Envy

"Get out of here, boy!" Berthold Hawkeye hissed at Roy and his teeth clicked in astonishment as his master's hand connected with his face. He was twelve tonight, his birthday unnoticed by his master and Riza. It was on this night that Riza had had a nightmare. One that woke him in a frenzy, screaming and moaning waking him from his slumber. It was on this night, the night he waited for his master to come trudging down the hall like usual, that Roy acted on his own. She was terrified when he entered her room, her little figure black against the insufficient light traveling through the heavily curtained window.
"Riza," Roy had whispered from her doorway, afraid to step any further into a forbidden area of the house. She sniffled a little, her screams had awoken her and now there was an eerie silence that covered the house. He stepped forward, flinching when the floorboards creaked, shouting under his feet. She made a small noise of protest, the nine-year-old familiar with her father's rules. Roy stopped and immediately retraced his steps to the door.

"Sorry," he said lowly, looking to the ground and then at her. He wasn't child anymore, he couldn't treat her anyway he would like. But he swore he saw her shake her head.

"I'm scared, Ro- Mr. Mustang," She corrected herself mid-sentence, remembering that her father had forbidden them from calling each other by their first names. Roy hesitated, this time moving slowly over the creaky floorboard, his bare feet making no noise now.

"It's okay. It was just a dream." He had made it to the edge of her bed, gripping the thin blue blanket that was tangled around Riza's thin legs. He reached out, straightening them out, hoping that she wouldn't feel as suffocated. Then again, Roy noticed she had relaxed the moment he entered her room…No, her wouldn't think about that. She was quiet, and Roy could feel her eyes on him as he smoothed out the rough material. He put a hand against her shoulder, willing her to lie back down, and she obliged.

He would have left, he told himself, if she hadn't grabbed his wrist. He would have stayed until she fell asleep, then he would have fled back to his room under the stairs. But she pulled him onto her plush bed, situating the covers over his developing body. Roy blinked.

"Please don't leave me…Roy" She whispered his name, and he snuggled down into her pillow, his faces inches from hers, but they were just children. They couldn't feel the complicated and anxious feeling Roy thought was going through him. The butterflies, they were eating away at his stomach. Through the moonlight, he caught the twinkling of Riza's amber-red eyes, and he heard her whisper to him. Unsure of what she said, he did what he remembered his mother had done before she disappeared. He ran his fingers over Riza's soft, smooth arm, watching as she relaxed. She interlaced their fingers, finding solace in his presence; she was asleep quicker than he could blink and before he knew it, his fingers stopped working, his eyelids drooping inevitably. All was peaceful. That was when it happened.

"Move, Boy!" And Roy wondered if Mr. Hawkeye even knew his name. But he jumped up, aware that his hand was still intertwined with his teacher's daughter's fingers. It felt wrong, the way he had to leave Riza, alone, and now crying in the darkness. His master had a firm hold on the back of his onyx hair, shoving the boy into the next room. Roy stumbled more than once, but he overlooked the scrapped knees he had acquired. Those were not the worst of his worries. Mr. Hawkeye had practically thrown him down the stairs, catching him by his shirt collar before shoving him forcefully again.

They had made it to Roy's room and Hawkeye had told him to strip down to his under layers, drawing his belt at the same time, and now he was face down on his bed, dread overcoming him. There was a flash of blue light that made Roy sure, his teacher had used alchemy to seal the door closed. And he braced himself, feeling the harsh leather upon his back before hearing it. He wouldn't cry out, for Riza's sake he wouldn't. But it was harder said than done. For some reason Mr. Hawkeye was angrier tonight, and his wrath was the result of Roy's bruised, cut, and sore legs and back. Roy felt as though he was drowning in his own tears that soaked his mattress, but still he did not cry out except for the smothered groan of pain.

Finally, it was over. Hawkeye was panting, his belt limp, and Roy looked up at him from his place on the bed, tears flowing down his face leaving streaks on his miserable visage; Mr. Hawkeye had finally calmed down enough to see what he had done. Regret colored his turquoise eye and he moved to place a soft touch against the boy's shoulder. Roy jumped, his eyes slamming shut, and this time he sobbed aloud. What had he done wrong? The adult shrank back, before covering the boy with a thin sheet and ruffling his mop of hair. When Roy opened his eyes he was alone again, his door still sealed with alchemy…his teacher had departed.

Roy inhaled deeply, letting his eyelids stay closed, feeling heavy on his eyes. He was confused. He knew he had kicked up old memories with his subordinate's old nickname, but why this memory. His third year in the Hawkeye house was the worst year of his life. He had experienced growing pains mixed with the hurt of beatings and abuse, combined. It was also the year his teacher's health declined, going from forgetful to down-right mental. His research was not going well in those years. Roy shivered. His research. Heaving himself out of his oversized bed, he realized someone had taken off his boots, and his greatcoat was hanging on a rack over Roy's large mahogany dresser that held only a handful of things. Most of which were never used.

He turned, unsure what to do with himself. Should he make his bed? The sheets were wrinkled on one side, and the sight almost saddened him; he was alone. He decided against it. At least the un-tucked and unkempt sheets made this house look more lived in. Sighing, the flame alchemist rubbed the sleep from his eyes, inhaling deeply once more. It smelled good. Wait. It smelled good. Before evading his room he slipped on an old grey t-shirt. Might as well be comfortable. Opening the door, a blend of smells hit him, and his eyes were greeted with his Lieutenant, head bent over the stove, her back towards him. She had made stir-fry. He knew by the smell; he had taught her to make it back when they were children. Granted, she had long surpassed him in the art of cooking, but it was almost an honor to see her using his recipes.

He felt his face warm a little; Riza had shed her greatcoat as well, and the black turtleneck she wore underneath clung to her body, revealing a thin waist and small breasts. Roy shifted his gaze, but the temptation came back to him, and he felt himself now staring at the back of her neck, a few stray pieces of her hay-yellow hair had escaped from her tight up-do. But Roy thought it suited her. He liked it when she did not look so formal; it reminded him of the old Riza. The Riza before the war. Roy shifted nervously on his feet before meandering to the small table. Riza turned her head slightly, her abnormal hearing picking up on even the slightest creak.

"I see you're awake," she mumbled, the role of Lieutenant and Colonel forgotten for a moment.

"I see you stole my recipe again." He let himself slip past her, opening the cabinet to the left of her, confident he would find bowls. Riza scoffed at his comment, but stayed silent. Roy continued to look for the bowls, becoming distressed when he could not locate them.

"Where are the damn things!" He exclaimed, smacking his hands down against his thighs. Riza had shifted her eyes to him, and he met them, questioning.

"Three cabinets down. You're looking for dishes like you're in my house." She said simply, and he looked to the cabinet she pointed out. Was he really that acquainted with her home? He looked away, retrieving two bowls, handing them to Riza, feeling for the second time, a flutter in stomach as her skin got closer to his. They didn't have many excuses to touch, and Roy would never admit that his heart sped up like a teenage girl. He almost laughed aloud with that though. Roy Mustang comparing himself to a teenage girl. He wanted to roll his eyes at himself, but thought better to.

"Shall we eat?" Riza looked up at him, holding two steaming bowls of food. He nodded, and she made her way to the table. Roy struggled to find silverware, but eventually found two forks with Riza's help. Slightly ashamed, he salvaged the only thing he knew to find, wine. Riza looked almost surprised when he sat with her, filling a quarter of her glass with the harsh red substance. She stared at him for a while, and Roy was unsure of what to do, so he took a swig out of his own glass, happy with the taste.

Riza watched him; his head was tipped back, his eyes closed. He was handsome. She shook her head. Not now heart. She felt her face flush with the though of her Colonel. He's your boss, her mind nagged.

"Get yourself together." She muttered to herself as she filled her fork with the warm meal.

"Hm?" Roy looked at her, following her lead. It's not like they would pray, nor would they say cheers. No, Riza thought, that wasn't who they were. God was too far out of their lives; God would not help them.

"It's nothing." She continued on, listening to the silence, meeting Roy's gaze only once before letting the forkful of rice melt in her mouth. It made her think of being a child…There was something about tonight, something different, something that made her knees wobbly and her headache splitting.

"Oh," Roy's voice dropped, and the silence continued. It wasn't an awkward silence, no, nothing between her and Roy would be awkward, they had been together far too long to have the commodity of unease. She almost basked in feeling his presence. He was like her own personal sun, reserved for her only.

"Why did you stay?" His voice was low, and when Riza looked up at him, she couldn't read what was burning in his eyes. The comfort was shattered and she didn't quite know how to answer him adequately. Because I had to. Because there was something wrong beneath your eyes, something that worried me. Because I was disappointed. Because I lov- She stopped herself from even think about it.

"Because it's Friday," she said simply, "and you were being melodramatic." Riza cursed herself for letting the last line slip. But Roy gave a hearty laugh, feeling the sarcasm that oozed through her statement. His smile made her heart beat faster, and she couldn't help but give a small smile.

"Didn't have a hot date…Lieutenant." She felt her smile drop. There was seriousness behind Roy's smile, behind his voice. Frowning, she looked at her wine glass, studying the small mark around the rim; a mark she realized was of lipstick. And Riza didn't wear lipstick. The hurt hit her before she could stop it, before she could filter out her own feelings.

"No, sir." She pushed her chair back, her eyes still fixed on the lip mark. Biting her lip, she grabbed the glass and her half-eaten dinner. The taste in her mouth was turning bitter.

"But you probably do." She let the dishes clatter into the sink much louder than was necessary.

"Lieutenant?" He was out of his chair; making his way to her, but Riza couldn't breath. She was suffocating, swallowing the anger she felt. Calm down. Roy was behind her, and she took back what she had said. Roy Mustang was not a sun. He was not warm and he was not reserved for her. She was his companion. His subordinate. No, she thought to herself, Roy Mustang was cold. The cold winter of Briggs, and as harsh as the nipping wind.

"Is something wrong?" She frowned, turning now to face him.

"It's no concern of yours." She pushed off the counter, escaping his gaze and slipping on her blue coat, knowing she should not be jealous. She should not care about the other women that had probably sat exactly were she had.

"Cold, he's cold." She breaks him with those words. Of course they are his concern. She is his. He loves her. But no. She is not his. But she's escaping, leaving him unable to move unable to shout or cry or catch her. He's just as useless as he's accused of being. He wonders if she realizes that she's spoken aloud because she doesn't seem to register her own voice. Then he's shattered, "it's no concern of yours." And yes, he assumes, it really isn't his concern. Because he is nothing to her. But he wants her to be his concern. He needs her to be his concern.

"Riza," his voice threatens to break more than it has. Maybe she hesitated, but turning he saw he was too late. She was gone long before he uttered the choked syllable. Roy Mustang felt his knees wobble, his heart was slowly being torn from his chest. And his precious hawk was gone.