Familiar.

It was such a familiar sight.

The way the cigarette would dangle in between his half-closed blanched lips, with the smoldering tip almost (but never) falling off and the trail of silver-gray smoke into the air. At first, she was transfixed to the half-naked tobacco stick, wondering when and whether the finishing tip would break off and start a small fire on the documents that he was methodically scribbling on.

But such a thing never happened. Before the dying head falls, he would give a customary flick and the ash (oh how they glitter under the faint morning light!) would scatter like stardust. Onto his neat desk, into the remnants of his half-finished coffee, and quietly slipped around the Time that lapsed between him and her each time their eyes met.

Then, she would be fascinated by his unkempt blond hair.

Sometimes it was smothered with gel; stiff, prickly-looking and unhappy. Sometimes it would be wind-ruffled; soft, messy and wild. Sometimes his fringe would fall all over his eyes, (and then she would mumble a little about rules and regulations) and he did look very uncomfortable under the hot sunny days whilst perspiration clouded his sight. Sometimes (which was after she had chided him), his fringe would be so cropped that it was almost non-existent (and a little regret creeps into her heart) and she wondered why he was so loyal to Roy and so obedient to her.

Like a true military dog, she had mused to herself then and almost instantly added, Me too.

Still, she thought his natural hair looked like straw; fresh, new straw that she'd once seen in a farmhouse when she was still playing with dolls and riding on ponies under the guidance of her grandfather. She could still remember the faint smell of it, and the memory of the scent and the sight of bleached hay would sent a tingle down her spine whenever she wanted to smooth her palm over his tousled hair.

But she did not.

Later on, she subconsciously 'cultivated' a habit to check on his uniform.

He was a strict (and sometimes rigid), hardworking person who was of much value to the team. And that dedication and self-discipline was reflected in his non-questioning attitude to Roy and his uniform.

The collar was always starched, the brass buttons always shiny, the boots always polished, and the uniform always creaseless (until the Day ends with discharged bullets) and straight. He wore his uniform with pride and dignity, that much could be observed and it was always in a fresh dark blue, as if the uniform had been given a new life everyday. No matter how hard she scrutinized his uniform, she could find no fault with the uniform.

Did he had a maid, or a secret girlfriend? Such questions would somehow stray into her mind, but she would later reject these possibilities since he lived alone. It didn't seemed to her that he was someone who would really let anyone into his life at all because they were snipers; one never knew when their life would end by another well-aimed bullet and it was simply irresponsible and selfish to have any close relationships with anyone. This much, she could understand and empathize very well. It was one of the reasons that she suspected as to why he was never really attached despite the women that he had dated.

Why, to hold the hands of your beloved and get him/her killed, too? It was foolish and outright cruel.

And it struck her then, that they were all similar; Roy, he and herself. They'd locked the most private, deepest part of themselves, in a secret place of their mind, because this world was so volatile and dangerous and they could not afford to share everything with another person for that would either bring death (to all things possible and imaginable) or imprisonment (of all sorts thinkable and visible).

Not to mention, their fierce loyalty and determination to their individual goals.

Her fingers lightly skimmed over the photo that they had taken once, as a whole group. She was standing beside Roy, and he was half-squatting on the ground with the half-spent cigarette (it would never leave his mouth; the way all these images would burn themselves into her mind) with the rest of her comrades.

It was such a familiar sight. And yet not, as her eyes shifted up to his sleeping body clad in white (his life is half-naked and half-spent like his much loved cigarette), and then to the stack of letters in her bag that she had read.

Over and over, again and again, until she could see his scrawly handwriting even with her eyes closed.

They were all unsigned, of various length (from several pages long to one short sentence) and content (some were about the dreams he had, some were about his old training days in the academy, one was about his never-talked before family, another was about the way Black Hayate was trained, and another was a debate on the mini-skirt policy, and another was on the one and only accidental kiss they had shared when both of them were half-drunk). But all were fondly addressed to her.

She squeezed her eyes shut; perhaps Roy should have asked Fuery or Breda to clear his apartment instead of her. The sudden influx of knowledge (of all things private and secret that she shouldn't have known at all), about him and his thoughts and his feelings and his fears and his likes and his dislikes and his memories and his past and...

Her.

Herself in his eyes, herself in between his lines, herself hidden in the commas and the fullstops and the pauses in his life.

He was so familiar (his straw-coloured hair still so fresh and clean), yet so unfamiliar as he silently lay on the white bed before her ( without the burning cigarette and neatly pressed uniform). His presence was so familiar, yet he evoked a flurry of unfamiliar emotions in her heart and for the second time in her life, she was at a loss on what to do. First with Roy and now with Jean.

Should she acknowledge his feelings? Should she address her own issues with he and him? Or should she simply ignore everything since there was nothing to begin with in the first place?

"You're here."

His hoarse and dry voice (so familiar, and yet not), which carried the tone of slight surprise, brought her out from her thoughts. Riza looked into his eyes and nodded reflexively, because no words came to her mind.

"Any cigarettes?" He asked in his usual, drab way and rubbed his eyes, as if nothing had happened at all.

As if he had not been paralysed by Lust, as if she had not read his buried letters, as if they were still superior and subordinate, as if the day was still bright and the birds were chirping and they were cleaning their guns and shooting down enemies and -

"First Lieutenant?"

Riza swallowed down the lump in her throat (for she could no longer call him by his name without thinking of how fondly he had wrote hers), picked up her bag (which was filled with his soul and heart), got to her feet (they felt heavier than ammunition and deadly weapons), gave him a familiar salute (which was stiff and prickly-feeling like his gelled hair) and turned to leave.

"Ri- Riza?"

Unfamiliar softness and warmth enveloped her heart. Tears stung her eyes. Her feet continued to the door.

"I'll come again tomorrow. Rest well."

And as her hand turned, the door opened, and she left behind the familiars and unfamiliars and everything and nothing.