Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist, including all characters, places, and events do not belong to me. I'm merely taking them out to the park for a bit, and promise to return them home safe and sound. Minimal damage is assured. No profit was made from the writing of this.
A/N: Three days. It's been three days since I first started watching FMA (I was told to watch Brotherhood), and I'm already fic'ing. I honestly think that's a new record for me. Anyhoo, this was written on the spur of the moment (in an attempt to evade studying for Statistics. Whoops). I'm new to the whole FMA fandom and fanfiction world, so any and all advice or encouragement would be much loved and appreciated. Most importantly though...I hope you enjoy! ~Aradel
No One
The third day was the day of Hughes' funeral. The wake was a bit more formal (there would be a quieter, simpler gathering the next day, with just family and friends), but with the military involved and giving him a "proper funeral" as the Fuhrer himself had put it, there was a full dinner planned, speeches included.
Roy ate because he was supposed to. He ate, because the Fuhrer himself was sitting only a few seats down from him at the high table—it had been known that Colonel Roy Mustang had been close friends with Brigadier General Hughes, and so he was given a higher place than was strictly appropriate by his rank. Although he could never be certain, Roy thought that the Fuhrer may have had something to do with that as well—and there were eyes all around. Eyes that included the piercing gaze of one Riza Hawkeye.
So he ate, even if it was less than what he would have normally. Still, he ate.
But then the speeches were done, and the final song had been finished by the band, and the banquet—for what else was it?—was over. And he could escape. So he did.
He made it back to his apartment and out of his dress uniform before he broke. And then, practically before he knew it, he was running. Out, down the stairs, and into the night. He just ran.
He ran until he fell to his knees and threw up the entire meal he'd just consumed—the only true meal he'd eaten since Hughes' death—and then he wiped his mouth and stood back up on trembling legs. And he ran some more. His feet knew the path, knew the route. It was the same route he ran every day. But usually he ran it in the hour before dawn. And usually he only ran it once.
When he arrived at the office the next morning, uniform pristine, hair immaculately combed, back ramrod straight, and steps measured and even…there was nothing to indicate that he had not slept the night before, nor that he had spent the majority of the hours in which the moon had sunk toward the western horizon curled on the steps leading up to his front door. No one noticed the slight tremble in his legs, nor the slight unsteadiness of his hands. No one noticed how he seemed just a little paler than usual, nor how the smudges of shadow beneath his eyes were even darker than they had been the day before. No one even noticed as he casually tipped his untouched sandwich and apple into the bin beside his desk, where it was whisked away a quarter of an hour later as the custodian moved in to clean out the waste baskets.
No one…except Riza. They did, after all, say that she had the eyes of a hawk.