Word Count: 912
Timeline/Spoilers: manga continuity, from pre-series to post-series; spoilers for Hawkeye and Mustang's past and the end of the series
Summary: Besides, a lifetime of shared secrets between them is somehow infinitely more intimate than the touch of skin. — royai
Notes: Hah, this was the first time I've written anything so suggestive, though it's really isn't much at all. A take on Riza and Roy through the years. Hope you enjoy! Lyrics come from The Secret's in the Tellingby Dashboard Confessional, which is THE royai song (if you ignore the fact that it's actually about an affair haha).
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Her bare back is exposed to him, though 'unadorned' is hardly the word to describe it. Intricate insignias span the planes of her flesh and the blades of her shoulders. The pattern is painstakingly detailed and mesmerizing, and it makes him want to retch.
Before he can pause to think, he's reaching out with one hand to caress but halts breaths away from that skin-on-skin contact. She shudders at his almost-touch.
"Riza," he chokes out, instantly ashamed of his own selfish display of emotion. Even at her father's graveside, with his late teacher barely in the ground, he couldn't stop himself from spilling his naïve ideals to this woman grown from his childhood comrade. Even now, he's the one overcome with grief, ire, confusion. What of her feelings?
She turns to face him, blouse tucked against her chest. Her voice is soft and meek, far removed from the stoic, commanding tone she'll come to be known for. "It's alright."
A thousand apologies could never right this wrong, so he doesn't bother. Besides, he has a feeling she can read it all in his gaze, in his trembling fingers (whether out of rage or anguish, he wouldn't be able to tell her). They always seemed to work better without words, even as children, as young adults.
"I want you to use it."
He startles, breath catching in his throat.
"That vision you told me about, I entrust my back to it."
Roy simply stares at her in marvel. If she won't succumb to sorrow at this responsibility unwillingly thrust upon her (his finger unconsciously clench at the thought), then neither can he indulge that luxury. He sets his shoulders straight and gives a single, firm nod, knowing there is more than one meaning to her words.
She moves towards him and drops the blouse.
Dark eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he fruitlessly tries to avert his gaze. "Riza, what—"
She shushes him.
He knows what this is. There are a limited number of meanings to be drawn from a topless woman standing in one's vicinity. Still, his brain scrambles for alternative explanations.
She steps forward once more. Surprisingly steady hands find his shoulders (broader than she remembers them). As much as he wants this, as right as it feels...
"Riza." She looks up. "I don't want to take advantage of you. Your father just passed away, and I understand that you're going through—"
A slim finger presses against his flapping lips, silencing him once more. (He has a feeling that this is going to become something of a routine.) "You underestimate just how long I've wanted this, Mr. Mustang."
His mind flashes back to sweet, stolen kisses and furtive glances and flashlight-lit conversations in the night. Her fingers inch up to the nape of his neck, and somehow that's all it takes.
When their lips meet, it isn't like a shock down his spine or a flame in his belly; it's warm and familiar, and it feels like coming home.
.
Shaking hands
"Riza, I've never—"
A calming smile
"Hush, it's alright."
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And then, Ishval happens. The dream is dead, and the burns on her back are proof of it.
It's hardly the place for amorous activities, even if it were just to feel an ounce of humanity again, like some of their fellow soldiers who partake in the act. But they gave up that right when they shed their human skin for the pelts of monsters.
Still, just being near one another brings a semblance of comfort, no matter how undeserving of it they may be.
"Major Mustang," she says, drawing him out of his clouded thoughts. Her agile fingers are rubbing the warmth back into his own cold and clammy ones.
He has no right to ask this of her, but he'll do it anyway. "Please, call me Roy," he breathes against her mouth.
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It's hard to put a label on what this is. His scientific mind can't help but attempt to quantify the unquantifiable.
The words are never uttered aloud, seldom even exposed within the confines of their private thoughts. They're soldiers first and lovers last, after all, and the walls have eyes as well as ears. In the rare instances where their bare bodies find chance to meet once more, a touch says everything that needs to be said. In the line of duty, eye signals speak louder than words ever could. Besides, a lifetime of shared secrets between them is somehow infinitely more intimate than the touch of skin.
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"Colonel Mustang."
A curt nod in greeting
"Lieutenant."
A textbook perfect salute
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In the wake of regaining his vision, he can't explain why he's suddenly lost his ability to breathe. His last sight had been of her blood-stained form, and it was an image that haunted his unseeing eyes in the days and nights since. And yet, dressed in a hospital gown, bruised and bandaged, she's no less beautiful than when he first laid eyes on her as a not-quite-teenager. She's radiant, in fact.
"Sir?" Creased brows swim into his vision. "Dr. Marcoh, I don't know if it—"
She stills, as nimble fingers reach up to play with the ends of her hair.
"Hawkeye."
Neither pay note to the fact that the old doctor has since vacated the premises.
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"Fuhrer, sir."
A twitch of the lips
"Mrs. Mustang."
A hint of a smile
"That's Colonel Mustang to you."
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A/N: First time I've written FMA in a while, and the first time I've ever really done anything overtly romantic for it. Let me know your thoughts! :)