There are photographs of them when they are younger where you could have mistaken them for siblings, except for their noses. One dark haired, pale, skinny boy, one light haired, pale, skinny girl, both with a similar expression on their faces. Of course, there are only a few photographs of the two of them as children; they are from the first year or so that Roy spent with them. Back then, during that first summer, her father was still healthy and strong as she liked to remember him, during one of those brief periods in which he escaped the depression that had haunted him since the death of his wife. Back then he hadn't been so absorbed in his work. He'd had time for his daughter, time to make sure they had food in the cupboard, time to stay up late playing cards with the two of them.
There are photographs of them from when they first joined the military. They both look uncomfortable in the stiff, new uniforms with their thick, dark blue fabric that still smells foreign because they haven't worn them enough for the fabric to start to smell like them. They look out of place, as do the hundreds of other fresh, young faces, still innocent, still believing there is good in the world, still hoping for a better future. There is much they haven't seen of the world; you can see it in the slightly surprised looks on their faces, the extra fabric in the shoulders of her uniform because her shoulders aren't broad enough to fill them out, the polished brass buttons on his uniform, their neat, trim haircuts and the baby fat in their cheeks.
There are the photographs of them that were taken just after the end of the Ishbal War, when they were both promoted and had their ID photos retaken. These pictures are a world away from those first military pictures; there are circles under their eyes, their uniforms fit their bodies like a pair of much loved shoes and no longer look out of place. They look as though they belong in those uniforms, the thought of them wearing something else foreign and impossible. The uniforms are no longer than fresh, newly dyed color; they also contain the colors of death, the color of sand stretching out for miles in every direction, the colors of blood and guilt and hate.
There are photographs of them taken at Maes and Gracia's wedding. In one of them, they are dancing. There is no way you could mistake these two for siblings now. He is wearing black dress pants and a white button up shirt with a red tie that has been loosened. She is wearing a dark brown dress, a loose yellow sweater and there is a yellow flower pinned in her hair. Her hair is not yet long enough to brush her shoulders, just reaching her chin, and he has given up his three week attempt at growing a beard. His hand is resting lightly on her waist and their bodies fit together in all the right places. Her hands have been placed tentatively on his shoulders and she is laughing; you can see exactly how comfortable they are in every line of their bodies.