the way you said 'I love you'
Word Count: 2,798
Timeline/Spoilers: before, during, and after manga; vague spoilers for entire series
Summary: While he loves the musical quality to her voice when she says the words aloud to him, or the feather-light tip tap of her fingers as she spells it out across his skin, his absolute favourite is when he's gazing into her eyes and seeing everything that never needs to be said. (a five-times fic) – Royai Week, Day 1: Warmth
Notes: Fair warning: I wrote this while listening to "I Don't Wanna Say Goodbye" (extended version) from Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Time on repeat and while looking at a list of prompts called "The way you said 'I love you'," so be prepared for the flangst.
Credit to trash-by-vouge on tumblr for the prompts I used.
Too quick, mumbled into your scarf
It's a chilly winter's night in the small Northern town she grew up in. While it's rare for an actual snowstorm to hit this part of the countryside, the two of them are all bundled up, red-tipped noses scarcely visible above their tightly-wrapped scarves. Their neckwear is woven from the same bundle of navy blue yarn. Some would call it symbolic – two scarves of the same thread in the same way that their fates are interlaced. Riza just calls it practical. The muffler had been a Solstice gift for her father's apprentice, and there had been enough extra material to knit one for herself.
Roy was delighted when she handed him the neatly wrapped package, over-enthusiastically complimenting her subpar needle work. He made no comment when she stepped out of her room later that evening, wrapped in the very same cloth, just a slight grin that someone with less sharp vision would have missed. Whether Roy was amused or bothered by their matching apparel, he kept it to himself.
His own present for her apparently isn't something you can hand-package, as evidenced by his childlike eagerness to have her out of the house. Her father likely hasn't even realized the date. Regardless, he thought the gift exchange puerile and meaningless. Still, she leaves an extra slice of peach cobbler pie outside of his study. It'll surely be cold by the time he turns in for the night, but Riza has grown accustomed to his habits.
"It's a little windier than I would have liked for tonight," the boy mumbles to himself, as they trek towards the empty dirt lot a mile or so from her house. There is in fact a slight breeze that he hopes will die down before he presents his gift.
"Pardon?"
He waves his arms franticly in front of himself, "Nothing, nothing! We're almost there."
Riza hides a secret smile behind her scarf.
"Alright. Now close your eyes and hold out your hands." He is unable to fight the enthusiastic grin off his face, and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. He really was like an excitable pup. Nevertheless, she does as she is told and waits patiently.
She hears him tinkering around for a few minutes, but something light and warm is placed in her palms before she can raise any questions.
"You can open them now," a deep voice speaks into her ear, much closer than she anticipated.
It's some simple off-white, papery material, roughly in the shape of a balloon, with a small flame at the bottom. He holds an identical object in his hands. They're beautiful, but she has no idea what they were. It must show on her face.
"They're called sky lanterns," he supplies. "They're like mini hot air balloons. The flame at the bottom heats the air inside the lantern, thus lowering the density, which allows the lantern to float up, since hot air rises, and…" he trails off from his scientific rambling, looking sheepish.
He could have sworn he heard her mutter, "Alchemists," under her breath, but he can't be certain.
"My mom used to make them with me during Solstice when I was a kid. I asked Aunt Chris to send me the supplies in my last package from home," he explains.
She is visibly touched that he had chosen to share such a special part of his childhood with her. "They're lovely, Roy. Thank you," she replies shyly. Calling him by his given name still sends a delightful tremor through her bones.
The look in her eyes makes something in his chest stir. He beams back at her. "Now, hold your arms out like this, and when I say, 'go,' we'll let them fly. One, two, three…go!"
The lanterns drift up gently into the starlight.
"Make a wish, Riza."
As her eyelids slide shut once more, he mumbles something inaudibly into his scarf. If his ears are tinged red when she turns her gaze onto him, she doesn't say a word.
Over and over again, till it's nothing but a senseless babble
Her eyes snap open in a flash. There are light footsteps outside her apartment door that would have gone unnoticed to the untrained ear, but it isn't the noise that rouses her. Since returning from Ishbal, Riza has found that she has a difficult time sleeping through the night, and not always because of nightmares, though they still often rear their ugly heads. Perhaps her body has simply adapted to the nightly routine of a soldier on the front lines. Or maybe something in her mind is barring her from enjoying a full night's sleep, knowing it is only a small payment after the horrors she's committed.
She is a prodigious sniper, a war veteran, and only twenty-two.
Hawkeye knows who lingers outside her door, refusing to knock but not simply leaving and heading home either. How can she not? It has not yet been a full year since she was officially commissioned as his adjutant, but they have settled into their roles at Eastern Command.
She rises from her small bed, pulling on a light shawl as she makes for the door. The man standing outside looks like he hasn't slept in years, though he manages to cover it up well enough in the daytime hours. It's the same for him, she knows. He doesn't seem at all surprised that she opens the door without the slightest bit of prompting necessary.
"Lieutenant," he greets with a wan smile.
"Lieutenant-Colonel," she returns in her usual cool tone, as if it is not at all outside of the norm for her commanding officer to visit her apartment in the dead of night looking as disheveled as he is and be ushered inside before a single word is exchanged. And perhaps for them, it isn't.
She offers him a seat. "How can I help you, sir?" He envies her ability to so easily slip into this professional demeanor and appear unperturbed by anything. It's probably her way of coping.
They both know he has no real response for her.
He simply leans his elbows onto the table and sighs. It's just the slightest tinge, but she smells the alcohol on his breath. He'd been drinking. She voices her observations aloud.
"Just a swig of brandy. Only enough to work up the courage to come here."
She feels that familiar ache in the muscles of her back flare up. He's too observant not to have noticed her slight wince, she knows; too observant only in manners regarding her. "You shouldn't have come."
"I know."
There's silence for a few moments. Not the quiet, companionable silence that they're used to, not the kind where they're having an entire conversation over sealed lips, and not even the dull haze they share in the office with sporadic sounds of paper tears and pen scrawls permeating through. This quiet is tension-filled, like the slightest shift could send a fatal shock through them both.
After what feels like centuries, she moves to stand behind him. "Sir…"
With that, it's as if a switch is flipped, and in seconds, they are in each other's arms, but it is far from a lover's embrace. Neither is it a comforting squeeze from a comrade in arms. It is only a broken man barely being held together by his equally broken partner. There is no title for what they are to one another.
He's muttering incomprehensible nothings into the crook of her neck that she eventually deciphers as, "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou," over and over again.
"I wish you didn't."
"No, you don't." Her heart fractures.
"You're right, I don't."
With no space left between us
"We have got to stop meeting like this," he purrs into her ear. He thinks himself so suave sometimes. She whaps him lightly upside the head for good measure.
Ignoring his wounded look and puppy-dog pout, she starts unbuttoning her uniform jacket. "Do you want to stand around looking sorry for yourself, or help me with this?" she asks matter-of-factly.
Eyes roll backwards into her head at the self-satisfied smirk that work its way across his features as he moves behind her, sliding her clip out of her tightly-bound hair.
Riza drags her hands through his own unruly nest that he likes to call hair and guides his face slowly to hers. The adrenaline is thrumming through their veins, and she catches the bedroom door with the tips of her toes, slamming it shut with a little more gusto than necessary, as she is propelled backwards onto her bed. But, she is more than a little too preoccupied with the hand creeping across her thighs to care. A light flick to the nose startles a bark of laughter out of him and lets him know that her patience is wearing thin. The end result is worth that stupid smirk resurfacing, she thinks.
While Roy isn't one to talk her ear off during their more amorous activities, neither is he one to keep completely silent. She catches snatches of her own name and sweet nothings off his lips, in between her own frenzied thoughts. He is in her, and she is everywhere. While you'd never catch her recounting anything about 'mind-blowing sex' – not only because of the legal repercussions, but to keep his mighty ego in check (truthfully, it was mainly because of the latter) – his choked gasps echoing in her ears let her know she's no slacker either. In this lighting, she is certain he doesn't notice the complacent grin settle onto her face.
"You must not be getting enough physical exercise if you're this out of breath, Colonel," she deadpans. "Or perhaps, you're just hitting that age…"
They are pressed together from head to toe, and she feels his entire body stiffen in mock outrage. He is half-ready to offer a clever retort, but she shushes him almost instantly. "Hush, sir, it's time for bed." This time, she senses him shaking with silent laughter.
He pulls the covers up over them in compliance. As he is drifting off to the land of nod, her fingers are tiptoeing down his spine in what he initially thinks just is a jumbled disarray. He almost opens his mouth to offer some witty comeback about how he thought she said it was bedtime, until he senses a recognizable pattern.
.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-
Morse code. He has to work his frazzled brain a little harder to decode her message – Morse isn't one they utilize very often – but when he does, he presses a sweet kiss to the side of her neck, then falls asleep with that silly smile on his face one more time.
Muffled, from the other side of the door
The transfer requests come as a shock to them all. Roy knew he'd overstepped his boundaries, but this, he never saw coming.
Falman is quiet and solemn as always. His steadfast bishop.
Breda's mouth is set in a hard line. His dedicated rook.
Feury's eyes are a little glassy. His faithful pawn.
Despite the somber atmosphere, he makes sure to see all his men off with whatever rousing words he can muster, a stalwart salute, and a vow to meet again.
His queen is another story. He can't fake confidence in front of her and assure her that everything is going according to plan. He's half-sure the men didn't completely buy his façade either. There are very few words to be exchanged between the two of them. Thus far, it's always been an advantage that they could read one another so easily. This time, they're both trying hard not to give away just how shaken they really are. But they know each other much too well for that.
The saying, "the eyes have walls" had never been truer. They'll be under constant surveillance from now on. Her, by the Fuhrer himself. It's this fact that unnerves him the most. She's quite literally a hostage, unknown to anyone else but themselves. How can he protect her? How can he even reach her?
He takes bitter satisfaction from the fact that he remains completely composed until the moment she exits his office and shuts the door behind her.
Inch by inch, he slumps down onto the floor, cheek resting against the wooden entrance. They've taken Hughes, and now they've taken her and the rest of his team. It's almost too much to bear. He should get up, he knows. If anyone were to enter the office and see him in this sorry state…
Just a moment more, he swears. He's risking both of their safety, but as high and mighty as the Flame Alchemist makes himself out to be, he's just a man still. The words escape his mouth unbidden, choked out and not intended for other ears.
If she just so happens to be leaning back on the other side of that door, papers clutched tightly against her chest, and by chance overhears, then she never mentions it.
On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair
It's rare for anyone to catch a seasoned soldier like Riza Hawkeye unawares. After all, she didn't earn the moniker "The Hawk's Eye" just because it was an amusing play on her last name. Roy is only so auspicious as to see her in this state because she is currently sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. It's a rare day off for the both of them, and they made sure to take advantage of it the night before.
However, it is early afternoon now, and Roy can't keep mirth from bubbling across his face at the fact that Hawkeye of all people has slept in past noon. They had been up rather late, though, engaged in some physically exerting activities, so he supposes he can't blame her. It was rare for her to get a full night's rest and to sleep so peacefully to boot, so he sees no reason to rouse her just yet. Besides, the sunlight streaming in from the window above them makes her look positively ethereal, and nothing could make him want to disrupt this moment.
Her golden crown is perched upon his torso, hardly any weight at all, with her light breaths exhaling in time with his own beating heart. She has never looked more serene, and he feels that familiar sensation swell up in his chest, almost reflexively. Despite not making a sound, his intense gaze must have stirred her. It's one of those little quirks he loves so much about this woman. Even dead asleep, she does not like being watched. That's her job after all.
She comes awake in languid, bleary blinks.
"Morning, sunshine. Or should I say afternoon?" His voice is like silk but still holds a tinge of that early morning husk to it despite the time of day. She grants him one of her rare dreamy smiles that makes his mouth run dry. He savors nothing more than being the one person she can completely disarm herself in front of – both literally and figuratively.
"Afternoon already?" She stifles a yawn, rearranging herself atop him into a more comfortable position.
He drapes an arm around her bare waist and gives a low chuckle. "Yes, well someone insisted on staying up into the early hours of the morning."
"And that someone was you," she shoots back, now fully awake and cognizant of her surroundings.
Roy laughs again. "And I didn't hear you complaining then."
"Who says I'm complaining now?"
He simply presses a kiss into her hair in response. "How's about you and I stay here and lounge in bed all day long?"
There's that smile again. She presses a finger to her chin, pretending to think it through. "What about Hayate?"
"He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."
"Roy, he can't just open the door to let himself out."
"And why not? Falling behind on the dog training, Riza?" The look she gives him is unamused, though her wine-coloured eyes are alive with laughter. God, how he loved saying her name. "Just a few moments more, Riza," he says so softly that even she can barely make out the words.
He brushes his thumb along her bottom lip, gently, and she glances up at him in question. He simply ducks his head down and presses his lips to hers. There is silence for quite a few moments. When they finally part, she has the softest, warmest look in her eyes that only makes him want to kiss her thoroughly once more, though he refrains for just an instance.
While he loves the musical quality to her voice when she says the words aloud to him, or the feather-light tip tap of her fingers as she spells it out across his skin, his absolute favourite is when he's gazing into her eyes and seeing everything that never needs to be said. He knows his eyes are speaking the same thing back to her.
"My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you. "
– John Keats
Notes: I am so incredibly proud of this piece. I actually managed to write it in one sitting, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out. It's also one of the longest pieces I've ever written. I almost wish this wasn't my first entry for this week, so it could be my big finisher haha. I hope you enjoyed! Please review, and I'll see you for Day 2! Let me know which section was your fave. :)