UNDO
Roy remembers mentally holding his breath until Maes finally invited him over for dinner. It had been over the phone, Hughes just calling to make sure his friend hadn't died on him—it wasn't a funny joke, but that was Hughes—and the loneliness cultured in that dark apartment had engulfed him. He hadn't wanted to ask himself over, hadn't wanted to let Maes know how badly he found himself coping with "normal life." The fact that it would have been impolite hardly mattered then.
He is quiet throughout dinner, but that's to be expected. Gracia had been invited, too, and although he's a little cautious about her, she seems genuine in her efforts to lighten his heavy mood. Hughes himself is constantly prattling on about something or another, happy to have his two favorite people in the same room, and also fending off any awkward silences. He never brings up the war, or alchemy.
Roy sits in the light and the warmth, soaking up the friendly companionship like a plant reaching out to the sun after months buried under snow. He smiles little at first, but slowly the expression becomes more and more genuine, and his friend's smiles grow in response. But he still feels like he's intruding, breaking in on this cozy family scene. A part of him, the part of him that is uncomfortable in his soft bed, longs for the apathy and insensitivity of war—out there he didn't have to worry about keeping the conversation going and which fork to use. He and all the others learned to survive, and if that meant acting "uncivilized," at least they each understood.
Then again, in Hughes' living room, he doesn't have to face the uncertainty about his next meal or next breath. It's easy to relax in the once-familiar armchair, and the memories of the life he lived before the war slowly break through the veil of regression, making it even easier. As the walls he'd built around him crumble, he realizes how important this time is. He realizes how much he needs this. He realizes how much he wants this. The war fades into memory, where it belongs, and he feels parts of himself he'd let die—been forced to let die—come alive again.
He stays later than he would have at another time, not willing to break free to find out that this was the dream after all. He craves Hughes' dramatic laughter, needs Gracia's gentle movements. They fight off the loneliness he'd dangerously been ignoring. They help him keep living. Finally, achingly, he excuses himself. The three go to the door together, where Roy accepts another basket of apple pie, not mentioning that he'd let the other go to waste. He'd been too sick with himself to eat much. Now, he says he looks forward to enjoying it, and he's almost surprised to discover he means it.
When he stumbles into his apartment, the stench of his apathy is an unwelcome shock. The stacks of alchemical books loom like beasts in the darkness, and the scrawled arrays seem to shift around on the messy surfaces when he doesn't look directly at them. He quickly crosses to open the window, and the night air flows in, somewhat alleviating the thick feeling on his skin. He sets the pie down on top of an open book. Even in the darkness he knows which book it is, which page it shows, what array is explained and what necessary elements are described. Tomorrow he'll put that book away, along with all the others. He's finished searching out impossible solutions. Tomorrow, he'll take his first step towards his future.
But tonight he falls limply into his too-soft bed, exhausted after spending all his energy on a few hours of living.