A/N: Hey. I know; I'm sorry. It's been a minute. I'm still on hiatus for several very good reasons, but I couldn't let this favorite week of mine pass without paying homage to the temple of all things Royai. I look forward to reading and reviewing all the offerings when I get my shit together. Much love to ruikosakuragi for checking in with me and encouraging me to write this fic, and as always, visit my tumblr flourchildwrites. All likes, reblogs, favorites, follows and comments are greatly appreciated, especially during times like these.
Written for Royai Week 2019 on Tumblr using the picture prompt for Day 5.
A boy of sixteen tore down the dirt road. With lanky limbs and a bag slung across his body, he ran, kicking up dust as his feet pounded against the packed earth. His breath came hard and ragged against the dry heat of the Eastern countryside, and the heavy breathing in the boy's mind was a sickening countermelody opposite his rapidly beating heart. The scene set itself precariously against the waning light where the parched land met the isolated country backdrop.
But he wasn't alone.
She chased behind him, quick and silent like a spry sparrow, unflinching as her sweater twisted loosely around her body and her skirt ruffled in the wind. The girl's rich amber eyes were alight. Her feet followed light and swift in her counterpart's footsteps. He was angry, but she was fast and determined to catch him before he went too far.
His safety net. Their safety net. One half of a matching set.
This wasn't the first time her father's apprentice had lashed out. Understanding the men in her life as best she could, the young woman suspected it wouldn't be the last.
"Stop following me, Hawkeye!" he panted. The boy's lungs protested against his exertions. As if his body didn't know the rigors of farm chores. As if city life had soaked into his soul.
"Then stop running," she stated calmly, barely phased by the sprint. The lean muscles of her lithe body hid untapped reserves of strength.
Still, the boy surged forward but faltered, stumbling on a pebble in his path. Scrawny legs tangled in a jumbled mess, and the boy kicked at nothing to stir up dust. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and turned, silhouetted against the harsh horizon.
"He's never going to teach me," he raged, a note of defeat evident in his pitchy voice. "That old man will take flame alchemy to his grave!"
The girl's head tilted as she also came to a stop, and her thin lips stretched into a familiar smirk. She only looked like that when he knew she was right.
And she was always right. He knew it, even if he was years from admitting it.
"He does teach you. Every day. All day sometimes. Just not flame alchemy."
"Stupid fundamentals," he spat, throwing his bag to the ground. Out spilled rumpled clothes and haphazard notes that caught the breeze and blew down the dirt road. "Stupid theory. I didn't come here to learn the easy stuff. How am I ever supposed to be somebody if I don't have something special to set me apart?"
"You already are somebody," she answered. The corners of her eyes crinkled, matching her small, withered grin. "You're a good person and the best student he's ever had. You'll be a great alchemist someday if that's what you want. I believe it."
He smiled in spite of himself. So predictable. On this account, he'd do his damnedest to prove her right.
"You are special. To me, at least. Because you're my friend. So, please don't leave just yet."
He started to say that he hadn't been serious about leaving. That he knew what it was like for her at school, and he remembered the promises they made. When finally the young apprentice kicked the dust of this small town off his hand-me-down boots, Hawkeye would go with him. Someday, they'd both be somebody. More than legacies. More than the names they were given - as well as the ones they weren't.
With or without flame alchemy.
His demeanor shifted suddenly, and the dwindling sunlight softened around his features, catching the light ends of his hair. He flashed her a cockeyed smile that was as awkward as it was disarming. The young girl on the cusp of womanhood was enthralled, drawn to him by the same peculiar magnetism first felt when she was nine to his eleven. Five years later, at the age of fourteen, she thought she was old enough to know she loved him.
"You know I won't go. Not unless you are ready to leave."
Maybe, he felt the same.
She reached for his hand, and their fingers intertwined. Threads of fate wound round and round. Their strings were stained with an alchemist's chalk and a markswoman's gunpowder.
"Wait for me just a little while longer?" she asked coyly.
Her eyes darted back to the three-story house, whitewashed and encrusted in green tendrils of ivy. A small figure crouched near the open window of the sitting room, and though her mother's sharp eyes were hidden under the wide brim of a gardening hat, Mae didn't dare push her luck. Smart like her father, but wise like her mother, the raven-haired beauty simply squeezed Yuriy's hand.
Life at Hawkeye Manor was a master class in nonverbal communication. They didn't need words. He would wait, and when the time was right, Yuriy Elric and Mae Hawkeye would put the past behind them, together.
...
The tools of her profession had changed - again, and it was all because of him. From garden tools and overalls to sniper rifles and salutes. Then, back again. Her life had come full circle, resting in the precise location where it had begun, but the garden was prettier now. That was no surprise as it was tended by wrinkled hands that had traded wisdom for the succor of youth.
And yet, in his opinion, she was radiant. Her flaxen hair had grown dusty, stained by starlight and sun. The deep lines under her amber eyes were likewise weatherworn, having borne the burden of many exceptional sights, good and bad alike.
Life had changed her, but Riza Hawkeye was as constant as the northern star. Eternal reassurance. Indispensable guidance. Ever watchful.
"Hey, you."
He chuckled as she turned to greet him with her pruning shears at the ready. Even after all these years together, it was difficult to catch her off-guard. She had always filled the shoes laid out before her and trudged through each walk of life by his side. Friend. Lover. Sniper. Subordinate. Outcast.
And, quite unexpectedly, parent.
She knew the sound of his footsteps and the cadence of his breath better than her own heartbeat.
"Thought I might have chased Yuriy off this time," the man mused. He reflexively rubbed his fingers together as he spoke and grinned wryly as if he could still feel the flinty material of his ignition gloves. It would be illegal for the convicted war criminal and disgraced ex-Fuhrer to possess such a thing, naturally. But, ever wary, his keeper stashed a pair or two away for a not-so-rainy day. Just in case. "I must be losing my touch."
"If you wanted Yuriy gone, he wouldn't be here," she shot back. "But you like him, Roy, and you like butting heads with him just as much as you enjoyed bickering with his father. Three peas in a pod." She plucked a stray weed from her flowerbed and tossed it aside.
The smirk on his face was practically criminal. "And what a trio we make. A petulant apprentice who knows nothing of life. The child prodigy who can no longer perform and me, a fallen star, ostracized from all respectable circles of alchemical practice."
He scoffed and scratched at the salt and pepper scruff on his chin. "I'll never know why Fullmetal asked me to teach his son."
"Isn't the reason obvious?"
"Yes, I suppose Alphonse was too busy," he offered humorously.
She rose, then, turning her hands to dust the earth from her digits. Never one for gloves, she was used to getting her hands dirty. As was he.
"They're so alike," the woman observed. "Yuriy and Ed, I mean. Yuriy's just the kind of boy who might rebel against his father and get in trouble while stubbornly pursuing his goals. Sound familiar?"
The man's rueful smile matched his partner's knowing expression, and the woman took a moment to consider their journey's end - such as it was. His rise had been meteoric, and his fall seemed just as glamorous from the outside looking in. Theirs was a cautionary tale authored equally by destiny and decision. Yet, the ending still hung in the balance courtesy of a happy accident: their daughter, Mae - a girl who would do well in life if they all continued to play their parts.
"Then I'll continue to be the bad guy," the man said, shrugging his shoulders. He took the woman's hand and stared down the dusty road, replaying old memories in his mind's eye. A girl chased a boy as he bounded hopefully toward the horizon, longing desperately for a future that turned out to be fool's gold.
"Maybe he won't make the same mistakes I did. Not today at least."
The woman nodded in agreement as she watched the boy and girl stroll toward Hawkeye Manor, hand in hand. "Yuriy will make different mistakes and so will Mae, but I think they'll make them together."
And though the implication remained unspoken, the sentiment hung heavily between the older couple. This storied place, an isolated manor situated on the outskirts of a one road town, was simultaneously a safe harbor for tired exiles and a lockup for young dreamers. It was a vacuum where history could repeat itself. Yet, this time, ambition took a backseat to something short of the fame and fortune that young Roy Mustang had coveted.
Position. Prominence. Title. He now knew these things to be hollow placeholders. Names and roles were transient, shifting capriciously with time like the parts of a popular play. Hero to villain. Apprentice to master. Orphan to father. But in this moment there was love in all its forms, and with love, surely they would all be somebody to someone.
The man smiled. "That's all that really matters."