A/N: Thank you to everyone who left reviews/favorited/kudo'ed the first part. This chapter's dedicated to ssadropout: I appreciate your support and the continuous encouragement to keep writing 3. I hope you enjoy this one.


chapter 2: happy birthday

"Wi-Winry?! You're here!"

"How are you?" says Winry casually, the corners of her mouth curve upward, her head slightly tilting toward her shoulder. Riza couldn't distinguish the expression on her face, but she doesn't notice any signs of discomfort in the tone of the question and she prefers that it stays that way.

Riza's lips quiver as she stares, and in the spur of the moment she lunges herself toward Winry, arms wrapping tightly around her body. The overwhelming sense of joy sends fire through Riza's body, melting away her reticence. Her embrace speaks volume: she clings to her shirt, face buried in her sister's hair, and her fingers are pressed so closely on her back that it looks as if she is clawing at her with desperation.

Winry is taken aback by the gesture, her slim body slightly shaken at the grip, but she gently returns the hug and tucks her chin on the crook of her sister's neck. She exhales a breathy contentment and recognizes that the form hugging her shares the same feeling as hers.

"Oh Winry, I miss you. This is such a pleasant surprise! Do you want to come in? Please, please come in."

Winry bends her knees, her hands grabbing the handle to each of her luggage set to her left and right. Her feet wobble through the doorway, struggling with the weight on either side. Riza grabs one of the bags from her hand and lugs it inside, setting them by the foyer. She notices how thin Winry has become as she lifts the large item in front of her body. Her arms seem almost skeletal, her fair complexion looks dull, and her gaunt expression shows through her smile. Her beautiful sister looks so fragile; her youthful energy that was once exhibited so effortlessly seems to have been sucked out of her.

Riza tries to take hold of her luggage, but she shakes her head letting her know that she is fine. Riza notes that the luggage looks almost bigger than her sister and she can't help but wonder if Winry is planning on moving in with them.

"This is a nice place, Riza," Winry drops her luggage against the wall and takes in an earmark of the apartment with curiosity. She struts with ease and her tone is relaxed. As far as Riza's concerned, this is a good start. "Although the living room could use some sprucing up. There's so much grey…. And maybe splotches of dark blue. Only the wall color feels kind of warm."

"That's so like you to say. You've always liked the warm colors. Well, the apartment came in beige, but you know Olivier likes the cool hues. She said it makes the apartment look more modern," replies Riza with a chuckle, "I guess I agree with her," she adds, almost as an afterthought.

The door at the end of the hallway opens suddenly, the hinges creaking, and the footsteps that leave the room are setting Riza's heart racing, anxiety showing on her face. Her mouth opens, and a word is forming in her mouth, but before she can say anything…

"Riza, who's tha—" Olivier stops in her track, eyes widening from the surprise that the whites around her blue seem ready to pop out of her sockets. Her eyebrows furrow and her mouth gapes and her full lips drop, angry expression replacing one of shock. She curls her fists so hard that Riza can see her knuckles turn white. Her jaw is tight, teeth clenching, and Riza could have sworn she hears clacking sound coming from it.

Winry stands still. An air of discomfort rapidly invades the space. Fear strikes her expression momentarily as shown by the gaping of her mouth, but she looks back at Olivier, biting her bottom lip.

"Winry! Well, fancy having you here. Let me guess, you're here because you need money?" Olivier accuses, "No? You got kicked out? Pinako finally at the end of her wits taking care of you? I'm surprised she even bothered taking you in in the first place."

Riza's breath hitches and Winry remains quiet.

"Or is it that boy you were seeing? That blonde haired one? Did he dump you?" Olivier charges.

The young woman's silence slowly crumbles at the accusation; she is never one to back down after all. Her fingers are writhing next to her body, and she looks up at the woman addressing her. Her body is seething with exasperation and the tone that laces her voice shows no compunction at the allegations, "No! Pinako's been sick! And—And I…"

"I need to get out," Olivier cuts off and swiftly walks past the sisters toward the foyer, frustration and anger define her gait with each loud stomp of her foot. She snatches the set of keys from the coin bowl atop the shoe rack and unlocks the door. In one rapid motion she slams the door behind her.

"Olivier! You forgot…" Riza stammers, "you forgot your sweater..." Worry plasters her solemn face; her hands are still reaching toward the door as if doing so would stop Olivier from leaving. Olivier's brisk footsteps slowly recede in the hallway outside and Riza sighs to herself.

"Sorry about that, Winry. Olivier's just… she's just had a long day," Riza assures and yet the tone that comes out of her mouth sounds reluctant. She hopes Winry wouldn't detect it.

"Don't worry, Riza. I knew something like that would happen. Olivier never hides her feelings. And she has every right to be mad at me.…" Winry perches herself on the sofa, her hands flipping through the thick novel on the coffee table, "So you still read this stuff, huh?" Winry mumbles to herself. She focuses her attention on the black texts, reading the same sentence over and over, and yet none of the words make sense in her head.

"I'll make us some tea," Riza quietly walks to the kitchen. She is silent as she fires up the kettle, and her steps are so light that one can barely hear her move about the apartment. The only noise filling the room is the sound of steam hissing, followed by stainless steel spoons clanging against the edge of the tea cups and the constant sound of cabinet doors opening and closing.

"So, how have you been, Winry?" Riza asks, attempting to alleviate the tension in the air, but the timbre of her voice is filled with hesitation. Her sister looks exhausted as if she could collapse any minute, compelling Riza to swallow the questions she has been meaning to ask the blonde young woman sitting across. The phone calls within the last year had been far and few in between but it didn't warrant any spontaneous visit like today. Not in Riza's mind anyway. Riza carries the tray of tea cups and sugar with shaky hands and sets it down on the coffee table. Rosy aroma is dispersing into the air. She takes her seat on the small, grey chair across from Winry and settles herself at the edge, feet planted firmly on the ground and hands clasped together.

"I'm doing… good," Winry starts, taking a cup in her hand, "I've been better, but I miss you. I miss you two. A lot. And I just, I can't be there anymore…." she stammers, the tea cup in her hand slightly shakes as she continues, "So much had happened since the last time I saw you. Oh Riza, there's so much I need to tell you…."

Riza tries to discern the tone in her voice; it sounds like a plea for help and each word uttered slowly eats at her heart. She places one hand on Winry's palm, her stare fixed on her face, and she tenderly rubs the back of Winry's hand with her thumb. The gesture is meant to be comforting. The familiar blue eyes staring back at her are as beautiful as she remembers, but they are not as radiant as they used to be. The way that they gleamed when she saw her last; full of energy and dreams and determination. Riza wonders what had happened in the two years they had been separated.

As Riza meticulously studies her expression she sees that Winry's eyes are glistening, tears ready to spill over. Her thin lips are chapped, quivering, and they look even smaller as she folds her bottom lip into her mouth in an attempt to conceal her emotion. She wraps both of her arms around her bare shoulders, lifting her legs and folding them on the sofa, covering her yellow dress over them. Her frail body shivers from the cool air in the apartment.

"Wait here just one minute. Let me grab you a blanket," Riza adds and she springs to her feet, leaving the room. She leans down the linen cabinet in the dimly lit hallway, hands cluttering among the pieces of bedding, and her thought considers upon Winry's delicate frame and the timbre of sadness in her voice. Riza scrambles for reasons, for the logical aspects of the circumstance before her, and she becomes overwhelmed with fear. She can see the burden pressing on Winry's shoulders, weighing her down like heavy buckets of water. Winry has always been strong, so easily ecstatic, and full of life. If she cries, then she must cry for a reason.

Riza grabs a large, navy blue fleece blanket from the cabinet and she hurriedly trots back to Winry.

"Winry, here's the blanket—" Riza pauses in her step. Her sister's body lies on the grey sofa, her head resting on the armrest. She can see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, her mouth slightly open. Riza's hearing, acute from the silence, allows her to distinguish the heavier inhalation from the airy exhalation. Winry's arms are now loosely wrapped around her shoulders, worn out expression still gracing her features as evidenced by the mild swelling under her eyes. Although her eyes are now closed, the creases around them still hint of stress.

Riza unfolds the fleece in her hand and covers the entirety of Winry's body, tucking in the blanket edges underneath her body. She glimpses at Winry's limp body and moves her finger to gently tuck a strand of blonde hair over her ear. In a soft tone she mumbles to herself, "What happened to you?"


Curtis Residence, Crescent Court Apartments, 11:26PM

Olivier's phone beeps as she dials her best friend's cellphone number. She lifts the phone to her ear, hearing one ring, two rings, and on the third ring she answers.

"Izumi, are you home? I'm at the gate, can you let me in?" asks Olivier.

She shifts the weight on her legs from one to the other as she waits. The cold November air only strikes at night in this part of the state, and it's sending shivers up her spine. The sound of cars speeding on the freeway remains throughout the day, but it is even louder in the dead of night. The street lights are bright here, giving her some sense of safety, and yet it doesn't stop her from glancing around her surroundings for malice, movements she often performs simply out of habit. A light breeze blows against her skin and she wraps her numb fingers around her shoulders, rubbing up and down the bare portion; her thin cotton shirt barely keeping her warm. Olivier hears a buzzing noise from the intercom and the sound of the gate clicking, and she hastily grips the door handle to let herself in.

Olivier jogs through the paved courtyard, her mind constantly shifting back to the scene at her apartment. The image of Winry's thin frame worries her and yet anger surges through her body, allowing rationale to escape her conscience. She raps her knuckles on the dark green door, her limbs stiff from the piercing temperature.

"Izumi. Sorry to barge in on you like this."

"You know Sig's out of town, so I can definitely use the company. Sit down, I'll make us a drink."

The black-haired woman grabs Olivier's shoulders and pulls her past the door almost forcefully, her true strength hidden beneath slim figure. She swiftly closes the door behind her with a kick, and she snatches a wool sweater from her foyer closet and cloaks Olivier with it. Izumi guides her toward the living room, her belly slightly protruding, showing the life underneath her white buttoned up dress.

"Alright."

Her best friend's apartment is paltry compared to Olivier's, but it exudes warmth in every corner. The living room wall is covered in light brown shiplap, wooden cabinetry on both sides of the fireplace contain a vast collection of books ranging from autobiography to a variety of subject in chemistry. One side of the sectional leather sofa dips in and looks worn out, which Olivier figures is where Izumi spends most of her time reading. Framed photos of Izumi and her husband decorate the walls, but it seems a small portion has been cleared to make space for additional pictures once their baby is born. As Olivier collapses her body on the sofa she smells the scent of pines and something familiar about it circulates an unexpected calming sensation within her.

"This is certainly unusual. You're usually pretty good about advanced notices," Izumi laughs from across the kitchen.

"Yeah well, something happened and I just needed to get away for a bit."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"It's a long story."

"I'll be here," Izumi answers as she extends the steaming mug to Olivier.

"How kind of you," Olivier replies sarcastically, looking at the light brown liquid in her cup.

Izumi seats herself next to Olivier, her mouth blowing into the cup in her hands. Her eyes drift to the still figure, and she can see the weight on her mind. Olivier ponders silently, her fingers tapping the mug in her hands in a wavy rhythm, body rocking back and forth slightly. Izumi knows that her friend isn't one to show vulnerability, but it doesn't mean she would never seek consolation.

"Remember Winry?"

"Yes, but you rarely talk about her."

"Well, she showed up at my doorstep tonight. I haven't seen her in almost two years."

"Do you know why she's here?"

It isn't like her to share a piece of her past, but she trusts Izumi to shed some light in her current predicament. "Winry said that Pinako's been sick before I ran out on her."

"Pinako?"

"Pinako Rockbell. She used to work at the shop for our parents. Older lady, very nice. Winry was very fond of her and would watch her work as a kid…."

"Sorry to hear," Izumi extends her sympathy, but she continues, "…but it doesn't sound like that's all she really wanted to say."

"No, I don't think so, but I didn't let her talk."

"Why not?"

"Look, it's her fault. She didn't show up last year and she didn't bother with calling either. Whatever the fuck happened to her doesn't concern me anymore, especially since she's the one who decided to cut ties."

"Aren't you the harsh one…." Izumi notes nonchalantly.

"Besides, I have better things to worry about."

"You mean tomorrow? Warrenton, right? I've never been."

"Yeah, small town, northern Oregon. There's no future there."

"I see," Izumi acknowledges, "That's why you moved?"

Olivier nods, but her stare deadpans on the coffee table in front of her.

"Why didn't your sister come with you and Riza?"

"Because she's stubborn. She doesn't listen. She doesn't wanna admit that she made a terrible mistake."

"And Riza?"

"You know she's loyal to a fault. She'll follow me anywhere," she scoffs, "probably even into hell."

Izumi's silent, but her forehead wrinkles and her features express disdain. Olivier detects it with ease and she retorts with annoyance on her face, "You think I should talk to her," Olivier continues, "You think I should work this out with Winry."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"I hate it when you're right."

"You just hate it when you're wrong. Not everything is black and white, Olivier." replies Izumi with a smirk.

Olivier sips the drink in her hand, the steam seeps into her pores and leaves her with unexpected calmness. Her anger slowly dissipates, and her logical reasoning returns the further she contemplates. Izumi's cellphone beeps, interrupting the silence that slowly overtakes the air. The notification lights up the screen and a message pops up, "It's midnight! Happy birthday, Olivier! One more year and you're officially an old lady. Better enjoy this year," she pats her friend's back.

"You set a reminder for my birthday?" she chuckles, "Thanks."

Izumi leans the side of her torso against the coffee table, her arm reaching for something from underneath. She plucks a red record sleeve, bow adorning the top side of it, and presents it to Olivier. Olivier slides the vinyl from its sleeve, caressing the grooves on the black disc. The corners of her mouth tug into a smile and her expression turns whimsical, "Jules Massenet, Méditation de Thaïs…."

"You once told me how your mother used to play this piece on the piano. It's time to put that gramophone of yours to use," Izumi pats her shoulder, wide grin across her face.

"Thanks for the gift. I mean it."

Olivier isn't one to display emotions, but the thought of her mother playing on the piano to the classical music seeps into her mind. The memory of that particular day strikes a strange feeling in her stomach; she isn't sure if it's one of fondness or of sadness in which she wants to tuck away forever.

Izumi interrupts her reverie, "Hey, so I'm curious. Did that partner of yours give you anything for your birthday? From the way you talk about him, he seems the thoughtful kind."

"Miles? Oh no, he didn't. I don't think his wife would appreciate that…" The reply flies out of her mouth a little too quickly, but her tone doesn't betray her. Olivier abruptly stands, heading for the door, "I should go. It's getting late."

The walk back to her apartment feels short, especially since her strides are no longer hesitant but full of intention. She would let her talk, that's the least she can do. As to whether she forgives her is an issue for another time. As she puts forth her foot on the step to her high-rise apartment, the vibration on her leg sets off a jolt of anticipation. She has been expecting a message from Riza, but instead it is a message from a familiar number that reads,

"Happy birthday. Have a safe trip. X"

She repeats the message in her head, smiling to herself before climbing up the steps entering the lobby.


4:01PM

Her blue eyes linger.

4:04PM

Three minutes in a matter of seconds? What is this sorcery?

4:13PM

Her pupils are shrinking into tiny black dots, constantly looking at the short and long fingers of the clock underneath the glass encasing. The short hand seems to spin out of control, a ticking time bomb ready to blow off. She focuses her attention so closely she feels her eyeballs will pop out of their sockets. She doesn't move a muscle. Why isn't she out of surgery yet?

4:14PM

She paces in a small circle; one arm is folded, and the other arm has her right thumb rubbing her bottom lip. She doesn't understand. The doctor said she will be fine and yet the four hours pass by as if it were seconds.

4:24PM

She stands in the center of the hospital waiting room, but it may have well been the center of the universe. The world rarely revolves around her, but the only feeling she's concerned with at the moment is her own. This feeling is not one of joy nor solace. She asks the same question in her head over and over again: Where would she go? Where should she go?

4:34PM

The white of the hospital seems endless, like paper being plastered all over, and she feels trapped. The floor's white, the walls are white, the doors are white, even the nurses are wearing white and she feels the need to rip apart the covering, tearing it into pieces to let a different shade overtake. Even a tint of grey would do, and she isn't too fond of that color.

4:44PM

The creaking of the wheels can be heard at the end of the long hallway, a white stretcher spreading apart the double door with a loud thud. She spins her body in that direction and jogs toward it. She picks up her jog and starts running, but she feels as if she's on a treadmill, the distance not closing in even by a mere centimeter. The stretcher is being pushed toward her, approaching her and closing the distance between them she can almost reach out to it. She sees the form lying on the stretcher: an old lady with greying hair, the length of her body is short as evidenced by the wide gap from the edge of the stretcher to the sole of her feet. Both of her eyes are closed, circular eyeglasses over them, and she has a smile on her face. Her body is illuminating bright yellow, giving off a saintly aura, and yet she is immovable. So still that she looks dead. She, however, knows that the woman is only sleeping, for her face isn't covered in the white linen sheet blanketing her body.

She extends her arm in an attempt to reach the old woman, but a black metal gate drops in front of her with a loud bang. The sharp pointed edges of the bars are staked onto the white floor and she jerks away from her step. Her arm once again reaches in between the bars and toward the body on the stretcher. Her heart is racing fast, and her expression is full of agony, and frustration, and fear. She could cry, and maybe she would feel better for a moment, but she has a promise to keep. And that promise would be that the next time she cries, it would be tears of joy.

She leans her back against the gate, body slowly sliding onto the ground in exhaustion. She sees a tall, lean figure approach her, tightening the gap between them so quickly it looks as if the form had teleported in front of her. With such short proximity between them, she can see that his height is towering over her body. She trembles, crouching her limbs into a fetal position. She squeezes her knees together and wraps her arms around them protectively. The figure is wearing a white buttoned up shirt, black suspenders over his shoulders, and black slacks and shoes covering everything below his waist. His blonde hair is blocking his right eye, but she can see that his eyes are shining bright red from behind the curtain. He offers her his hand, palm up toward the sky, but she is hesitant to take it.

He seethes anger at her inaction. He abruptly grabs her wrist, pulling her body closer to his. His grin widens and his white teeth look almost fang-like, tongue licking his lips in a circular motion, ready to devour the meal in front of him. He is so close that she can feel the hot breath on her face, sending bouts of alarm throughout her body. She wants to run; she tries to run, but her feet betray her as though her ankles have been chained to the metal bars behind her. She writhes her body in attempt to wriggle free of the grasp, but the grip is unshaken. The man's mouth opens to speak and his upper lip touches the edge of her nose and she shrieks in terror, the breathy voice is raspy, as if clawing at her skin, "You're mine, Winry. You can't run, Winry. Winry…"

"Winry!"

The young woman jolts her body from slumber, opening her eyes suddenly at the shout of her name. Her arms swing violently, knocking the tea cup on the coffee table, pushing it down toward the floor and shattering it into pieces. The tears streaming from her eyes and the drop of sweat dripping from her temple taste salty in her mouth. Her vision is slowly adjusting to the brightness of the room, the whites slowly turn into different shades of color. She snaps her head left and right and looks around her surroundings in agitation: grey sofa, beige walls, a pair of hazel eyes, blue vases, blue blanket, blue eyes….

She focuses at the blue eyes in front of her, slowly expanding her sight to form the rest of her face. The wispiness of her face turns into one of familiarity: the fair complexion, long blonde hair, rosy pink lips. The woman's hands are placed firmly on her shoulders and they calm her racing heart, which in turn steadies her uneven breath, enveloping her body with much needed solace.

With all the strength she could muster, Winry screams her name into the air and wraps her arms tightly around the woman in front of her as if her life depends on it, "Olivier! I'm sorry. Please, I'm so sorry!"

Her tears are like a waterfall and they are instantly wetting Olivier's shirt, the dampness seeping into her skin, but she focuses her attention on her sister and her hysteria. She returns her hug in a swift motion, patting her soft blonde hair up and down the length. She shushes her, stringing as much comforting words as she can assemble and spitting them back at her. The thin body is shaking, her crying is filing the room, and everything that seems to have been bottled inside is being let out without reservation.

Olivier is worried; she is convinced she hasn't felt this disturbed in a long time. Her eyes narrow into a slit, determination in them in the way they glitter. She intends to find out the reason and she intends to find out soon.


A/N: As always, I would love to hear what you think.