Note: This oneshot was first published in my tumblr blog (with url: claviclez). I wrote it for my friend Laylah for her birthday. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.

Tired eyes. Glassy eyes. Fiery eyes.

Amber eyes, dark with grief and guilt-

A hawk's eyes.

Roy Mustang has always been good with reading eyes. Madame Christmas has always considered it a valuable skill, uncanny and something entirely unexpected. Something Roy-boy is lucky to have.

Right now, Roy didn't feel particularly lucky.

Thoughts of her flooded his mind on the nights when he would let himself remember; sleeping or not, he saw her there, asking one question over and over:

"How could you?"

She never elaborated. She never really needed to. He knew. Oh, how he knew—

and how he wished he didn't.

Now she was a few feet away, everything hidden under dirty white cloth; everything but her pair of sharp-shooter eyes-eyes he had heard a lot of before; eyes that earned so much praise, but they were eyes he'd have never pegged to be hers.

"Eyes of a hawk. Eyes of precision. Eyes of damnation. Eyes of death itself."

The rumour mill sure had a way with words.

But that's not what Roy remembered. That's not what he clung onto in the nights when he needed something to pull him from the edge.

He remembered amber eyes that shone with care and affection; eyes that darkened in concern; eyes that comforted him enough to fall asleep just staring into.

"How could you?"

She was quiet as she returned his gaze, but he heard her voice loud and clear in his head.

"How could you?"

He stared at her as she nodded a response to Hughes' unnervingly nonchalant "thanks". He stared at her as she reloaded her rifle. He stared at her as she pulled down the cloth covering her face, exposing her parted lips and burrowed brows. He stared at her when her eyes met his again for the longest time. He stared at her when she tore her eyes away. He stared at her, wishing above everything to hear her voice and say something—he didn't even know what—he just wanted to hear her say something.

Something that didn't ask him, "How could you?"

Roy shut his eyes tight.

"How could you?" he kept hearing, over and over and over.

"How could you?", "How could you?", "How could you?"—alarmingly in synchronization with the rapid beat of his heart.

"How could you?"

He has never heard her say these words before but the voice in his head was unmistakably hers.

"How could you?"

There's no denying it.

"How could you?"

He didn't even have the right—

"How could you?"

—to make it stop.

"How could you?"

"How could you? Howcouldyou? Howcouldyouhowcouldyouhowcouldyouhowcouldyouhowcould-

Maes clapped his back, jarring his reverie. He led him back to camp, once again overcome by his stories of his girlfriend.

"How could I?" he found himself muttering, staring at his gloved hands. He flipped his palm over, gave himself a full view of the alchemic inscriptions he'd had a tailor sown onto what he had come to call his ignition gloves.

"Alchemist, be thou for people," Master Hawkeye used to remind him every chance he'd get.

He slipped his fingers out of the gloves. At that moment, he wanted so much to rip the cloth in his hands into tiny little pieces, wanted to burn them to inferno, if only he could. Fingers clenched into a fist, he stood up from the stool Maes had offered him and started walking away.

"…oh, I'm so excited to see my lovely Gracia agai—eh, Roy? Where are you going?"

He hadn't quite heard Maes' voice—he hadn't realize how he'd tuned him out since he started staring at his gloves.

Maes put a hand on his shoulder. "Roy…"

Without looking back, Roy answered with a simple "Away." He couldn't look back; he couldn't let Maes see his downcast, defeated face.

He couldn't let Maes see the firestorm ignited inside him, the hurricane of guilt and grief yet to consume him. He couldn't let anyone.

"How could I?" he asked himself when he felt he was far enough out of earshot. "How could I?!"

Tears obscured his view, but really, what was there to see? Sand soaked in blood. Ruins and burning bodies he himself had caused. Wounds with the only chance in healing is to clot up and become one huge, ugly scar.

He'd tried so hard to keep everything in, but he could only last for so long. He had blocked all the sounds of explosions, the putrid smell of burning flesh, and the screams of agony—but seeing her made it all come gushing out. She tore at him without possibly even knowing it.

He felt tired, worn out. His eyes burned from the tears and he had to stop himself from making it boil with his flames. His throat felt dry and scratched from all the screams and sobs that never got to escape.

He cried silently, as if he were mourning the death of all that he has killed—in Ishval and inside himself.

Finally calming down, he looked up at the sky and wondered whether he could outlast this blasted war. He wasn't sure if he could stay long enough to find out.

Roughly wiping at his cheeks, he marvelled at the feeling of wetness on his fingers. He had been so careful around liquids the past few months, lest he jeopardize his ability to use flame alchemy. He realized then that while fire made him appear godlike (never mind, a murdering god of destruction), water reminded him that he is human.

But liquids… render him useless.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching. He considered slipping his hand into his pocket and into one of his ignition gloves, but he was too exhausted. He was too exhausted for another fight that would only further break him from the inside.

Sigh. Disgrace be disgrace. Death be death.

He was so done.

"Major."

That voice clouded his head just a few minutes ago. That voice caused him to go make this little personal rendezvous.

He took a deep breath.

First time he heard of her in years and it's amidst a fucking war.

"Hawkeye."

He heard a clacking of metal, cloth stretching against itself—the sound of Riza Hawkeye saluting him.

He turned around, met her amber eyes—they looked tired and raw and hard. Eyes of a killer, they say. As he stared a little longer, he saw his own eyes reflected back. They had the same hardness and the same bags underneath.

He wanted so much to apologize. But he knew too well that apologies will never be enough.

His hand reached for her raised forearm and slowly brought it down to the side of her waist.

He didn't deserve it—not from her, not from anyone.

Riza opened her mouth. The words took some time to reach Roy's ear.

Here it goes, he thought.

"How could you?"

But instead—

"I'm sorry."

His eyes landed on the hand she had clasped on her rifle. He kept it there, not knowing what to say or do.

"I'm sorry this happened to both of us."

Tears threatened to materialize yet again, but Roy Mustang stood undeterred.

He dared a look at the private's eyes. He was surprised to see such gentleness—so familiar and so comforting.

He let a tear go. There was no point in fighting anymore.

"How could I?" He posed a question, both to himself and to her.

Riza held her gaze as much as she could, even though Roy could tell how much she wanted to turn away. Sometimes he didn't like how good he was with reading eyes.

They stood in front of each other, the wind blowing sand onto their ankles, neither moving nor skipping breaths.

Neither said anything—not when the wind whistled at their faces, not when Riza wiped the moisture off of Roy's face.

Neither said anything.

After all, how could they?

Somber last note: I hope you enjoyed. Please leave me a review!