A/N: I know this idea has been done time and time again but I just wanted to try my hand at it. This story is currently 4 chapters and around 8,000 words long, but I hope to add more to it, perhaps even taking it all the way to order 3066 or more. I'll post chapters 1-4 over the next few days. Thank you so much for reading, I would LOVE any and all feedback, as this is my first long Royai fic.
Edit: YIPE! When I first posted this I, somehow, when copy-and-pasting it from the doc that contains all 4 chaps, left out the last few lines! Fixed now. Sorry about that. I'll post a note on the next chap too for those who already read it...
The walk back was long, slow, and silent. When he first came to this house as a boy, a lifetime ago it seemed now though only a handful of years, Roy had been more disturbed than he ever would have admitted by the manor's proximity to the graveyard. Now, however, it felt like miles.
She walked before him with a grim perseverance and he stayed a respectful two steps back and just to her right. Something told him he ought to be holding her hand, offering support. But even in his crisp blue uniform beside her simple black skirt and top with hidden tear tracks running down her face and her hands trembling with anything but cold she looked more like a model of strength than he ever had.
She opened the door and let herself into the old house – her old house now. He had left her everything. Some kind of recompense, she supposed, if not a plea for forgiveness. But even now such sentiments were difficult. This house was all she had ever known. But it was not much more than a few old walls lined with shelves of even older books. Not long ago she had been thinking of how cramped the house was, even with just the two of them. She longed for space even on the grounds of the largest house in town. But now with her father's passing the ancient shell of an abode seemed a huge, empty cavern where she might be lost forever, and forever be haunted by the familiar walls.
Every time she closed her eyes she knew that everything had changed. For better or worse she could not tell, only that nothing would ever be the same again. But each time she opened them she saw only the same door, the same staircase, the same cupboard and dishes that she had used every day of her life. Something about it seemed condemning. As if the world itself mocked the upheaval her small life by daring her to try and live again the life she knew. She would forgive the world for upheaval, for chaos even, after what had happened. But it was much harder to overcome this strange peace.
She had known for years now that her father was dying. He had known it too. He had made preparations. But no one could really prepare for the great unknown of death. The usual sentiments had little hold on the Hawkeye household, though Riza tried to uphold what normalcy she could. But their family, if family was what it was, was far too broken for that. They had given him a proper burial. Now it seemed there was nothing left, no program or plan, no guide on how to go on. For years now she had told herself she was ready, that she was prepared. She knew he was dying, it came as no real shock. But she had never thought to prepare for her life to go on afterwards. Now that she was here she was at a loss.
Booted footfalls tapped an even pace behind her as they entered. Riza had never particularly liked that noise until the day he stepped back into the house, nor had she thought much of military uniforms until she saw him in one. But now his regimented pace behind her seemed the most reassuring sound she could have heard. All the same, when she made her quick flight up the stairs they stopped at the bottom and followed no more. And she was, to her own surprise, glad of that. She would not have said it aloud, not even to herself, but she did not want him to see her cry.
And cry she did, though she hardly knew why anymore. It would be easy enough to call it grief – the loss of one's father is generally an acceptable excuse for tears no matter one's circumstances – but even that word did not sound right. She was lost. Lost in her own home, in her own heart, in her own world. Not to mention to world out her window.
She had been meaning to change into something more comfortable but had not even made it to her dresser before collapsing in the chair across from the door, her head in her hands, stealing trembling breaths beneath the muffled flood that came more of shock than grief.
She did not know how long she sat there, nor could she even in that moment account for the thousands of thoughts that may have flown through her mind on their way out the window. Not one of them seemed to stick, but only echo vainly in the darkness, forgotten before they were even thought. Her tears died quicker than she expected, but she sat paralyzed by them long after.
Minutes that seemed hours later her lonely world was finally shattered by a curt knock on the door. She sniffed rather louder than she meant to and her visitor took it as permission to enter.
Roy pushed the door open with his back and stepped in without a word, turning to reveal the tray of tea in his arms with a steaming pot of her favorite - a simple lemon tea he had made a point of becoming an expert at crafting - along with a pair of tea cups, cream, sugar, and even some biscuits. A tiny smile dared to creep up towards her face as he set it before her and pulled up a chair of his own, pouring and preparing both without asking how she took hers. It was not the first time he had performed this exact service, and it would not be the last.
Riza took her cup automatically when he finished and held it, letting the warmth spread through her skin, but took a long time before tasting it. Roy, for his part, took a sip, as if to prove that the steaming drink would not in fact burn her. The sweet steam worked its magic and the smooth taste did its part to at last bring Riza out of the fog of her not-quite-thoughts. She breathed in deeply again and again until she could do so without a shudder or hitch in her chest. Now that he was here, Riza found she did not mind in the least that he could see her tears. But she was ready to be rid of them nonetheless. Taking one more sip of tea, she dared break the long-held silence between them.
"He never liked that window." She said, looking out it. She did not know what made her think of it, but it seemed only right that the first words they shared now were about him. Someone had to remember him, after all.
The window in question was anything but remarkable, other than that it was the only window in the room, and if one was familiar with the house, which they both were, one might know that it was the largest in the house and also that although it was on the second of three stories anyone confident enough could reach either the ground or the roof with only little more effort than a ladder would have required because of a few broken boards and long uncut ivy. But that aside, Berthold had no more reason for disliking the window than Riza had in mentioning it now.
"He never liked any windows." Roy replied without question "My first month in his study I thought I'd forget what the world looked like outside." He took another sip of tea. "I suppose candlelight suited him better. A light he could control."
Silence hung heavy for a while more, broken only by a faint sniff from Riza and the sound of Roy pouring the rest of the tea into their drained mugs. At last, Riza spoke again.
"I wish you could have seen him with my mother." She was still looking out the window. It had been two years since her mother's death when Roy had first arrived, two of the darkest years of Riza's life. She had been devastated, but Berthold had been utterly destroyed. Roy knew something about losing parents – he had lost both of his after all – but at the same time knew nothing of it at all. Nothing of the pain of seeing a father lock himself away, to hear him crying in the dead of night, to watch the light fade from behind his eyes.
"I would have liked that." He said at length. He was trying not to watch her now, trying not to stare. But it was not working. "I would have liked to have met her, too." Roy was sure he knew exactly what Riza's mother was like – as kind, beautiful, and full of life as her daughter.
"He was happy then." Riza continued. She did not say more. She did not need to.
"Perhaps he is happy now." Roy commented. He was not one to make comments on whatever might lay after death, a proclaimed agnostic, as most alchemists seemed to be, but confronted with the end like this he found he might be more of a believer than he pretended. Perhaps everyone was.
Riza nodded again and set down her now empty tea cup. She looked, really looked, at Roy for the first time since they stood by her father's grave. Though she had seen it before she was almost startled by the blue uniform he wore. "Are you going to leave?" The question sprang from her lips before she could stop it.
Roy looked up from his empty mug, startled and more than a little worried by her tone. "Not… Not if you don't want me to. Until my deployment, I mean." He remembered his duties only after stammering out his heart's truer desire.
Riza was looking down again, biting her lip.
"Do you… Want me to?" Roy asked, trying and failing to banish the trepidation from his tone. "To go I mean." He cleared his throat and asked.
"No." The speed of her reply, though nearly pained in its urgency, made something like pleasure flutter in Roy's chest. "You can stay, if you want. I would… I would like you to stay."
"Good." Roy tried to give a little smile, but Riza did not see it.
She sniffed noisily again as Roy put down his cup. He moved the tea tray to the floor and shifted his chair to close the distance between them slightly, and Riza let him.
"It-" Roy was trying to figure out what to do with his hands – whether to reach out and hold her or to keep back a pace. He ended up just putting them together before him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's alright to cry, you know." He bit his lip as she looked away and hurriedly wiped the wet tracks from her face.
"I know." She said, "But is it… is it alright not to cry, too?"
Roy's brow knotted as he leaned a bit father, looking up at her now and bringing his hands up to his chin, holding them before his mouth. "I think so."
Riza was wishing she still had that empty mug in her hands, to give her something to do with them other than rub them idly. "I don't mean to sound… I don't know…heartless." Roy opened his mouth to protest that she never could, but let her continue instead. "I know I should be sad he's gone, and I am. I just…" Riza caught his eye again, but looked away. "Is it alright to maybe feel…" She did not want to say 'happy', "…better as well?"
"Free." He found the word she had been searching for, and this time Riza caught and held his gaze. "Yes. It is." He moved his hands from his face that she might read the conviction he held all the more clearly. "You can do anything you want now." He said.
Riza sniffed, nodding, as a fresh wave of tears threatened to brim over the already red rims of her eyes, and Roy continued "You've been worried about him, living for him, trapped, for so long. And now he's gone." She felt as his he were reading her mind. He always did have a knack for it. "You can live for yourself now, Riza." He gave her the first honest smile she had seen since before he left for the academy. "It's alright to feel free."
Riza nodded yet kept her peace and Roy could tell he had done his part. It was time for her to be alone now. "I'll…" He picked up the tea tray and began to stand. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."
"Roy." She only stopped him when he had reached the door. "There's one more thing… My father's research notes." The very word seemed to frighten her. They were the last vestiges of her father's control. Roy thought she was free of him, but she feared she might never be.
