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: 098. After The Rain
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.
Angles
098. After The Rain
The stars belong to her.
The rain has ended, the fireworks and celebrations she disliked so were over; and here Roy was, with Riza beneath the clear night sky. Really, they are not as different as she would like to believe. Her eyes shine like jewels as she looks over them, the constellations from her childhood she had loved – Cassiopeia, Andromeda, too many things to name – until she had seen them used in alchemy to judge when and where and how. Beauty was converted to math, and she no longer understood the language. It had been his fault; but still it was under them that he kissed her first on the night her father died, an awkward teenager. She would not speak to him for a week after. He had expected as much.
"I do not want to become like you, Mustang."
She says it like an afterthought, a prayer. She is jaded, bitter as him for the blood they spilt; and yet she cannot bring herself to blame others for it. They had been her choices. She loves him, and he is beautiful; but she will not become him. Even without saying, she knows his secret; she knows that he is far worse. He likes everything dangerous, until the storm comes. Then he runs to her. He cannot sleep without her at night, his traitor of a mouth calls out in his sleep; the cry of the restless just looking for a hand to hold.
"I should hope so."
He answers. At twenty six he is garnering pleasure out of the counter initiative with the hunger of a lion. Every time when he is not with her, he leaves. Every time a woman has said she loves him, and he leaves her with silence; he is desperate for Riza, with all of his empty heart, and not in the least bit sorry for it. He traces the constellations in the few freckles on her skin when he thinks she is not paying much attention, and thinks she would not be half as beautiful if she ran blindly into war like he did. He hates the blood and pain, but it is a matter of survival. They cannot fight what they know nothing about.
"I hate it when you scream."
She says, almost informally but still trying to make this about him. He wants to ask her what it is he has been yelling, or sobbing rather, but he does not know if he should know. He thinks her afraid to touch him right then, because her hands are shaking; but he is hoping that is just the cold and not fright for what is to come.
"Everyone has nightmares, Riza."
Just not as vivid as his. In his sleeping mind he runs through deserts bloody and sunburnt; the man with the scar shouting for all those who he has left as ash and cinders; and Riza stands just at the edge where the sand seeps into grass, too far away to reach. And he needs her, the whole forest of trees behind her pine for her love, but she turns away. Disgusted. Even with a gun in hand and cloaked in her military robes, she cannot abide what he has done. Yet he always awakes with a start, runs his tongue over his dry lips and she is there watching.
"It is not the nightmares I fear. It is what comes afterwards."
The not having anything to leave behind except for a small apartment, a dog and him.
I always imagine Roy having terrible nightmares. It is like Riza becomes a coping mechanism overnight after the first war.
Reviews & criticism appreciated.