This fic has become the refuge for all my Ishval centric writings as of this moment (5:36 a.m., Tuesday, 28th June, 2011)
Author's Rant: Okay, I know what you guys are thinking. But I am still working on Almost Here. This is just a quick little drabble for bay115 who requested a story about Roy burning Riza's back in return for the phenomenal banner she made me. I apologize in advance for all the dark, morbid themes in here but this is the only way I can see it happening. Feel free to hate me.
To bay115, you know I had issues with this particular subject matter so I hope I haven't let you down completely. But if I failed, please let me know and I swear I'll write you something better. *hides*
Of Ashes and Blood and Everything in Between
She comes in smelling like sand and sun and torrid desert wind. Occasionally, she also smells of blood.
He comes in smelling of burnt skin and hair.
Ishval is set into their skin, their minds. Every day is now routine. Duties and shifts may vary but the overall pattern of it persists. By day, they are killers, by night, even they can't define themselves.
He doesn't know if what they're doing is wrong, and she doesn't voice her own verdict either way. And if he hates himself for fucking her on the rough, tarp covered ground, it is nowhere near as much as he loathes himself for what he has done earlier that day. A war really does a number on one's priorities, he thinks, biting down hard on the sweaty skin of her shoulder. She whimpers but he can feel her nails digging into his back with just as much force. He'll feel the stinging later when he showers.
Their arrangement is not orderly, no dates and times have been set for when he could come in. They don't even know each other's shifts. All they really know is that when one needs the other, the other is somehow always there.
They never talk about it, ever.
A year passes, then two.
Word spreads like one of his creations: the war will be over soon. Soldiers would be able to return home.
That night, they cling to each other harder, because they know they have nowhere to go.
She is the first to break their tradition of silence.
"Sir, may I ask a favor of you?"
He nods, his fingers tracing the mole beneath her shoulder blade, wishing he had better visual access to it. Damn that stupid sketch.
"I need you to… burn it off."
And just like that, he is pushing her away from him, distancing himself from the smell of burnt flesh already filling his senses. Hastily, he gets to his feet and upon seeing her hurt expression, tosses the nearest garment her way. It is his own shirt, once grey now bleached white.
"What kind of a sick request is that?"
"A kind similar to the one my father asked of me years ago. And not so different from what you requested later on. Now it's my turn."
He walks out, vowing to never step foot in the tent again.
She doesn't persist.
The end of the war finally arrives; soldiers scramble to get on the trucks heading back home. He is in no hurry.
She is packed, of the few possessions she came with, only half have survived.
He notices she walks with a slight stoop, as though the markings on her back physically weigh her down. It takes another two days for him to realize they probably do. He isn't the only one allowed to have demons, after all. He goes to her tent for the last time that night.
She is there, as always, this time undressed and with a rag ready to gag her mouth. He notices bits of rope for her limbs too, in case the involuntary flailing disrupts his work.
She in turn notices the blade scars along his arms, some even intersecting with the veins on his wrists.
He ties her up without a word but has the decency to let her gag herself first. Because this will apparently make him less of a monster.
He pinpoints the flames with one gloved hand, clutching a fresh blade in the naked palm of the other. He later tells her the blade was to "cut" the hypnotic feel of using fire alchemy. She does not call him up on it.
That night, he leaves smelling of blood and she of burnt skin and hair.
End Note: *double hides in emo corner*