For the Love of RoyAi!

By: Akira Asakura

A/N:
Okay, it took me until the end of the week, but here's the third drabble. It's not one of my favorites, much less do I even really like it, but I had to keep it for you fluff-lovers out there.

Disclaimer: I do not own FullMetal Alchemist, so you can find another idiot to sue.

-♥-
Butterfly

On sleep, crisp, autumn evenings, from eleven-o-clock to even two in the morning, he would finally emerge from the chamber of confinement and labor, otherwise called an office, but knowing him, over-exaggeration was such sweet joy. Having completed tasks he surely could've finished hours earlier, for those with minds far less brilliant than his were capable of such, and finding himself accomplished with the dealings of "another back-breaking day", he would yawn, a long, exaggerated yawn, and grin. He would note to himself, though, that the most trouble his day had been Black Hayate using Havoc's chair as a "fire hydrant" or such tales.

And that is where he'd find himself when coming upon his "good little soldier" asleep with her head curled protectively in her arms. And of course she was his for no one dared cross path of this man on such treacherous territory. He'd allow himself another smile and cautiously, slowly as if a single breath could break the moment, which it surely could, approach his own, for she'd always be his, Sleeping Beauty.

Then he'd flutter his hands, much like a butterfly landing on a flower, into her hair and lace it through knots that more or less made her seem human than before. He would think of the butterfly-kisses he'd give her, had he been able to, but flutter the thoughts away when they'd get too far, if he would even let them get that far.

That would usually be when she'd falter from her patterned breaths and her eyes would flutter in warning of waking. So he'd draw his had away, drawing back on slightly by a tilt of the back, keeping a serene balance, though she surely wasn't such a light sleeper, though it wouldn't be very light to sleep through someone lacing finger through your hair.

He'd be left to admire from afar, imagining the silky, golden locks between his worn fingers that were masked by crisp, white gloves, giving off a false sense of innocence. And with enough time, he would finally leave for home, but at least not until he'd flutter that hand throw-blanket onto her shoulders. Actually, it'd take him much longer to leave, but he enjoys telling "gentle fibs".

He'd spend at least an hour in front of her, comparing her to the gentle and proud butterfly, seeming so strong, but surely fragile. As the butterfly holds its wings together in a way of saying "I am to be respected", so did the First Lieutenant hold her head high. But when resting, a fragile state of mind and body would control, capture, take over, the strong woman, as did a gentleness hold the butterfly together. Her eyes held a way of stating "I am not weak" and his grin would reply "No, of course not, just fragile to the touch", a conversation of ideals and personal vocabulary. Finally, upon reaching those thoughts, he'd smile again and leave, shutting the door with a gentle flutter of the hand.

But his thoughts would not end. So as he strode home, he would sadly think of his feelings for her, the feeling forced to be hidden, a sad lullaby of "perhaps". And the Colonel would say to himself, "I'll never be able to tell her, but I love her, my butterfly."