shines brightly in her eyes— her mother's eyes. She has made a name for herself as a skilled and clever alchemist. The brave little girl Riza once knew has grown into a strong and passionate woman— an independent, fiery force of nature.
Then there's Juliet, seventeen years of age, whose beauty is as romantic as her name. Her hair is soft and strikingly blonde, and her eyes are a mesmerizing shade of charcoal black, with long, dark lashes to match them. Her charming smile has sent many a young man's heart asunder— but her eyes are quick and calculating. Much like her father, Roy boasts, she is remarkably clever and sharp.
Lastly, there's Lisa— still tenderly young at thirteen. She needn't age a day for Roy to guess who she will look like.
Lisa is the splitting image of her mother. The same eyes, the same hair, the same mannerisms and expressions.
And it had pained him, before, to watch her. How could he ever forget his wife when it seemed like the very core of her had remained and found its place in their youngest child?
But then he realized he didn't want to forget his wife and all the wonderful things that she was to him. To be able to raise a daughter that was so much like her was more of a blessing than a curse. It meant that she would grow up to be a fine, respectable young woman. Strong, sharp— and fiercely loyal.
So even a broken man like him can never grow lonely. His three daughters— her gift to him. They are the ones who protect him now, who take care of him. They make him laugh, they let him love, they keep him living. Her gift to him.
When it seems as though he has exhausted his stories of them, she smiles (though really she has been smiling all the while) and suggests that they lay back down on the grass together to watch the clouds drift by. Such an oddly nonsensical whim from someone so serious, but he is incapable of refusing her.
They intend to lie flat on their backs, to look up at the sky— yet somehow they end up facing each other.
They talk about everything and anything and nothing all at once.
Occasionally, he hums out a gentle tune, and every so often she presses a kiss to his forehead and he remembers what it feels like to have his heart swell inside his chest.
Every so often, he runs his hands through her hair. And every now and then he draws a rare rumble of laughter out of her. That tiny sound— light and melodic— draws out the widest of smiles from him, and she calls him an egotistical moron for it. But he can tell she's embarrassed because of the way she plucks a few blades of grass to avoid looking at him, mumbling some complaint or other about how she doesn't understand why she loves him so much.
And then, if possible, his smile grows even wider and he brushes her cheek tenderly with the pad of his thumb. He tells her he doesn't understand it either, but he sure as hell is a lucky guy.
She plucks flowers out of the grass because he's embarrassed her again, and one time she places a daisy in his hand, and he in turn, kisses her in gratitude as if she has just given him the key to the city.
Finally, while she is humming a particularly mellow tune— soft and sweet and lulling, he feels his eyelids become heavy.
The sleep he falls into is the most peaceful one he's had in a long, long while.
When he opens his eyes, she is no longer at his side.
Alarmed, he sits up, back rigid and ram-rod straight. Had it all been a dream? Oh God, please don't tell me it was all a dream.
He curses under his breath and falls backwards onto the ground in anguish.
Lying down, he reaches for the sky again. When his fists unclench to reveal his palms to that endless abyss, the daisy he had been clutching tightly in his hand falls onto his startled face.
He sits up slowly, uncomprehendingly.
He buries his face in his hands.
The bright-blue abyss is now a hazy pinkish-orange. The uplifting wash of wind from earlier in the day has mellowed down to a gentle breeze, barely moving the grass underneath his feet.
He grasps onto the bouquet of roses in his hand tightly, almost desperately. He glances at the setting sun one last time before his knees touch the ground. Reverently, he lays the flowers down on the earth, beneath the willow tree.
After a moment, he stands once again, careful not to disrupt anything.
His eyes settle on the modest arrangement of roses before they are drawn to the slab of stone on which they lean, where words from ten long years ago are written:
Elizabeth Hawkeye Mustang
Loyal wife, mother and soldier.
Brief and concise. He muses over the similarity to her person. There is nothing flowery like in loving memory, and there are no dates. The latter is his own doing. Her old tombstone had both birth and death engraved onto it, but his heart ached each time he was reminded of the difference between the two years— of how young she had been. They replaced the old tombstone with a new one: brief, concise and dateless.
He rests the daisy beside the bouquet of roses before turning on his heel and heading home.
.