Author's Note: This one took half an hour to write. It's really quite depressing, I think. According to my friends, it's quite good, but then again, friends are supposed to say that, aren't they? As I wrote this note, I was firmly assured that it is indeed very good. I like it. It's cute. But really, really depressing.
007. Crime and Punishment
He hates this. It's quite literally agony. Watching her makes his insides churn and throat sore – though how he could feel this, he didn't know. He thinks that if he has anything in his stomach (if he still has a stomach, that is) that he will be sick soon. Maybe it's the transition…? Whatever this is, he thinks, it's torture. What has he done to deserve this? Actually, thinking about it, he cringes, realising that there was a lot he'd done to deserve this. He can hear her opening the front door, but he doesn't move. Vaguely, he wonders why, if this is so painful for him, he's doing it. He doesn't yet understand why he's choosing to loiter around, as if he could say something to her to change things and make them right.
She comes into the living room, her eyes blank and emotionless. He shifts, knowing that he's sitting in the place where she usually does. As expected, she wanders over, collapsing onto the sofa, her honey blonde hair looking as soft and tangled as he remembers it from the mornings. He wants to reach out and touch her hair, touch her cheek, tell her everything was going to be alright. He can't. It won't change anything. It won't make it better.
When she starts crying is when Roy decides he can't take it anymore. He pushes himself up and away from the sofa, stalking out into the hallway. There he begins to pace, running his hand continually through his hair. He's frustrated. He doesn't know what he can do. He's Roy Mustang, for crying out loud. He's supposed to know what to do. He's supposed to be able to work something out in the spur of the moment.
He reflects. He's isn't Roy Mustang. He was Roy Mustang. He isn't anymore. He hasn't been for at least the past week. It's strange, being who he is now. It's unnatural. Then again, being dead is never natural for anyone.
Riza has also come into the hallway now. Roy starts; she's staring straight at him. Can she…? Is he…? No. No, he's standing in front of the mirror. Roy turns. His reflection isn't in the mirror. Only Riza's is. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, and her eyes are outlined with crimson. He hates this. Roy moves away, ending up in her bedroom. He's spent many memorable nights here, he remembers, and the memories almost make him smile. But this isn't the time to start smiling, so he doesn't.
He hears Riza utter another choked sob. It is then that he realises what is plaguing him. He realises what is making him stay here. He understands what he did to deserve this. He only ever said it to her once. How foolish. Once is never enough times to tell her. He should have told her over and over and over. He never told her he loved her enough. Never. Roy buries his face in his hands.
That was his crime, and this is his punishment.