Disclaimer: I do not own FMA, nor do I own the characters. I do not own the cover art either. Thus was the sad fate of this sentimental shorty...
Her eyes followed his every move carefully. She hadn't seen him in very many fights, but if his often broken automail was anything to go by, she certainly knew he got into them. As she continued to watch him, she felt the sense of fear growing, causing her heart to stutter in her chest. It was a terrifying thing to watch.
It was almost like he was dancing. Dancing a bloody dance with death as his partner. Never once averting his eyes from death's door, which he constantly seemed to face. He was completely focused. She watched how his body arched and twisted, avoiding blow after blow. She watched how his muscles rippled under his shirt as he leapt and ran, flipped and catapulted all around the dangerous dance floor. He was graceful and agile. And as he retaliated, he was deadly accurate.
She was frozen on the spot, rooted in place as she watched the two battle it out. With every close call she flinched, biting her lip nervously. Her tightly clenched fists trembled at her sides. She was helpless, not able to do anything to help. The gleaming blade made another lunge for him. Metal against metal, like a screeching choir.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four. Blood dripped to the ground. Like the crimson curtain finally closing on their act. The music had stopped. The dance was over. She found herself, for the first time since they had started, unable to watch. Was he ok? He had to be! But she couldn't bring herself to peek up through her cascading curtain of hair. The sound of thundering footsteps followed the silence, filling it like applause. It was finally over. Voices quickly filled the area, but still not the voice she longed to hear.
She looked up at the sound of fluttering fabric. Familiar red filled her vision, so much like his blood which was spilled that day. Tears filled her blue eyes as she slowly looked up at the figure before her, a small smile playing at her lips as she felt the soft fabric settle around her shoulders, sheltering her in his familiar scent. It smelled like... safety.
"Come on, Winry. Let's go home." She swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding slightly as she reached up and grabbed his hand in her own. It was cold and hard. It was strong.
Finally the show was over, and they could go home. Together.
~Cosmic Creativity
