DISCLAIMER: If you're looking for Arakawa, I'm afraid you're at the wrong place. I'm not the one owning FullMetal Alchemist.

Author's Note:

Here comes chapter three. Before you folks read it, I'd like to point out that since DisasterGirl (whom I thank if I haven't already, by the way), I haven't received any review.

I'm putting a lot of efforts and time into that story. Time that could be spent on other things. Not that I don't like writting it; but I might just keep it to myself if nobody is reading it. I know a couple have added Origins to their alert list, and I warmly thank them for it. But anyways. I just don't know how often I'll keep uploading.

I hope you'll enjoy chapter three!

CHAPTER FOUR: BEFORE THE GRAVE, PART I

Passers-by wouldn't forget that day. A boy sat happily in front of two gravestones as they stared, oblivious of their hushing. The scene was weird enough like that, they'd say. So why was he making it creepy by chit-chatting cheerfully with his invisible friends? Some would then add; this in inappropriate. He should keep silence for those who mourned the loss of the ones they loved. But apparently, Roy Mustang wasn't one to care for acting oddly.

He took a deep breath, welcoming the cold afternoon air that filled his lungs. Contrarily to other people, graveyards didn't put him in a gloomy mood. He managed to enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass, the matt brightness of the marble, and above all, the calm feeling he got when sitting on the ground and gazing at the flowers he had deposited in front of the his parents' graves.

To most people, calm and graveyards were a contradiction in themselves, but to him, it represented the only place where he could really address his parents. And because of an old, childish belief of his, it had to be in a cheerful, pleasant way so they would not feel worried about him and rest in the most peaceful way possible.

Roy stretched his arms lazily, wondering if he had gone past his usual visiting time. He took a glance at his wrist and grimaced as he noticed his aunt would be lecturing him again when he got back.

"Sorry, mom, dad, but I'll have to leave if I want to be allowed back here again sometime. See ya!"

The boy absently trotted his way out of the graveyard, but as he almost had reached the exit, a familiar figure kept him from taking another step forward. He headed back into the stone labyrinth, a light smile making his way to his lips.

"Hi."

He couldn't blame the young girl for jumping upon hearing his voice.

"I didn't mean it, really." he assured.

She stared at him for a moment, pondering whether or not she should trust him. Seeing his hands raised in a defensive but clearly open-hearted way, she decided against her former intention of repelling him.

"It is alright." she answered, her eyes moving back to the sober grave before her. Almost to plain, the only thing written on it was a name and a date. The letter's painting had almost washed away. Luckily enough, they were carved into the stone.

Roy seemed lost in thought for a moment before finally asking, in his softest tone: "Who is there?"

"My mother." Her eyes didn't look away from stone, but he could guess the sudden stiffness in her expression.

"I'm sorry," he then continued, only half wondering if he was going too far, "Might not be of my business, but for what I know, I think she feels lonely."

The look he got from her informed him that she was probably considering his mental health.

"I mean, I've seen you from afar, and you're not even talking to her. I talk to my parents whenever I have the chance."

"A decomposed corpse doesn't chat a lot, though."

"Tell them. If you want a proof, they're only two rows away."

Not matter how she scanned through the rows around them, the closest visitors where easily ten rows away. Her gaze fell on the grinning boy behind her. Without even realizing it, her expression mirrored his, which brought a glimpse of amusement to his deep onyx eyes.

"Roy Mustang," he said, presenting his hand like he knew an adult would do.

"Call me Riza", she answered softly, hesitating to shake his hand for a moment. His trademark smirk ended up convincing her.

Even though Madame Christmas first intended to have a word with her foster son about the way he kept showing up late at home, the boy's tale about his now regular encounters with that Riza girl made her reconsider. From what she could tell through his stories, he seemed to have some kind of soothing power over her, and although she wouldn't admit it, she was quite pleased that he was on the right track to become something else than a jerk –witch, from her life experiences, was a more than positive outcome for a man-. The disappointment she first felt towards the events that would follow are than comprehensible.

Afternoon breaks, to Roy and most kids his age, meant before everything else going outside – and play soccer. Since it was one of the easiest games to play and supervise, their teacher, Mrs. Dorothy, strongly encouraged them to spend all the energy they had left on it.

Sadly enough, though, it was almost sure to bring around quarrels between teams. Mostly when Pier and Roy were involved. That one time, the later had just scored while the other was in the goal. It could clearly not end up well. Roy let out a roar of victory and raised both his arms in the air while being cheered on by other kids in his team. Pier, who was seeking an occasion to cause an argument since the last time they clashed, pushed him violently. Thankfully, for the bully at least, the referee (aka Mrs. Dorothy) hadn't seen it.

"What the hell was that for?" the younger one growled in unison with a couple of his teammates.

"It flew past my head, it doesn't count!"

"It still was IN the goal, tough. You need glasses, Chomsky."

"I saw well enough and I'm still saying it was too high!"

"Go and tell Mrs. Dorothy, than."

"Whatever you say, Mustang." he hissed, his eyes reduced to slits. "Couldn't resist at the temptation to show off, could you? It's in the family, I think. Just look at your piggy aunt: thinking she's gorgeous enough to hold a poor excuse for a bar. Didn't your parents teach you it's impolite to boast?"

Pier noticed his clenching fists with satisfaction. He was finally getting somewhere.

"Shut up. Now."

"Well, well. Seems like you've got a soft spot, huh? We never see your mommy and daddy around. Are they so ashamed of themselves that they can only send their son in his auntie's lap?" Pier let out a nasty laugh before continuing. "What are they, Roy-boy? Garbage men?"

This felt like gasoline put on fire for Roy. His fists itched madly as anger boiled in his veins like venom, threatening to make him loose control at any minute. He didn't even hear what Chomsky added when he turned around to diminish his parents even more, causing children to either laugh at the crunchy scoops or looking at themselves in disagreement. Only then did Mrs. Dorothy seem to wake from her reverie.

Everything was put into slow motion. The boy could imagine Pier falling on the ground after being punched in the face so clearly. It would be so easy. He wasn't even looking. The feeling of flesh on knuckles. Only a few steps away. Before he could tell the dream from reality, he was sitting on top of his schoolmate, his fist a few inches from collapsing into his face again.

"I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING MORON!" Roy yelled at the top of his lungs.

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- LilDemonWarrior