Breath
They stumble through the empty streets, around the gutted, burned, demolished houses, and into and out of the alleys full of rubble and bodies. The sun is rising in a symphony of color, glorious rainbows of yellow and pink and orange, and they are careful to look away because it shouldn't, shouldn't, be so beautiful. Explosions and screams of dropped bombs still sound faintly in the distance, and they wonder together, silently, if the other screams, the screams of mothers and uncles and sisters and tiny children are real, or if they are simply echoes of what their minds cannot escape.
He leans heavily on her, an arm around her shoulder, his bad leg dragging limply, leaving behind a scarlet ribbon of blood that is steadily soaking into the dusty coat of ash that covers and chokes the city. His other arm is clutched to the woman's side, smeared with sticky, slowly congealing gore as he tries to stop the bleeding.
For her part, she leads, wandering, looking for a place to shelter so that she can see to their wounds. She tries to support him as best she can, but he seems strangely heavy, or maybe it's the blood loss that's making her making her weak and dizzy. A gun is clutched in her free hand, empty of bullets, but she can't seem to release it.
She finds a small niche, an curved alcove with a slightly overhanging roof in a place that used to be a church, but now all that's left are a few crumbling corners and a broken cross.
The sun is on them, their selected shelter facing directly east, and they shy away from the light, wary of light when they've been seeking safety in the shadows for so long. She debates hazily whether or not to find another place to stop, but she's too tired to continue, and he's almost at the point of collapse.
They sit slowly, hands and arms moving mutually to keep the other from falling. His hand comes away from her side carefully, with a wet, sickening sound, as well as a wince on her face and a pained look on his. They rest finally, he leaning, drained and ragged against the wall, she sitting with her legs curled under her, swaying, crushing her fingers under the gun as she presses her trembling arms into the gravel to steady herself.
They rest, silently for a moment, physically and emotionally exhausted. Then she's moving again, digging into pockets for her bag of medicinal supplies, most importantly the bandages and disinfectant. She draws it out swiftly, fighting to stay conscience as the world swirls before her eyes, and then she's fine again, pulling out the last yard of cloth.
His leg is a bloody, tattered mess, destroyed by shrapnel. He'll need automail after this, if they survive, and she almost smiles at how the knowledge will upset him.
"Riza."
She looks up at his tortured, vacant eyes and blinks questioningly. "Sir?"
"We don't have any other clean material. Your side . . ."
It's true. If she used any parts of their filthy, chemical and disease infected uniforms, she'd be asking for a painful death by infection. But the hole in her side where the stray bullet bit out its chunk has been bleeding badly.
"I'll be fine sir. Right now we need to look after you."
Her hair is no longer blond. It's turned pale yellowish grey over the last few days, a result of the constant smoke and ash that rained from the sky, burying the city, a product of his work. His hands feel clumsy and numb as they stroke it, and her hair feels stiff and filthy, but neither cares, and she leans into his familiar touch and drinks in this small comfort.
"But you're bleeding," he murmurs hoarsely.
"So are you sir."
He nods, letting her distract herself, though he has a vague idea she already knows it's useless, and she begins to wrap the bandage carefully around his thigh with shaking fingers, afraid of how cold his body feels. He never feels cold. Always, always, he is warm, strangely warm sometimes, because she can remember countless touches, countless times when he would take her hands, chilled in the night because she can't put down her gun, and he would rub the warmth back into them and blow hot air over her freezing fingertips and them excuse himself with a grin: "Can't have my subordinates failing to protect me because gloves make it hard to reload a gun."
She can remember the time in Ishbal years ago, when he held her and sobbed from the pain and the guilt and the nightmares. He wasn't cold then. He was hot, scorching hot, and his tears seemed to burn her where they fell.
"When was the last time you said it?"
She blinks in confusion and fumbles a bit with the bandage.
"Sir?"
"My name. Roy. When was the last time you said it?"
He's muddled and light-headed from the blood loss and the pain, she decides, so she humors him and thinks back as her hands continue their work.
"Probably . . . The last time was before my father made that rule."
He nods a little in reply, and there's something almost disappointed in his eyes.
Yes. That's it, she remembers suddenly. Her father's rule, that they should always, always, speak to each other formally. Miss Hawkeye and Mr. Mustang, because she was the daughter of a great, powerful alchemist and Roy, her only friend in those days, was just an orphan, a charity case he'd taken in because of the boy's uncommon intelligence, and they both needed to know their place, and whatever the hell their place was, it certainly wasn't as friends.
If only Father could see me now.
Of course there have been times, desperate, terrible, miserable, awful times, when she thought he was gone, when she thought he was hurt, when she didn't know what was going on or where he was or even if he was dead or alive, when she suddenly ceased to think, The Colonel; the Colonel is in danger!, and when she started to think, Roy. Roy, please, please, please stay with me. Don't die. Don't die. Don't leave me. Please, Roy, please don't leave me.
"Sir?"
He's been staring at her in an intense (uncomfortably intense) way that she recognizes as his, Please-let-this-not-be-a-fucking-bad-idea-that-will-cause-me-pain look.
"Can . . . Can you say it now?"
She shakes her head mutely. No. It's too much. She can't say it, because his name is terrifying, that simple three letter word, and calling him Colonel, calling him sir, is safe and comfortable and normal, and it doesn't speak of hidden feelings and emotions she's kept bottled inside for years. She's not ready. She's too weak, and too dizzy, and she's too afraid, badly afraid that he will bleed to death in the ruins of this once-great city, in this little alcove where she can see the shattered statue of an angel on the ground, and if she says it, says his name, she probably won't be able to hold herself together any longer, and she won't be able to save him, and she and the angel will tumble together into the abyss.
"No," she says, and shakes her head.
And Roy Mustang accepts this and nods again, and is careful not to let the back of his head touch the stone wall. He ignores this stupid urge that wants to beg her to say his name, just once, just once before he dies.
"Ironic, isn't it?" he mutters instead, gazing out at the city of Ishbal. "Of all the places, I never thought I would come back here. I guess there's some kind of poetic justice in it."
He's trying to tell her, but it isn't coming out. Riza glances up at him but doesn't say anything. She continues to wind the bandages around his leg, and he tries to distract himself from the pain. He looks down at the hole in her side and winces. Maybe if he knew he would last, he would have forced her to use the bandages on herself, because without anything to close the wound, Riza Hawkeye is bleeding to death.
As it is though, he has two wounds, the tattered, bleeding leg, and a chunk of flesh missing from his skull, and there are simply not enough bandages, and he will die from one or the other, and if he dies, there will be no one to protect Riza from the Ishbalans who are running rampant, rejoicing, through the city they have retaken, capturing, torturing the last strains of the military they can find, and help is still more than five days away, and so it is much easier to let her die like this, in peace.
Cruel, cruel mercy. He wonders if she's noticed, or if she's fooling herself into thinking that she has saved him, and he wonders if she will forgive him. He's never lied to her about anything before, and he's not about to start now. But no matter how sharp and in control his mind usually is, he wants her, needs her comfort and forgiveness, and he needs to tell her, to make her understand, and he is drunk from blood loss and not exactly sure of his tongue, which seems to be speaking of it's own accord.
"I always hoped we would go together. I wished for it. I prayed to a God I don't even believe in that he would kill us together. Did you think that was possible, Riza? I prayed."
He chuckles with an edge of hysteria, and it comes out sounding almost like a sob. She watches him carefully, and her fingers suddenly stop moving. She looks down, her face hidden, and he keeps talking, trying to kill the pain of everything with words that aren't anywhere near adequate for what he is trying to express.
"I-It was selfish of me, I know, but I wanted to die with you, I wanted it more than I can ever say. And I knew I didn't deserve it, I knew there was no way someone like me, who had done so much wrong . . ."
She looks up at him with tears in her eyes, and he only realizes now that he is crying as well. She touches his face with a tremulous hand, stroking his battered, bloodied face, and he fights to keep control.
"Well," She whispers "there it is then. I've always told you, Colonel, that you deserved to be forgiven, and you never believed me. Here's your proof."
The sun is glaring at her, a hard reflection on his tears, and she wipes them away tenderly.
"Incidentally, I always wanted to die with you."
Then, suddenly, they're both crying, her silently, simply letting the tears fall from her eyes, because life is so, so cruel to them, and him with barely suppressed shudders, and the sorrow and agony of someone who hates himself above all other beings. She holds him tightly, offering the comfort and affection and sincere love he has needed for so long, not daring-not wanting, to move away, and suddenly his name is escaping her lips with reckless ease, emerging, unused and unfamiliar, and broken by her tears.
When they are finally calm, she's in his lap, held gently against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, his arms around her, and her arms around him. He kisses her dry, filthy hair, and she buries her face against his sweaty, bloody, uniform.
In the ruins of an Ishbal city, Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye lie in each others embrace.
The sun is blazing in the east. It is winter here, which, for this desert country, means a slightly dimmer sun and temperatures in the lower sixties. Birds are chirping, unabashed by the destruction of their homes. A dog barks somewhere, and the noise of the bombs has disappeared. The morning is peaceful, unbroken, impossibly the same as any other morning that has begun here.
Slowly, slowly, the sun rises into the sky as the two lie together and drink in the light and the peace. Slowly, slowly, day drifts into evening, and the stars have risen. Slowly, slowly, in the ruins of their lives and their shattered souls, two hearts stop beating, and a two bodies forget to take their next breaths.
And now, presenting, my masterpiece! Huzzah!
Yeah. I'll call anything a masterpiece if it's the first new thing I've had the guts to post in ages.
So, I'm on a Fullmetal kick, only on the episode 17, first season (And already enough Royai potential to smother any sane person) but I'm a bitch about using wikia to cheat, so Roy, Riza, and their life stories are my personal play toys until I get a life.
Guh. Writing angst makes me want to either puke or cry or both, so Imma gonna go try to get some fluff down before my current little obsession takes a downward plunge.
In other news, Essence of Normality, eh, not making much progress there, but I'm determined to go out with a bang, so keep your fingers crossed.
Anywho, bye now.