Central is punctuated by a smoking crater at its core, the streets marked with the deep red splash of Amestrian blood. Repairs have barely started by the time they leave.
They stay just long enough for their wounds to scab over, but not to heal.
Roy shows up at Riza's door the evening after they've been released from the hospital. He helps her stack boxes, most of which hadn't ever been unpacked.
She puts her back to him constantly as they work, tension in her shoulders. When he smiles at her, his eyes dart away from her face.
They don't know how to look at each other anymore. It got lost somewhere back there in a battle that seemed too much like the end—in the visceral, primal fear of losing each other. By the time his vision returned, a whole different set of scales had fallen from his eyes.
The problem is that they've come far, but not far enough. There's still no allowance for the things in their gazes that they've stopped being able to hide. There is no place, just yet, for what surges through them when they can't avoid touching. It puts them on edge, makes him wonder if when she plants her feet it's to keep herself steady or to prepare for flight.
She holds out a mug of tea to him and he folds his hands over hers. Their eyes catch, one of them trembles, and Roy waits to see who turns away first.
Author's Note: Written for the "fly" prompt at fma_fic_contest. Title from "A Simile" by N. Scott Momaday.