As I got older, it became harder and harder to deny that I was in love with Roy. The first indisputable proof came when Lust told me she'd killed him.

I'd always been aware that Ishbal had destroyed my innocence, that a part of me had died. I thought I knew what that sort of death felt like. However, that assumption was ripped out from under me when I thought he was gone. It was one thing to lose my 'innocence,' but it was completely other to lose the only thing that I needed in my life, my one constant, my Colonel. It was incomprehensible.

By that time in my life, I had little left to me. My parents had been gone for years, God had clearly never been there, and now Roy had left. What else was there?

It was stupid of me to do, but I'd basically built my life around him, around his dream of becoming Fuhrer, around protecting him, around being his lieutenant, the one he could count on. When I became his constant, he became mine, and our lives were inextricable. When I thought he was gone, I realized there was nothing left for me. I lost my drive, my will to live. I was nothing without Roy.

Please, Death, come quickly. My heart is gone. I need you.

And then—and then!

He'd been literally speared through by the homunculus, and Al and I were going the same way, but that man was just too stubborn to die, and as long as he was, I would be too. Fuck you, Death, I've got my heart back.

After that, of course, there was no denying it. Like an idiot, I did so anyway. That point in my life was not a good time to have a sudden epiphany of love for him, so, like a good masochist, I repressed it.

I've always been of the opinion that someone should do a seminar on things that are idiotic. Telling yourself you're not in love with someone whom you know full well owns your heart should be the first lesson. It just doesn't work. And of course Roy kept reminding me of why I needed to be the one at his back, why I always was. Because he deserved it—no one deserved loyalty more than him, and he gave it as much as he earned it. Maes' funeral is the only time I've ever seen him cry. After he'd killed Lust and Al and I rushed to his side, he didn't care about himself—all he worried about was that Jean got an ambulance. There's no comprehending that kind of loyalty. It doesn't makes sense and it doesn't have to. Even if I knew it was impossible to be as devoted as Roy was to them, I aspired to be the one who cared as much about Roy as he cared about his men. He was my inspiration.

After the so-called "Promised Day," there were huge celebrations and a general aura of "Everything's been solved" wherever I went. For me, the feeling was one of aimlessness. Roy was going to become the Fuhrer in place of Bradley (admittedly it was only him who had said that, and he was far form becoming official). Everything had gone almost too well.

What was I to do with myself? What do you do when your purpose in life is suddenly fulfilled? What happens after happily ever after?

As it turns out, happily ever after is the loneliest part of the story.

It felt impossible to be depressed after all our problems were solved. I kept telling myself that I should be celebrating. I should smile and have fun and let my hair down (figuratively). Everyone I'd talked to lately was happy, partying, drinking, living it up, and I felt different, wrong, unnatural. I was the backdrop of many of the wild parties I was invited to, where there were more toasts than alcohol and people were in a hurry to drink all they could before the nausea set in.

I forced myself to attend every soirée and fete I was invited to, as if haunting them would magically cheer me up. Roy attended many of them as well, but for conspicuously different reasons. Namely, he enjoyed getting drunk and flirting with the women.

Today he had already succeeded in the former, and I think the alcohol had turned me into the latter, because as he came over to talk to me, he kept glancing at those objects six inches below my chin, and he was too drunk to be surreptitious about it.

"Hi."

"Hi," I said dryly, repressing the irony.

"Didn't know you were here, Lieutenant," he said slowly, considering every word carefully.

"I haven't been a lieutenant for a good while, Roy. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember that bit. That's how come you don't wear the uniform much anymore." He lurched a little and seized my shoulder to steady himself.

"Roy, you're pretty drunk," I said gently, like I was talking to a four-year-old. "Maybe it's time to go home."

"No, no, gimme a sec," he mumbled, screwing up his face as if thinking very hard about something. "There's something I'm forgetting. What is it?"
"I don't know, Roy," I said, trying to take his glass from him. Whenever I reached forward, he retracted his arm and lifted it just beyond my reach. When I stepped closer to extend further, he lifted his arm and held the drink high in the air where I had no hope of getting it. I wasn't going to jump.

"Hey, wait, no, I got this," he pleaded. "I remember what I want to say to you now."

"Make it quick, then you're going home," I said impatiently.

"Riza." He rolled my name over his tongue like a candy. "Riza, Riza, Riza, Riza."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me of my name," I snapped, then while he wasn't paying attention I snatched the drink, causing him to pout and give me a cheap puppy-dog look, which I ignored. I sniffed the drink and realized that he had mixed a few different things, then scowled, set it aside when he wasn't looking, and draped his arm over my shoulder so he wouldn't wobble as I started walking him out.

"Something I got to say..." he slurred in a barely-there mumble, his idea of a protest.

"What is it?" I asked disinterestedly. I was now trying to help him navigate the stairs.

"Riza, I..." He trailed off and watched me half-dragging him down the steps with mild amusement, then impulsively darted his hand forward and grabbed the clip that held my hair back, squeezing it so it popped open.

"What are you doing?" I brushed my hair behind my ears as it fell forward and got in my eyes.

Roy tangled the fingers of the hand that was over my shoulder into my hair. "You're so pretty, Riza."

"I'd appreciate the compliment more if you weren't totally smashed." I walked him to my car, opened the passenger side door, and helped him negotiate his way into the seat.

"Yep, I'm smashed," he agreed, chuckling. "Flat out plastered! Three sheets to the wind."

"I noticed." When I tried to shut the passenger door, he stopped it from closing, then reached for me, missing entirely. "What?" I asked, realizing he wanted to pull me closer.

"I love you." He gave me the gentlest look he could manage, for about three seconds. Then he grimaced and tipped forward, leaning his head out the door, holding his stomach. "Oh shit, I'm going to be sick."

I patted his head with less sympathy than condescension. "Again, this would be cute if you weren't so thoroughly inebriated." The trick was going to be making him say it when he was sober, but if anyone could do it I knew I could. My depression had been squelched—I had a purpose again.

And for now, that's the end of this fic, unless I get inspired for it again. Please don't forget to review!