Summary: At the right angle, in a line of sight, one might wonder why he never stopped staring at her for so much as a second.

Theme: 041. Coat

Dedication: BananaFritter, thank you!

Disclaimer: If I owned Full Metal Alchemist, Rocky Balboa would make an appearance in it.

Angles

041. Coat

Ignore it.

Ignore what had once been, ignore what they had both felt then, ignore their beauty and ignore their (almost) perfection as a couple. Ignore her pretty little fairy-like face, ignore his dark mysterious attraction and ignore their somehow working oddness when together. Ignore their flawlessness, ignore their devotion and ignore it. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Ignore them, in all their disgusting gorgeous moments and it made things easier.

Roy stabbed his paintbrush harshly against the wall, creating a ball of paint the size of his fist. He tried to smooth it out instantly, use it to cover the hand prints that were either hers or his that he could never quite remove from his sight enough. A single bead of white paint rolled down the wall, ignoring his paintbrush stubbornly. Down to the small footprint, obviously hers, that had been pressed up against the wall so tightly the sweat marks had stuck there. He wanted to wail desperately, but he bit back his tongue.

White was a symbolisation. The colour of purity, the colour of cleanliness, the colour of innocence. The colour of everything the apartment was not, the colour of everything he wasn't and everything she certainly was not anymore because of him. Not in his eyes. His eyes that had burned on every inch of her skin, his clawing hands and desperate grabs. Her blank stare, her barely-there kiss and almost frozen touch. She had not wanted it to happen. She had avoided it for so long, knowing it was between them. Those inches between their mouths as they breathed, the centimetres between their fingers when taking paperwork from the desks of one another and the millimetres between their bodies. She had taken precautions, oh so many precautions and he had ended up wanting her more than ever. Ignoring himself, his thoughts, ignoring her and what they could be had never been easy. She just made it harder, and it made him want her all the more.

Of all the broken-hearted, desperate, pathetic people to fall in love with, of all the men better than him, with stunning smiles and too much money. Of all the slipping up idiots with loose lips and all the higher-ups who could have given her anything she wanted. She had fallen in love with him, and she had fallen hard. He had fallen for her too, much harder. She fell like a feather; he fell like a burning blimp. That was the comparison. The ugly comparison that was too hard, too vicious and cynical but true. He never had much grace when it came to acceptance. Especially not with her. Anybody could see she was too good for him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a slamming on the wall. Miniature, almost unnoticeable paint flecks fell down from the patch he had just been painting. He stared at the blonde hair cascading down her back for mere seconds before his eyes shifted to the wall. She had punched it, and the cheap plaster he had used had cracked under her knuckles, though not without her enduring pain. A recognisable crimson liquid slid in small splotches downwards from the place where skin and material had connected, clearly coming from her.

Riza stared down at him, eyes wide in some mixture of pain and amusement. He had been hiding something, ignoring everything they were becoming and the pain in her fist would not help her ignore any other pain. Especially not the deep, aching pangs in her heart. What were they doing this for? Kidding themselves they could stay together, ignoring that they probably could not. Ignoring that she had tried to put distance between them, ignoring that it was wrong, ignoring that they had fallen and ignoring that they cared about it. Ignoring that it was already far too late to take their hearts back. She slumped to the floor instantly, grabbing a second paintbrush that was lying next to the one he had been using. Just one more would not hurt anyone. Another touch, another grab, another kiss.

Another coat of paint.

The wrong kind of coat, but to be honest I do not care. The idea for the coat meant, the clothing item, has been so annoyingly overused that I scrapped it immediately. Came out with this bundle of angst as a result, but believe me, it is still better.

Preview: They rarely spent a day apart.