a/n helllloooooo guys! mm its been a minute! but here's a lengthy one for ya!

all the rivers sound in my body / pablo neruda, the queen

"This is amusing to you, isn't it?"

"Hm? Oh, you mean Elicia doing toddler things? Always."

Clever. He always thinks himself so clever. Riza deflates, and tries again. "I meant, keeping me in the dark from where we're going."

The door clicks and his shoulders pivot towards her, revealing a deviously pleased smile. A twinkle in his eye suggests there are no intentions of disclosing their evening plans. His hand lifts and a pointer finger circles in front of her face. "If I told you, then this pout you have going on would disappear."

In a last ditch effort, she says, "The pout of the birthday girl."

"The reluctant birthday girl," he amends as he pushes the button to call the lift.

With his back to her, she takes that moment to stretch out the lower half of her face to dispose of whatever pout he's talking about and adds, "Pouting or not, surprises are better when you don't know the surprise is coming."

"I wholeheartedly agree, dropping the date of your birthday the day before was a very good surprise."

She huffs through her nose and focuses instead on the patterned carpet. "Please don't hold that against me."

He taps the underside of her chin and the smile turns into something gentler. "Trust me, I'm not. How could you have known regular people celebrate their birthdays?" Before she can say anything else, his finger moves back and forth between her face and the doors. "By the way, those elevator doors are reflective and that pout hasn't gone away."

Her mouth hinges and the temperature of her face flares up, having been properly caught, just as elevator dings.

"Coming?" Roy asks from inside the box.

She recovers, keeping her arms close to her body and then crossing them when she's next to him. The indignation burns at her from his teasing. He seems a little too good on his game tonight on his teasing. Because of this, she quips back, "That all depends on you, sir."

"Oh ho." He folds his hands behind him and they look at each other through the reflection.

"If you're lucky."

Riza is pulled closer to him in a swift gesture and she sees him lower his face into her hair for a quick kiss. "I considered myself lucky since the moment you put on that dress," he murmurs into her hair.

She blushes differently this time, feeling it singe her cheeks brighter. "Then how about letting me in on where we're going."

He lets go. "No."

In the journey down the elevator shaft, her eyes wander on the little screen on the top right giving little tidbits about news headlines and then, Riza catches a glimpse of herself in the reflective finish of the elevator doors. Her time in front of mirrors have become more prolonged since she met him. She looks up and down at the reflection, clad in a dress finer than most items in her closet and it doesn't reconcile with the mental image of herself.

Roy's absence that morning proved to be productive for him, procuring an evening dress of a scandalous ruby color with pumps of reasonable height to match. He had laid it out on the bed, supremely smug with himself, and she could admit it was a beautiful dress - far better tailored than anything she had worn before. It was silk, but the weighted, luxurious kind that could support definition. Privately, there was some back and forth in her mind of how to accessorize the thing and Rebecca's radio silence had been of no use to her. She had missed the memo on how to dress for adult outings. Her thoughts on the matter rested on the spectrum of frat parties and her expectations based on the movies she watched with Rebecca. There was no in between.

As if picking up on the panicking brainwaves from the guest room, Gracia had tactfully poked a head in and ushered Roy out with minimal fussing. It shouldn't have surprised Riza that the woman was adept with the esoteric feminine arts: unruffled and picture-ready as she appeared to be, Riza could now better understand the process to achieve that impression in the first place.

She's grateful for the simplistic aesthetic that the both of them share: loose, fine hair was pinned up into a tastefully modern chignon with a few delicate strands framing her face, and her make up was minimal - just applied with more finesse than what Riza had learned through tutorials online. She had watched intently while Gracia had fussed over her eyebrows, taken aback at just how much difference a bit of definition could make.

The little number she wears is actually longer than some of her skirts, but the frankly dangerous slit up the side of her leg soon put rest any misgivings she had about his eyesight. What was more, she had to actively stop herself from checking out her reflection every other moment while waiting for Gracia to finish fussing over her. It was surprisingly easy to reason that if it wasn't her in that reflection, then she wouldn't have to worry about the baggage that a different her, in a different time carried. Riza didn't want to pretend to be someone else entirely, but at least be free, as she had been for the last few months within the confines of his apartment.

And if that's freedom to me, then I'm seriously fucked.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open to a lobby of extravagant chandeliers and glossy ceramic floors, a concierge and interior design matching the opulence of the Armstrong's manor. The high ceiling provides the acoustics to accommodate the low hum of chatter, given the moderate number of people lounging on the couches and armchairs, and a comfortable crackling of a fireplace. Tall, but heavy glass doors act as gateways between the cozy lobby and the sudden bustle of Central where the citylights enthrall her all over again.

"All right, fine," he says and it pulls her from her woolgathering. "The first stop is food."

Riza looks back and blinks. "That much I figured," she intones.

A doorman - because of course there's a doorman - opens the way for them as they approach, and Riza tries her best not to gawk at herself once more in the reflecting glass. "Is that so? What else do you figure?"

She hums, thinking of his plans, until she says, "I've stopped there. Wouldn't want to ruin your hours of planning by guessing correctly."

He tugs her closer to him that she can't see him smile or even hear him over the cars and noises of the city when he says, "I certainly hope you won't."

As they walk down the street, Riza is struck by the sheer amount of people that seem to flood out of glittering buildings, the sandstone glinting merrily against the waning sun. While East City certainly wasn't immune from the ebb and flow of culture - it was a significant trading hub, after all - Central City was on another level entirely. Roy guides her left as they join the throng of people making their way through the city. It's a messy blend of people - old men with pressed suits and sleek black briefcases, exasperated parents trying to rein in unruly children, so many dogs - with an even messier blend of fashions and influences. Little garden bars seem to spill out of every building they pass - crammed tightly between stationery shops and jewellery boutiques, laughter and alcohol pouring out in equal measure.

These glimpses of the nightlife offered here, how readily available it is… it seems so glamorous compared to the kinds of nightlife Riza is familiar with. Perhaps it's to do more with the wealth surrounding her than any true reflection of her own personal experiences, but the difference is staggering nonetheless. The parties she's attended back home seem juvenile by comparison.

Ten minutes into their walk, they reach a row of townhomes down one of the myriad of side streets that spider across the city, not too far from a busy corner. On one of them, ivy crawls along the brickwork edifice and she wonders what a proper house so close to the actual street looks inside.

Riza doesn't have to wonder for long because he leads her toward the ivy-covered house. A quick jolt of adrenaline kicks in from the deviation in plans and she asks, "What's here?" It starts to pour over her like a bucket of ice water chilling her to goosebumps when she realizes, again, that she's in Central. She stops them both, tugging firmly on his hand. "You haven't brought me to your mother's without telling me, have you?"

His eyes widen and he shakes his head almost immediately. "No, no. I would hope that kind of surprise would be discussed between us both and the surprise would be for her."

Riza breathes a sigh of relief, though she doesn't want to examine too deeply why. She's seen enough soapy dramas thanks to Rebecca to know that there's a certain element of significance when it comes to family… even more so for a man with fourteen adopted sisters.

"No, this is the restaurant."

"This is a house," she points out, verbally and physically with her index finger.

"And yet it is actually a restaurant." Roy corrects her gently. This time he gestures to the nondescript sign at the face of the building, negligible in the waning sunlight if not pointed out directly. It reads: Rose Compass. He grabs her hand and leads her up the cement stairs. "Come on, I'll show you."

Across the threshold, she could not have been more guilty of judging something by its appearance alone. The residence-turned-restaurant was small and narrow because of the spaces taken up by tables and chairs along the brick wall and a full bar at the other side. Warm, subdued light from wall sconces add to the atmosphere and music plays from speakers she can't see.

Once he gives the hostess his name, she leads them with menus in hand to a small two person wooden table. It has a tiny lit votive and a dainty vase holding fresh picked roses. Behind her - next to the stairs they came down, she can see the hallway into the kitchen where a numerous amount of bodies work and weave around each other with dishes and food, pots and pans. To her relief, it's not a terribly fancy affair, but the intimacy provided in the small touches of a refurbished house still feels new and exotic to her. It is infinitely preferred to the still-quiet restaurants where only the silverware clinks and stern maître d'hôtel's hover in the corners overlooking the staff in stiff suits.

"Does the venue fit the lady's liking?" Roy asks teasingly, unwrapping the utensils from the cloth napkin.

Hands on her lap, she breathes out whatever was stagnant and nervous in her lungs. "I have to admit, I was a bit apprehensive of where you would decide to take us."

"Afraid I was going to take you to a greasy burger joint?"

"No," she laughs. "The opposite. Somewhere lavishly exquisite." Somewhere she'd guilt herself for feeling just a bit out of place.

"I think I caught onto that," he says before the waiter comes to their table, and taking their drink orders. And for the first time, she can present an ID. It's a novelty, sure, but this whole trip has been an exercise in that. She's even told happy birthday. The waiter, college-aged like her, details the Aerugan food on the menu and listing the chef choices and crowd favorites. The menus are taken from them and she picks up their conversation from when they were interrupted.

"What did you mean?"

He's playing with the rose petals in between his thumb and his fingers. "About avoiding fancy-schmancy, cultured restaurants you mean?"

She takes a drink of water, closing and opening her eyes slowly as she deliberately enunciates "Yes" in response to his teasing jab.

"Perhaps you're catching a glimpse of the old life, my old peers, and it looks like it was dripping in wealth, compared to the apartment back in the East. Are you thinking I miss it?" When Riza doesn't say anything, he hums and looks at the table cloth without focus, fingers stilling between rose petals. "We both didn't grow up with much. Even when my foster mother found me, it wasn't like there were bags of money waiting for me in the living room. It's easy to feel uncomfortable in the face of it. I appreciate Maes and Gracia for their humility in that regard, never shoving it in the faces of the people that they knew. Always very conscious of how the other ninety-eight percent live. Gracia still wires out a stipend to her family every month."

"Why doesn't she just bring them here?" Riza asks before she realises how insensitive she sounds.

Roy appears unperturbed. "Her family doesn't want to leave their home country; there's history and pride steeped deeply that soil and the house they reside in has been in their family for generations, even though it'd be no bigger than my living room. But it's also incredibly tough to live on your own.

"Before I get off track, I'm saying, I understand and it's precisely why I don't prefer it either."

Riza nods a thank you to the reappearing waiter for the wine bottle presented, uncorked and then poured into their wine glasses. She takes a sip and it is a smooth and dangerous red, going down her throat without so much as a bitter note. It pools in her lower abdomen warmly, making her a little breathless and even scandalously causing her to flush. "Tell me: this dress and the shoes? Were they just wild purchases?"

Roy smirks at that, fiddling with the stem of his glass. "That was a little selfish of me. I thought the color would look nice on you." He takes a long drink and sets it down, licking his lips. "And I wasn't wrong."

He doesn't even touch her, he only looks at her, says a few little words, and it makes her thighs squeeze together as if they were trying to contain the sudden lust. The logical part of her knows that this is a date: this sort of wining and dining is meant to elicit this kind of reaction. What she's not anticipating is just how susceptible she is to the whole affair.

Thankfully, their food arrives shortly after and Riza distracts herself with what's being put down in front of her. The knowing smile on Roy's face at her sudden interest does not go unnoticed.

After so many months, the Aerugan cuisine he's been sharing with her is more familiar than unfamiliar. It's rich in spices and aroma, but her favorite is the easily recognizable one: a spiced meatball dish with a medley of sauteed and sliced ground vegetables. The wine easily accentuates the flavor of the lamb or so the waiter informs her. A seafood paella is also on the table, served on cast iron and colorful with vibrant yellow rice, pink shrimp, and greens from the green beans mixed in and parsley garnish.

Roy, despite his competency in the kitchen, has nothing on these chefs. Riza sighs with the last bite and sets her fork down contently. It was quite possibly the best meal she's ever had, as if her tongue had been asleep these last twenty years and now it is awake and thriving.

Across from her, Roy sighs too, pushing his empty plate away from him and saying, "I couldn't eat anymore. It's no good."

The laugh that emerges from her is unrefined, but she can't find it in herself to care. Although the anonymity afforded with a trip like this means that Riza doesn't really need to worry about impressions and the likes, in truth she knows it is largely because of him that she feels so comfortable here in the first place. This is essentially their first date together, and she can't quite shake the giddiness she feels every time she catches his gaze.

She is intimately familiar with those eyes for a variety of reasons, but this seems… different somehow. Not wrong, not bad, just… different. Riza won't lie and say she's not a little nervous, but it's more because she has no idea what happens next: not only for tonight, but in their future too.

She swallows down that feeling as their waiter approaches with the check - Roy merely hands the young man his card, not even glancing at the contents of the bill. "What's on your mind?" he asks. Riza blinks rapidly, and gathers her thoughts.

"It's nothing. Mainly I'm curious to see what else you've planned for tonight. As your resident instant ramen connoisseur, this will be hard to beat I'm afraid." She gestures to their almost-finished spread. The teasing comes naturally to her, and his responding smile is more than enough to calm the few butterflies still fluttering away.

Roy extends his hand out to her. "I guess we had better go find out then."

The air outside the restaurant is considerably cooler than within, and Riza shivers as she feels the air seep underneath the fabric of her dress. The evening has lost the hazy warmth she left it in, now, instead of concrete buildings splashed brightly with the last light of the day, the city has transformed into an inky, saturnine landscape.

Roy moves to give her his jacket, but she waves him off, shaking her head. "I need this," she explains, grinning. "Any longer in there and I think I would've fallen asleep."

"You did look like you were going to nod off." His arm slides around her waist and he guides them back towards the adjacent street promenade. "And we haven't even had dessert yet."

Riza groans. "I don't think I could eat anything else."

"You'll want to, once you smell it," Roy promises. "I would've been in my… second year of undergrad when I found it - this little pastry shop tucked in between a department store and the canal. It was crammed with every kind of dessert under the sun. That year alone I single-handedly kept them in business."

She snorts, elbowing him lightly. "Has anyone ever told you how incredibly modest you are?"

"Constantly. It's a terrible burden to bear."

"I suppose this modesty was learned in college," Riza leads, genuinely curious as to how their university experiences differed. "What was the most arrogant thing you did?"

"I had a terrible habit of leaving assignments until the last minute," he answers. "I still got A's so it really didn't teach me a great lesson."

Riza pulls a face. "Your kind of students are the worst. I bet you complained when you got a B+ as well, right?"

"I did no such thing." The reply is a little too pointed, and Riza finds it difficult to contain her giggles.

"No, but seriously," she tries again, pulling out from his grasp. "To be teaching professionally at your age… that's uncommon, certainly. Did you do it all here?"

"I did my undergrad at Central U, but the practical sciences have more prestige at University of Amestris, so I switched to there for my masters. Upgraded that into the doctorate a year later. Military paid for almost everything - I was very lucky in that regard."

"In exchange for service?"

Roy shrugs, scrunching his face up. "Kind of. It wasn't like I had significant amounts of free time outside of study - I had to go through the adapted program for cadets when I was seventeen in preparation, and the summer semesters were spent catching up on all the pageantry we missed out on while studying. Theoretically if we had gone to war I guess my classmates and I would be called up for active service, but our positions came via the graduate program rather than enlisting outright."

"Did you have a rank?"

"Major. It wasn't earned in the same way you would as an actual soldier though, so it was more of a formality than something that could be used to enforce. Maes got to Lieutenant-Colonel before he left."

"Major Mustang." The title rolls off the tongue pleasantly, and Riza's a little surprised to see a faint blush dusting his cheekbones. "Suddenly your whole thing with 'sir' makes a lot more sense."

"Glass houses, avecilla," he warns playfully. "Do you really want to go down that rabbit hole?"

Emboldened by the wine, she pokes out her tongue at him. "My answer is entirely innocent, sir. I can't say the same for yours."

He gapes at her, and she darts ahead a few paces ahead, just out of his reach.

"I find that difficult to believe," he replies, quickening his gait a little.

Riza shrugs. "My father is a traditional man. So was the boarding school he sent me to. The women are ma'am and men are sir." She stills, arms tucked behind her, rolling her weight onto the balls of her feet. The uneven texture of the pavement was not at all kind to her balance in the pumps. "Not my fault that you had the reaction you did."

Roy scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. She watches as his tongue wets his lips. "We could spend all night debating the semantics of who is worse when it comes to nicknames," he begins, meeting her coyish gaze with an expression that makes her weak at the knees.

"Or… ?" Riza takes a deliberate step forward, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes zero in on the leg exposed by the high slit in the skirt of her dress. She's well aware that he's been looking at her all night; but the way his hands rest on her hips, firmly - possessively - is enough to send shivers down her spine. Her hands drift to the thick wool of his coat, curling around the lapels to bring him closer. He meets her asking mouth without hesitation, and Riza is incredibly grateful to lean on him for balance. He pulls her flush to his body, uncaring of the pedestrians around them, seemingly only concerned with holding her just so as he kisses her. It's sweet and passionate, more so than she is used to.

My blood approves, she thinks dazedly as he pulls back, delicately tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. His smile is so warm, and Riza throws her caution to the wind as she stretches to kiss him again, relishing in the way she feels his smile stretch widely against her own.

The freedom afforded to them here is inebriating - the anonymity even more. She thought that Roy was a surprisingly emotive man, but apparently that expression was actually restrained: over the course of this short getaway, she has seen more of what Riza would argue is the real Roy Mustang than she has for the entire trimester. Here, there's no lingering, niggling reminder of the very real consequences for their actions.

Here, she can kiss him in a busy street without a whit of care for who witnesses them.

Roy's fingers are warm against her neck. He strokes the skin absentmindedly, keeping her close as a particularly large group of inebriated businessmen stumble past.

"We should hurry," Roy says after a moment, arm settling itself comfortably around her neck. He points to the river promenade on the other side of the street. "Otherwise they'll be all sold out."

Even from here, Riza can see that the pâtisserie is near full to bursting, clearly doing a roaring trade. Roy was right: the buttery, sweet smell of pastry drifting towards them is entirely too tempting. "I'll get it to go, yeah?"

"Something small," Riza tells him firmly as they draw near, letting her fingers fall from his grip and he pulls away, disappearing into the throng inside.

Truth be told, she's not terribly interested in the food per se: but she loves seeing Roy in this new environment. The little tidbits of information he lets slip in their conversation are what she craves, the knowledge she tucks away for further introspection later on. He's not a different man here completely, no, it's like he's more and there is a small part of her that worries that this part will fade once more as they return to East City.

Officially, they have no more classes: while the grades haven't been formally released by Eastern University, Riza already knows that she's passed this trimester with an A- average, more than enough to ensure her next application for scholarship will go through smoothly without a hitch. She's lucky enough not to have classes this trimester that have external exams - she's sympathetic to Rebecca's situation, furiously cramming for Business School exams that are notoriously difficult. She had barely responded to the text Riza sent en route to Central, proof perhaps that she was actually sticking to the self-imposed studying schedule she had been moaning about all week prior.

The waxing moon reflects brightly in the slow-moving canal just beyond the pâtisserie; Riza wanders over, leaning against the iron railing, relishing in the cool metal against her warmed skin. This section of the promenade is not bustling with people, but there's enough to allow Riza to enjoy some surreptitious people-watching. The fashion differences between Central and East City are perhaps the most staggering difference she wasn't expecting to discover: while spring has firmly swept through the country, almost everyone here is dressing like it's summer already.

Distantly, she can hear sirens wailing, growing fainter. Snippets of conversation pass her by - the Central dialect is much quicker than the slow Eastern drawls she is used to. Even the smell of the city is a novelty - so many clashing scents: the lingering aroma of coffee, concrete, car fumes…

One day she'll make it back here and give the city the attention it deserves. Right now, however, she's diverted by the return of Roy, holding a small cardboard box.

"You were quick," she remarks as he nears. Even from here, she can smell the sweet pastry. He passes it to her with no comment, with a knowing look in his eyes that she just hates.

There's a few assorted pieces - all small, she notes with delight. He looks like he's about to open his mouth and she holds up a finger. "I don't want to hear any variation of 'I told you so'" Riza warns.

His mouth twists into a smarmy grin but he acquiesces, instead mirroring her and leaning against the railing. She isn't sure which piece looks the most appetising - they all look incredible - and eventually she settles on a croissants aux amandes.

It's good. It's really good. She's had them before - but nothing as delicate at this. Traditionally made from day-old croissants, the sugar-to-pastry ratio is perfectly balanced with the shaved flakes of almond. It's difficult not to scarf the whole thing down in seconds.

"Thank you for tonight," she tells him honestly, after chewing. "I don't have many birthdays worth remembering, even less that made me this happy." She picks at the remains of her croissants aux amandes. "I know it wasn't necessarily so much of your own choice to come here but rather that your hand was forced-"

"I agreed, didn't I?" She looks up to see him watching her, a soft smile across his features. "It was a good idea - a brilliant one, actually. It's easy to get caught up in our own little bubble back at East. The only part I'm regretting is that we have to go back to that - back to a environment that won't be as forgiving." He takes back the box and fishes out a small custard tart, inclining his head towards the small park a block over.

Riza nods, and curls her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walk over. The lamplight adds a hazy, almost dreamscape atmosphere to the city, removing it from the harsh concrete foundations. "I think we run the risk that there's going to be gossip no matter the time or circumstances, unfortunately. Will you need to declare it to your faculty?" She sits down on the park bench, brushing her crumbed fingers against the well-worn wood.

His mouth scrunches up as he joins her. "The wording of the university staff statute is… unclear. As far as I can tell, there's not anything in yours, actually - a gross oversight on their part. I don't know whether that's going to work in our favour or not just yet. But -" he sits up, rummaging around in his coat pocket, "- that's not really what I want to focus on tonight. I want to focus on your birthday, and more importantly - you."

"Me?" she says airly, a dainty hand fanned over her chest. "What's so special about lil' ol' me?"

He laughs. "There isn't enough time to list out every detail. However, I know someone can express it for me." She peeks a parcel from inside his coat pocket wrapped in brown paper before he tucks it back in. "Before I get into that, I wanted to know if you'd like to go someplace you've definitely never been before."

Her eyebrow lifts. "Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Okay, yes. But I mean to Aerugo."

Riza stills. Blinks. Surely she's heard incorrectly. "Aerugo… as in the country? Why Aerugo?"

He rubs the back of his neck guiltily. "Here's the thing: at the party yesterday Maes was talking about his wedding anniversary celebration… thing."

It's impossible to make heads or tails of where this conversation is leading. "Did they recently celebrate?"

Roy shakes his head. "Nah, it's next month. Normally they would just throw a party like the one yesterday, but for whatever reason the two of them decided to basically have a big vow renewal ceremony back where they were married - in Aerugo. The original wedding party is all invited, and I was Maes' best man. I think it's three or four days on San Clavel - just off the coast of the mainland. Last time I talked to Maes about it was a couple of months ago and…" he laughs sheepishly, "I must admit it didn't cross my mind then that we'd end up where we are now."

She's embarrassingly slow on the uptake. "So you'd be going to that next month then?"

"With you, hopefully." He says it like he's testing out the answer, uncharacteristically unsure. "I'll find out the exact dates from Maes tomorrow, but I would really like it if you would come along with me." It's unclear where the unease comes from in his tone, but she dismisses it as he continues. "You don't need to decide just yet. I only ask that you give it some thought." Riza nods tentatively, swallowing down the myriad of questions buzzing on the tip of her tongue.

He clears his throat, before reaching for the brown parcel she had spied before. It's wrapped plainly, and Riza would say there seems to be an air of indecision to the way he passes it to her. She accepts it hesitantly, raising an eyebrow. He's nervous, she realises, not recognising the emotion for what it is on his face. Riza supposes she should be flattered that it's not just her feeling this way, but curiosity wins over her wish to reassure him. She's quick about unwrapping it, pushing away tissue paper to reveal a worn leather cover, gold leaf lettering faded but still legible in the light above them in the park.

Pablo Neruda. Collected Poems.

Her fingers brush over the leather and the letters imprinted in gold. She opens the cover, almost ready to pinch herself. "Is this…"

He leans in to tell her, "I went scouring the bookstores this morning. I was lucky enough to come across this one - the woman said it was a first edition."

Her index finger pass over the publication date as he explains, somehow above the loud drumming in her heated ears. She blinks and the tears welling in her eyes escape from the pooling. She catches it before it streams completely down her face and she scoffs, then smiles. "You… you got me a first edition?" To say she's incredulous would be an understatement. It had been a chance encounter in a bookstore when she was twelve, on an errand from her father to scour the academic journals in the second-hand bookshops in their town, and the anthology had been stuffed away incorrectly - a purchase that had become ultimately second-guessed.

Her father never knew of her small rebellion, of how she spent thousand cenz on a book that held no academic value because he'd see it as a waste. In the private, comfortable quiet of her room, Riza learned there were other values in words beyond articulating arguments and cold hypotheses. She learned how to lose herself in phrases and prose worlds away from the erratic, unpredictable moods of the man down the dark and dilapidated hallway.

Though her collection expanded rapidly following her shipment to boarding school, the old anthology was the last link she had to a life with a little less struggles. It was one of the first she purchased and though her untrained eyes didn't capture the context of Neruda's phrases then, she still keenly felt the emotion struggling desperately to jump out from the words. The old tome itself struggles less, tucked away in a shoebox in a million unsorted and ruined pages. It was probably healthy to finally let go of that final, fragmented connection, and realistically, she probably never would. Passing her hand over the cover once more, he probably doesn't realize he's given her a relic of the most intimate variety. She doesn't know how to feel about herself and she chokes to even give it thought. Only that her mind makes comparisons of this put together, cleaner, clearer anthology to the broken one hiding underneath a box under her bed and the conclusion has yet to be uttered.

"A while ago, you said your book came apart," he says with the subtlest hints of an anxious edge, still awaiting her reaction. "I thought that, maybe, you'd enjoy a rare find like this even if it isn't the exact copy."

Riza realises that she still hasn't responded yet, too overcome by this gesture. "You're ridiculous," she manages finally, failing to blink the tears away. Instead, they run down her cheeks freely but she's past the point of caring to wipe them away now, too transfixed with the book in her lap. "I can't believe you went to all this trouble," she chokes physically on her words towards the end, the sentence tapering off into a whisper.

"Is it trouble if wanted to, Riza?" She hears him sigh in relief. "I mean, if we're being realistic, you're the kind of trouble that's worth it."

His tie crumples in her fist as she grapples it to tug him closer and she kisses him then. She can feel him smiling under her lips, and it forms into a full-fledged grin - dimples and all - when she pulls back a little.

"I chose right then?" he murmurs.

Riza nods, smiling as well as she leans in once more to taste the sugar on his lips. "You did. Thank you, Roy."

His thumbs stroke her cheekbones, wiping away the tears lingering on her skin. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

She laughs, somewhat embarrassed. "They're good tears,I promise. This is… the best gift I have ever been gifted."

His arm curls around her neck and he hugs her close to him. Riza feels his lips press against her hair. "Really?" He doesn't sound… surprised, but there's an element of sympathy woven through.

She nods, thumbs rubbing the well-worn leather grooves of the cover. In hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised. This was not the first time he had proven to her that he paid attention to her, beyond what she divulged herself. It's a curious feeling, to be made aware of that fact. For so long, Riza's only considered Rebecca to be a person who genuinely cares about her, picks up on the small details that get overlooked in day-to-day conversation. It's not like she couldn't say the same for him though - she knows he prefers his coffee beans with a dark roast, that he only smokes cigarettes when he's stressed.

It's another small but profound realisation for her tonight, and she tucks it away with the others to pour over later.

He checks the time on his watch and tells her that they still have time for one last thing.

"There's more?"

"Just one more."

The house is dark when they return. Once lively with a family or even a party just the night before, it is still and shadowy now. He doesn't bother with the lights, leading along hallways that are becoming familiar. The moonlight spilling through the windows puts everything into high contrast - while his suit is a deep, inky black, his skin almost glows as they pass through the lounge. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the sudden confidence she has as a stranger in a strange city, but Riza thinks he is the most beautiful person she has ever laid eyes on.

She recognizes the guest bedroom door in the faint light. The interior is familiar too - privately, Riza had been… apprehensive of the fact that Roy had possibly enlisted in the efforts of his best friend for this evening. Not that she wouldn't have been grateful for what would've been an impressive feat by Hughes, if Elicia's birthday was anything to go by, but Riza felt awkward knowing that he would be well aware of what she planned to do to his best friend tonight.

Riza hones in on the edge of the bed and breathes out in relief a little louder than she expected when she sits. She arches her foot inside the shoe where it feels cramped and constricted.

Roy shuts the door behind him quietly and walks toward her. He startles her by kneeling in front of the bed, hands around her foot, and frees her from the shoes.

"Still vying for brownie points?" Riza asks, trying not to sound breathless from the gesture.

"Mm, no. Only trying to make you comfortable for putting you in those in the first place." The other shoe falls to the floor with a thunk. Roy stands and extends his hand out for her.

Visibly confused, she takes his hand regardless. His hand engulfs hers, and it occurs to her then that they've never properly held hands as the other settles on her hip. There's no music - well, none that Riza can hear, certainly - but they sway nonetheless. It's far too easy for her to close her eyes and rest her head against his chest, listening intently for the beat of his heart. This type of intimacy is foreign to her - strange in a way that is confusing as it is desirable. True, he makes her toes curl on a regular basis - but this, this is perhaps more dangerous than his tongue or his fingers.

She has become used to his kisses in the morning; sleepy, searching soft presses of his lips against her own. She has grown accustomed to the way he orbits around her in their quiet hours of downtime, fingers never quite stilling on her skin. She falls asleep to the smell of his cologne and soap, and steals his sweatshirts when she can't stay over.

To say she has been bewitched would be a falsehood, because Riza knows she has met him halfway willingly.

She isn't sure how long they stay there, swaying slowly in the quiet of the bedroom. She feels, more than hears Roy swallow, and when she pulls back to look up at him he's watching her with what she can only describe as bedroom eyes.

"Do you remember, in the library, when you recited me that-" he breathes in and looks off to the middle distance to find the word he's looking for, "-inappropriate poem?"

Riza scoffs, curving it off while it a smile at the memory. "I'd never do such a thing unless I was specifically asked to."

He gives her a sharp look, one with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, but then he veers the conversation away from silly banter, she notices. His hands drop from her own and very softly, he tilts her jaw up, thumb barely exerting pressure. "So, you do remember."

"I might," she replies, and the volume of her words dip lower to a whisper

He matches it. "I only brought it up because I thought I might return the favor." Slow and tantalizing, a finger from each hand glide over the skin of her back where the dress exposes skin unmarred. He continues down and over the boundary of her dress, continuing until he reaches her lower back, and smoothly brings down the zipper.

A great deal of constitution is required to resist buckling at the knees. Riza distracts herself by feeling the fine texture on the lapels of his suit. "Is that right?"

"Mhm." Her fingers feel the vibration of his response.

"And may I ask which?"

Then he lets her go and the room suddenly feels cold and unpleasant and bright. Roy walks over to the dial that adjusts the intensity of the lighting to a just barely visible level, where she can barely discern the lines of his face.

The silhouette of Roy tugs at the knot of his tie until it is loosened. He leaves a finger hooked onto it as he pauses to speak again.

"Yo te he nombrado reina."

The chills flash along the surface of her skin, awakening every bud lulled to sleep by food, drink and low light. It's the lilt that escapes in the early morning breaks loose and says here I am - bursting through like sunshine. It's a different voice altogether but yet it's still him. She stands there, still, because the cogs have been slowed by the sweet Aerugan wine. She inhales sharply when the translation appears in her head because she knows this one already, by memory, by heart, that it might as well be burned into her skin:

I have named you queen.

Fitting that he'd gift her the priceless book, but to recite it to her in the original language... the story of the poem swiftly goes through her mind: the gist of it being that the narrator has named his lover queen, despite the comparisons they both might notice or how she might feel in the humdrum of casual life. There's a crown she doesn't see but he does because of how she makes him feel: because he's named her his queen. The abridged data retrieval in her mind is stopped as he turns to her, walks towards her until he is in front of her and his features are more noticeable this close.

"Hay más altas que tú, más alta." He smiles tenderly, brushing bangs away from her wide-eyed face, leans in to kiss her cheek and whispers against it, "Hay más altas que tú, más altas." His hair tickles her sensitive skin almost as much as the line of kisses he leaves in the wake of his lips to her neck. "Hay más puras que tú, más puras."

The dress that clings on only by the straps on her shoulders are delicately pulled down, trapped just under her breasts by her elbows. Her bent arms straighten on their own and it falls like red water, pooling around her feet. His fingers glide up, parallel to the dip of her back, over the scars that were so tactfully covered before. She closes her eyes. Her heart pounds against her chest and in her ears and thrums throughout her body. She is a statue; no - a tree, a sapling - thin and flimsy, barely rooted to the threads of the carpet. Riza exhales; sighs with the next line:

"Hay más bellas que tú, más bellas." His hands are hot against her skin. She barely has enough working neurons firing off to work the buttons of his shirt and be closer to him. They all seem to shut down when he murmurs in her ear, in English: "But you are the queen."

She steps back at his gentle nudge and the bed is closer than she had imagined. She breathes out something that sounds like "that's not fair" but it's slurred and none of it having to do with alcohol. She sees his face and only raises knowing eyebrow in response. For a moment, she appreciates the commitment to reciting the poem, but that was only a stanza. She is stirred from the sensation, her skin is thrumming and her nerves are heightened and dulled at the same time. The beating of her heart is transporting blood faster through her body, making her blush deeply, making her react. She holds the air in her lungs as she lies back against the bed that isn't hers, in a room that isn't hers, for a man calling her his.

His shirt falls to the floor, fluttering down like her dress and her hands want nothing more than the feel the temperature of his skin, to feel the push-pull of his muscles. He has other plans. With only one leg resting on the edge of the bed the belt from his pants unbuckle and he only unbuttons his dress pants without taking them off. The lines from his well pronounced hip bones guide her hungry gaze down to an area blocked from view.

She is brought back to attention when he hovers over her and the back his hand glides down from her sternum in between the valley of her breasts to her navel; his eyes follow this journey as if he's marveling her in the middle of his recital. "Cuando vas por las calles, nadie te reconoce. Nadie ve tu corona de cristal, nadie mira - la alfombra de oro rojo." He moves in closer and she is enthralled by the performance, this birthday gift, that she gasps as he slips in between her legs and she parts them willingly. He touches over the fabric, flicking ever so lightly over the bud urging her to bloom from pleasure.

She's never been so grateful for the lack of teasing from him. Unhurriedly, his fingers slip under near the lace of her underwear. The heat becomes embarrassingly obvious when his hand inches closer, separating the wet cloth trapping it in from her. She sees the movement in his neck as he swallows when they both realize how turned on she is, as if it weren't obvious before. Perhaps the physical affirmation was an important clue in itself as well.

Riza doesn't register the following words. She hears the sounds, the musical pronunciation of his tongue in Spanish. Her mind otherwise swims from his touch. Two fingers rub in between her lips; lubricating themselves plenty, she imagines, but still grazing over her clit, barely brushing where she wantsneeds his touch. The wine has gone to her head and makes her react more. Her breath grows deeper, her back arches ever so slightly towards him. She feels his lips murmur against her breast before passing his tongue over her peaked nipple. Once, then again, and again, with a suckle her and a tender bite there. The ache at her core builds from these sprinkle of teases. She feels it in her lower abdomen with a building pressure she's familiar with by now. Any attempts she makes to touch him, to connect with him, to reciprocate and share with him they way he's making her feel, is swatted away and she is left to only clutch the sheets and beg for clemency.

The pleas of touch me, finger me, fuck me are lost in her throat. His caresses are beautiful in their own right; tender and loving, sensual; they are fitting to the poem he recites. Each stroke in rhythm with the words and syllables. It isn't enough to make her cum, but she gets wetter each time he teases around her entrance, the nerves around her nipples peak just a little more and her blood rushes. She is kept in a pleasurable limbo where he dictates the pace.

He is merciful. He gives her what she wants. It's her birthday after all. Mouth opens, jaw unhinges, and her head turns to the side as she feels his fingers enter her and her throat sounds out a moan. Her fingers clutch the sheets again and she's uncaring of how strands of her hair are caught up with it and pulled harshly. His other hand grabs her chin and turns it toward him to capture her lips. Try as she might to kiss him, her mouth mewls and sighs, barely processing as he works his fingers in and out of her.

Against her lips, he says, "Y cuando asomas-" A soft gasp. "Suenan todo los rios-" A prolonged exhale. "En mi cuerpo-" A nibble to her lips. "Sacuden." She coils, knuckles white; tightens. A moment. Releases. And it ripples across her body like the thrum of her heart. Riza feels his triumphant smile on her lips. "El cielo la campanas."

She shudders when he removes his fingers from her. Her head tilts to the side as she catches her breath. He hooks his fingers over the hem of her underwear and she aids in their removal by lifting her hips. The edge of his fingernails graze the skin of her legs and she licks her lips.

"Y un himno llena el mundo."

There's a soft thump of clothing hitting the floor. He climbs over her and they both try to move toward the end of the bed but simultaneously give up in the middle of it instead. The slow, measured, tempered mannerisms and the way he looks at her and the way he recites her this poem tells her a different way this… coupling will go down, because suddenly, the word "fucking" doesn't seemed to capture it accurately in her buzzed, post-orgasm mind.

He enters her in the way he's done many times before over and over again. But his groan is different. The way his nails embed into her skin is different. It makes her sigh sweetly and it makes her toes curl. Her fingers lose themselves in his hair.

"Solo tu y yo."

It's a miracle he maintains the same cadence, but her eyes open for a different reason.

"Solo tu y yo." He pauses, buried in the crook of her neck. "Amor mio." The curling of his fingers are a subtle ordeal, but she notices. He holds her tighter and her throat becomes constricted for an entirely different reason.

"Lo escuchamos."

His voice is sin. His mouth too; his fingers; his hips.

He makes no move to shift off her: not that she's going to let him. Her legs are still tightly wound around his hips. His weight on her is comfortable, not suffocating, and Riza closes her eyes to better focus on the feeling of her heartbeat pulsing in her fingertips.

Only you and I, you and I, my love, listen to it.

La Reina is not her favourite Neruda piece, but after that little show it could quickly become that. Absently, she adjusts her hips against his own, drags her fingers through his hair, damp with sweat.

"How long have you been sitting on that?" she asks breathlessly. Roy groans, burrows his head more firmly into her neck.

"Woman," he manages, his voice more of a vibration than sound, "give me a minute."

Riza snorts, but falls quiet. There's a strange sense of contentment washing over her, despite the blooming warmth lingering in her belly. His fingers, like hers, don't settle: instead they wander, firm touches that move over her muscle and bone.

You and I, my love.

Part of her doesn't want to examine it too deeply. She isn't sure whether she's scared that it will reveal something she's been ignoring, or that she will realise something that previously was unknown to her. It's just a poem right?

Just a poem that he memorised in his native tongue, recited to her in said native tongue, and made sure to emphasise wholeheartedly that said poem was firmly about her. It is seduction of the highest calibre, and even as she lies there, basking in the sensations of him over her and still in her, Riza finds herself surprised with how she still wants more from him.

So greedy.

A part of her, months ago, would be shocked at her boldness, at how assertive she is in going after what she wants, but all she can bring herself to focus on is what she now realises she's missed out on. Feelings and emotional displays aside, here is a man who has thoroughly fucked her and not only that, done said fucking in such a way to ensure she's ruined from this point on. Being under him like this only makes her hungry for more - more of him, his mouth, his tongue, his hips: and all the breath leaves her in one violent exhale as he shifts above her, before thrusting deeper once more.

Fuck.

Her nails scratch and scrape at the nape of his neck, fingers wrap themselves around his sweat-slicked hair as his mouth moves along from the taut muscles of her shoulders to the sensitised ones of her neck. Goosebumps raise on her flesh as his breath passes over, lips brushing over the skin behind her ear. She's uncaring of how she whimpers - yes, she's whimpering, because his right hand has snuck back down to her clit and the calm, unhurried way he's rubbing at it has her curling her toes and tensing her whole frame against his.

His mouth finds hers once more, and his teeth nibble on her lower lip, the pressure so good and right and -

Slowly, painstakingly, his hips shift against hers, and then again, and again. This time it's even more unhurried than the last - but nonetheless Riza feels the pressure rise in her belly, curl around and spread out through her. It is, in some ways, even more difficult to grapple with than when his hips are punishing and quick. This slow burn, this constant constant friction of him against her, stretching her and filling her, making her breath hitch with every thrust in - it frightens her how good this feels, how right it feels and how she doesn't ever want him to stop.

She has never been one for living in the moment: her whole life has been about looking forward, moving beyond the place where she is currently. To want to remain, as she is, content and happy, is entirely unfamiliar.

Roy draws her from her thoughts as an arm shifts under her waist, pulling her closer. He continues that same, unhurried pace, and Riza lets herself curl around him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The subsequent orgasm is unhurried, cresting over her pleasantly. She feels Roy shudder above her, dropping his head next to her, pressing soft kisses to the meeting of her neck and shoulder. Her heartbeat thumps in her fingertips.

She could happily fall asleep like this, but after a while - a few minutes, maybe more, Riza isn't keeping tabs - he shifts off her, pushing himself off the bed. She watches him disappear into the ensuite, hears the sound of the taps running. He returns a few minutes later, damp flannel in hand.

It doesn't strike her as strange that they've yet to break the quiet that's settled over them, not when the feeling of his hands is back on her. He's attentive in his cleanup, and Riza is quick to kiss him as he settles back down, hands stroking the skin of his cheekbones. She can still taste a hint of sugar on his lips as she pushes back his damp hair.

"Good?" he asks her softly. She recognises the tone he uses more than the word itself - a contented one, the kind she associates with him in the quiet, late hours of the evening, one with which she is becoming more intimately familiar with.

"Yes." She smiles at him, deeply enjoying the way the corners of his eyes crinkle in turn. He's been doing a lot of that lately: watching her, clearly liking what he sees. Normally she would also say the same - he was a fine specimen of the lesser sex - but over the course of the last couple of days Riza feels like she's barely had any time with him to herself. Perhaps because she is so used to being able to monopolise his time, this foray into what a 'normal' relationship operates like is somewhat alien to her.

It's just different, she supposes. She's dated before - perhaps 'tried' is a better explanation - and she's never allowed herself to get a point of emotional vulnerability… well, until now. Roy Mustang has a sneaky way of settling himself deep under her skin, whether it be through those endearing smiles, or caustic comments as he bitches his way through multiple deadlines. So much of their early relationship - if you could even call it that - was so firmly rooted in the physicality and compatibility between them that even time spent like this, enjoying the afterglow in the guest room of his best friend's apartment after an honest-to-god date in Central City, seems like a massive leap towards something bigger… something more concrete.

It's terrifying and it's not. So many of the barriers she's put up to keep people out - they no longer exist in the same prickly way they used to do. He has changed her irrevocably, and entirely for the better. She adjusts the position of her head on his arm, fingers wandering aimlessly on the small stretch of skin between his bicep and deltoid.

His eyebrow raises lazily. "I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. His fingers press in between the spaces of her ribcage, following the lines of her bone. "What is it?"

"It's just…" Riza falters, struggling to find the right words to describe her jumbled thoughts. The invitation to Aerugo is at the forefront, but that's not what she worried about - not yet, certainly. Part of her knows that they're hurtling towards some sort of inevitability, and even if she cannot find the words here, right now in this space, they won't be lost in the ether forever. He's so good at reading what she means in between the lines, but she recognises now that it shouldn't always be like that.

Some things are worth saying out loud.

Riza wets her lips with her tongue, and tries again. "This whole thing is new. Scary. It's unfamiliar."

His brow furrows. "Central?"

The tension she didn't realise she was holding is let out in a swift exhale of giggles. Riza swats at his chest, shaking with laughter. "No! I meant -" she gestures rapidly between them with her hand. "This. Us. It's scary but it's also not, and I know I'm not making a lot of sense right now but-"

His smile is impossibly brighter now, and he shifts himself slightly closer, capturing her gesticulating hand within his own. "You are-"

His smile is infectious, and the laughter bubbles out of her unimpeded. "No! Just - just let me say this please? I know you know but I want to say this, okay?" she huffs, impatient and bemused. Roy to his credit keeps quiet, but never loses the grin.

Riza leans her weight on her arm, and chews on her bottom lip, trying to find the right words to explain herself. "If- if the me from a year ago could see the me now, she wouldn't recognise me. She'd never dare let herself be in this situation - with you, with anybody, to be frank - but that's the point I'm trying to make. I'm no longer her. That Riza was… scared, and she used that fear to justify all the walls she built and all the people she pushed away. She didn't try, because in her eyes-" the words spill out of her quickly, threatening to run over themselves in her haste to explain, "-nobody tried for her. But you challenged that reasoning." Riza swallows thickly.

"You have proven again and again that she - that I - was worth something, was worth it to someone." She's too nervous to meet his eyes right now, but the reassuring squeeze from his hand enclosing hers spurs her on. "You've made me a better person because of it. And for that I am extremely grateful."

Her knuckles are brought up to his mouth: the tenderest of kisses is brushed against them. "You're very welcome. I would add that the same could be said of you as well."

"Yeah?"

Roy nods slowly. "Absolutely. The inception of our relationship notwithstanding… I certainly wouldn't be as happy as I am now without you in my life."

Although the air in the bedroom is warm, Riza still feels her face grow warmer. "Imagine though," she teases, "if somehow we had managed to keep up appearances. The library was just another near miss."

Roy snorts and shakes his head, focusing intently on the way her fingers align with his between them. "You might've managed. I was long gone."

A perverse sense of pride blooms in her chest. "I don't know about that," she replies, flexing her fingers within his grip. "Class was torture enough even while knowing I just had to keep my head down for a few hours at a time. I think if I had to sit there while not knowing if I was just imagining things or…" Riza trails off, tucks her arm under her head.

"Is it terrible for me to be glad we never let it get that far?"

"Probably." She blinks up at him, only just making out his face in the dim light. "But I'm glad we didn't too."