The Tin Soldier.

This is sort of a continuation from chapter 5. :)

Jean couldn't really consider himself as her friend. He also couldn't really identify the feelings he had for her initially, but he knew they were strong and deep. He would miss her if he didn't get to see her in the office (fortunately for him, they had been assigned to the same department for newly trained snipers would not take up missions so fast) and he would grab every available opportunity to talk to her, to make her smile, and to hear her light but short laugh. The sparkle of sunlight in her eyes, the faint pink in her cheeks was like an inexorable hand, reaching deep into his body and pulled the hook in his heart; the one she had put it there, hard and tight until she turns her head and walk away from him.

That ghostly hand then leaves with her footsteps, the swish of her ponytail, but the echo of her laugh, the image of her eyes wrinkling leaves an imprint on his heart, in his mind. He wonders if his head is big enough to lock and remember her voice and words, and his heart large and broad enough for every different faces that she'd shown him.

He also couldn't consider himself as her boyfriend, since they'd never held hands nor kissed (that one kiss in the hospital didn't count) before, and she never treated him as one. But he hung around her everyday, for meals and breaks and she never mentioned a word about it. It seemed to him that she was comfortable with him, and rather liked his presence too. He was quiet, not having much to say or share but as he smoked, he would steal glances at her and think about how wonderful a woman she was.

So smart, so capable, and so strong.

Riza was equally silent too, and he liked the tranquility they shared. She was different from the women he'd slept with; talkative, curious, and a little possessive. Riza was not like them at all; she seldom asked about anything personal and never once indicated that they should eat or spend their free-time together. Yet they always did, and people around them began to wonder whether they were indeed a couple or not. Whisperings and mutterings would drift to their ears and he knew she knew, but none made the effort to clear up the misunderstanding (although, he hoped that it was true for them) nor stay away from each other.

So he counted himself as someone else, more than a close friend (for he did know her better than anyone else, even if she was tight-lipped about herself) but not yet her lover (until he claims her, each and every and all of her).

But there was one thing that intrigued him; her determination to rise up the ranks. Riza was really quite a serious woman, day in and day out and she took every duty given to her as some sacred mandate, and strived to do her best. Compared to his own lackluster performance and attitude, moments of embarrassment would flash past his head and their superiors would somehow end up comparing the both of them. Yet he didn't care; as long as he could work beside her, side by side, he was happy and contented. But he knew that she wouldn't stay long like that, in that position doing menial and unimportant work for the military. She'd never said anything (as usual) and neither had he the guts to ask her. It was funny how now that they were closer (unquestionable, in a sidling, subdued way), it was harder for him to ask her anything.

There were so many things that he wanted to tell her, actually, about his preferences, his take on life, why he only smoked that particular brand of cigarettes, on his family (and his retarded sister), their mundane work but a glance in her way, that resolved look on her face and the steely gaze in her eyes, would shake him up from inside out and words would clog up at the back of his throat, seemingly choking him and something cold would seep into his heart.

And then, he would light up a stick and let the tobacco warm him up, and to release those unspeakable words and pent up emotions through the smoke. The answer to why she had became a sniper, why she had tried so hard and forego her youth and womanliness only came to him several months later.

It was December (the month when she would turn twenty), the winter was a little harsh and everyone stayed inside the building, not wanting to go out to brave the snow and winds. Jean had made her a cup of hot cocoa and as usual, she accepted it with a mere nod and went on with her paperwork. He pulled a chair to her desk, sat before her and propped his chin on his right hand (for the rest had went home early) while gazing at her lovely face with a smile on his face.

Riza ignored him, and he continued on like that, wondering how she would look like in a sexy black lingerie with her hair down when she lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. He was a little startled by her action but revealed nothing other than a jump of his brows.

"What are you doing Jean?"

He smiled, again wondering how her irises could be so colourful yet clear at the same time and replied, "Looking at you."

She put off her glasses and capped her ballpoint pen, "I know. And why is that so?"

"Because I find you extremely beautiful and adorable," he smiled and she let out a soft sigh while she began to pack up and tidy her desk.

"Jean, you have to work hard. You can't go on like this, I've gotten news that the next round of promotion would be coming soon and surely you don't want to stay here for the rest of your life, do you?"

He looked up to the ceiling and made a silly face, "Hmmm... as long as I'm going with you, I don't really care."

She stared at him for a while, and his face started to grow hot (for she seldom looked at him like that, even though he was really thinking about it since he knew she would get promoted and he might not) and the uniform uncomfortable. He got up from the chair and turned his back to her, because the throbbing pull at his heart was so hard and insistent that he was afraid he might stutter or do something inappropriate.

"Don't be silly," she took her coat and scarf and donned her hat. It sounded so motherly and nonchalant at the same time.

"Let's go, some general would be coming down for Christmas Day celebrations tomorrow and it'll be a long day," he scratched the back of his head and adjusted his collar for he had no reply to that. He walked her back, without any words exchanged as they trudged through snow-covered roads until they reached her unit. And when he finally lay down on his own thin bed with his arms behind his head, he repeated her words again and again in his head like a wonky tape-recorder.

Her words, the tone of her voice, felt like a stinging slap to his cheeks. Jean sighed out loud and went to sleep.

"Here they come," Jean mumbled and his lips twitched; he hadn't had a cigarette for the last three hours as they dashed around doing last minute preparations for the general and his consorts. Riza stood beside him, not answering and her eyes straight ahead as their 'distinguished' visitors walked up the stage to give a talk.

"The general is such a small man..." Jean whispered as he turned his head, stole a glance at her, and mentally gasped. Riza's eyes were wide-open and glued to the somberly-decorated stage, her lips were parted and there was a bright glow in her eyes, that spoke of attention and surprise and something else that he couldn't quite identify. He was curious, very curious and she hadn't even noticed him staring at her!

Jean would never forget that image, the subtle change in her facial features which had softened all the sharp angles and banished away the lingering shadows hanging off her brows. At that moment, he thought she looked like an angel, an angel whose heart had been broken and mended instantly and the invisible tears of old had crystalized in the lifted corners of her lips for she smiled.

It was a smile that made his heart to seemingly twist on its own, and it reminded him of how his sister would laugh when he piggy-backed her; so happy, joyous and loving. And it was then he knew why she had fought tooth and eye to stay in the military and rise through the ranks, because she was in love with someone else. The fact was thrust into his face, so cruelly, so tactlessly, and so honestly that he pressed his hand hard against his chest.

It hurt, to an abnormal and never before imagined degree that Jean himself was shocked.

The speech ended fast, and soon a man hurriedly made his way to Riza as she stood there like a lost ballerina-doll, while he himself stood beside her like a forlorn and unloved tin-soldier.

"Riza!" The handsome major with stark black hair smiled; it was cheerful, powerful and flirty. Jean thought that such a smile and overpowering presence was beyond him, and his heart took one step back into the shadows.

"Roy," she smiled shyly (one that Jean had never received before) and swept a lock of stray hair behind her left ear.

"Ah your hair is longer now! How have you been? I'm now a state alchemist, and oh, Maes sends his regards," the major's eyes smiled too.

Riza laughed, a soft tinkling melodious sound that delivered another stinging slap to Jean's face, "I'm good, and how are you?"

Roy gave a low, knee-weakening laugh and brought his face nearer to hers, "I'm thinking of you, as usual!"

She blushed hard, even her ears turned red and Jean wanted to push that man away, wanted to deliver a kick to his groin and shout obscenities but his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground and his mind detached from his body. He felt as if he had been excluded from their conversation, their world, and there was no way he could sneak into it. The barriers around them were as high and electrifying as her feelings for Roy.

"You're always teasing me," she looked down and her fingers fidgeted with her thick blue jacket.

Roy threw back his head and let out a louder laugh, "Just like old times, isn't it?"

And then instantly, as if the state alchemist had said something wrong, both of them remained silent for a while. Roy's eyes glanced warily over Jean, and quickly pulled Riza to one side as he whispered something into her ear. That action exacerbated the pain and anger in his heart and before he could clear his clouded head and raise his fist, the major soon stepped away and smiled, "I'm sorry for not writing back to you. I've got to go now."

Riza's eyes followed Roy until he disappeared among the throng of uniform-decked soldiers, then her gaze lingered on the spot where he had previously stood until Jean spoke. He couldn't bear it anymore; the raging tempest in his head, the searing jealousy in his heart, all these seemed to be a acrid fire that was burning him inside out, melting all his innards yet making the hook in his heart (the one she'd placed) white-hot.

"Your friend?"

She jumped a little, and turned around , "Yes, an old friend."

And at her genuine yet sad smile (that shone and glittered like the sequins on her ballerina-dress), his heart bled.

It was much later, during one of their drinking sessions before Jean finally found out who Roy was. He was puzzled at first, since Riza seldom drank, not to mention her asking him out to a bar. When he'd reached the modest-looking bar, Riza was downing a glass of cheap vodka and looking rather drunk.

"Jean! So good to see you here! Hiyeee!" She giggled and waved wildly even though he was standing right before her.

Without another thought, he paid for the bill and sent her home while she used whatever energy she'd left to protest and groan. But he paid no heed to her and as he searched for her keys inside her sling-bag, she leaned against the wooden door and rested her forehead on his left shoulder (the one that had taken a shot for her then).

"Jean... "

He paused, and buried his nose into her smoke-laced hair, "You'll be alright," and jammed the key into the keyhole.

"I'm scared... what if he dies?" he heaved her up and carried her inside the house. It was the first time he'd stepped into her house; neat, clean, and... incredibly sparse. No paintings, no vanity dresser, no TV. Just a bookshelf full of unnamed books, a tidy bed, a small wardrobe that looked older than him, and a wooden table with no vase of flowers.

Jean set her down on her bed gently and brushed her fringe away; he had never seen Riza so afraid, so frail and helpless before. It hurt him badly, to see her like this and he hated Roy, for making her so upset and distressed.

"If he die, then I'll really be alone... he'll be like my dad..." Riza started to cry, and Jean flustered, not knowing what to do as tears rolled down her face continuously.

"He promised daddy, that he'll take care of me... he promised... and now he wants to-" Riza stopped abruptly and pulled her blankets up to cover her wet face. The sight of her trying to hide before him was like a bucket of ice-cold water that doused the flames of his anger at Roy. He leaned forward and hugged her tightly, while she continued to sob and tremble.

"You've got me, Riza. I'm here I'm here," he spoke into the blanket and squeezed his eyes shut.

That night, she gave her body to him, as meekly and willingly as a little girl and Jean took it without questions nor any argument (which was something that they liked to do during work in the past). He was careful to be gentle with her, and kissed every exposed part of her, slowly and languidly even though his body felt as if it was simmering under burning coals of desire and insane-like craving. He wanted to soothe her hurts, to close up the wounds in her heart and to kiss away the tears. He wanted to claim her, all and all, in and out, to affirm himself that he was the one for Riza, the man who would stand by her side and support her, the one she should love and adore.

'Not him, not him, not him,' the words repeated themselves in his head as his hands removed their clothing while his mouth never stopped kissing her. He had imagined this for so long, hungered for her body and her touch so much that it felt like a distant dream to him. His fingers moved up and down feverishly her soft body (- like dancing on tip-toes), around the smooth curves (- and the contour of her whole body is mapped onto his mind) then into her virginal entrance (- and she gasps, a breathless one that makes his legs shake).

It was warm, and wet, and inviting and Jean gritted his jaw, trying hard to exert self-control over his body even though his mind was already half-gone. The look in her eyes spoke volumes yet he didn't understand; his head was foggy with desire and his body started to move on its own. She did not cry when he entered (- bit by bit he tries, until his muscles ached), then he pushed in deeper (- and deeper, her body arches up like a newly built bridge) and when he began to thrust like a mad man (- he thinks this must be how the tin soldier had felt when he was thrown into the firepit), Riza buried her face into the crook of his shoulders and trembled.

And when she fell asleep from exhaustion, Jean laid beside her and watched her sleeping face. A thousand and one things swirled around in his head as he gazed at her (his love, his buddy, his beginning and possibly the end) until her body was awash with the weak blue morning light. He couldn't bear to stay there, couldn't bear to think of the look in her eyes when she wakes up to see him and not he. So he left with a heavy heart, thinking how he had destroyed their fragile friendship.

That very day, Riza reported sick and the day afterwards, he received news that Riza had been promoted and had left for the Ishval war. He'd expected that and when he got home, there was a handwritten note in his mailbox without a stamp. He read the short and simple note, over and over again before burning it with his lighter. All it said were '- we are good friends -' and '- I'm going to go over and help him -' ; it neither revealed nor hinted anything of that night's incident, which only made Jean felt more useless and lost.

He had burned himself up, like the lovesick tin-soldier and she, the ballerina-doll, didn't even care for his little tin-heart while she left behind the sequinned-memories of their love-making. The hook had disappeared into his heart, and it was steel-cold and gnawing away non-stop like an infected wound.

When he finally managed to join the Flame Alchemist's entourage a few years later, Riza was neither surprised nor shocked. Jean mentioned nothing of their previous relationship and pretended that they were merely friends, as she had so succinctly stated in her parting note. He figured that being near her was better than without; even if she was going to be his ending, he had to be done through and through with it. So he was as loyal to his superior and military, as Riza was to Mustang.

And Roy, being ever so observant, said nothing and thought of nothing other than his goal to become the Führer.

Note: The tin-soldier and ballerina-doll ideas were from Hans Christian Anderson's "The Tin Soldier".