Day Seven: Warmth
(Rated T for language)
It was just his luck, Roy thinks, that the Flame Alchemist would end up stationed in a goddamned desert. As if it wasn't warm enough already.
Roy sits as far away from the fire as he can, scowling fiercely into the blue-tinged center. When was it that he'd started to dislike it so? He remembers days spent in the alchemy lab, staring at the crackling flames with fascination, wondering if one day, he might crack the code to its existence. Little did he know that his teacher had been working on those very secrets, or that one day he would decipher them off the younger Hawkeye's back.
Little did he know that the power he'd sought to help people would be used for killing them.
He holds his gloves loosely in his hands, and as much as he wants to crumple them up in his fist, he knows better than that (the first time he'd done it, he'd accidentally created a spark and set his shirtsleeve on fire). But he still needs some kind of release, so he throws them down onto the sand.
"You really should treat those better." A dark shape comes and sits down next to him. He doesn't need to turn his head to know that it's Riza.
"I know," he sighs. It comes out more like a growl.
To her credit, she doesn't inquire about his gloves any further. "Why are you sitting so far away from the fire? Aren't you cold?"
He shakes his head. "If only." Her head tilts to the side in a birdlike gesture, and he answers her silent question. "It's too hot here," he complains. "It's too hot and too dry and all I do day in and day out is set things on fire. It's too goddamn hot."
She regards him curiously. "I hadn't thought about that. It's bad enough for the rest of us, yes, but you're the Flame Alchemist. Fire is your trade."
"I used to love it," he says miserably. "Thought it was the best thing that could happen to man. But how can it be, when all I use it for is…" He can't finish the sentence.
"Fire's dangerous," Riza says. "And unpredictable. But we light up our campfires anyway, right?" She gestures to the clusters of flickering light that surround them.
Roy nods his grudging agreement. "I know. Two sides to every coin and all that. I'm just sick and tired of having to peel myself out of my uniform every night 'cause I've sweat through the entire thing. I'm sick of pouring sand out of my boots, I'm sick of picking sheets of my skin off from sunburn, and I'm so goddamn sick of lighting everything on fire."
Riza lets him stew for a few seconds. "You done?"
Roy cracks a wry smile and shakes his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done. Sorry about that."
She gives a half-shrug. "We all need to rant every now and again."
"Not you."
"Not me."
"Liar."
"I can take care of myself."
"No one's saying you can't." But she doesn't reply for the longest time, and Roy starts to wonder if he's offended her.
When she speaks again, Roy can barely hear it over the sounds of their camp. "It's too cold."
"You can move closer to the fire."
She shakes her head. "No. No, I think I'll stay here."
And she does.