AND HERE COMES THE SUPER-LONG A/N:
Yay, I'm back! Sorry about the wait. I've tried to meddle with emotions in this one – hope it works, because for those of you who have read A Charade of Flames and A Masquerade of Shadows, I tried to make this as adorable as Tyki and Evelyn, and I'm not sure whether it worked. GAAAAH! INSECURE! Yeah, just tell me what you think, ok? I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of its characters.
to overcome reality: Thanks for reviewing! I think you'll like this one
Angelellbaby: Thanks for liking the comedy. This chapter is slightly more serious but there are tidbits thrown in for laughs.
AwesomeCoolPerson: You are your name. Laughter, I think, goes great with Royai. Roy just doesn't know how to act
Jesse Lane: Thanks for the good wishes! I had great fun at university camp. The labs there are amazing. You'll see more of Panic!Roy in this one.
Kitsune-Blue: I fixed the glitch with Roy's question. ARGH. I hate it when doc manager does something to your writing. Thanks for reminding me.
theonceandfuture: MERLIN FAN! YEAH! (you are one, right? 'cause it would be awkward if you weren't…) Poetry, I love. Working it into a fic…I love best.
Inma: Don't worry, your English is fine. Chappie's here! Hope you like it
Guest: Hey, write your name so I know whom to thank! Thank you very much for reviewing
THANK YOU TO THE FOLLOWING FAVORITERS AND FOLLOWERS:
Winly Elric, ItalianRose5, 1j1mog6, ReaderOfStories15, , qu33n0fk1ng5, joanamideria, seeweedfma, franziga, midnightsunraieye, WibblyLights, The Raven's Daughter, Wolf By Night, Moriko Takahashi, Oceankin, checkerboard-pinapple, Voceen, AmoebazFantasy.
You guys have great pennames. Hahaaha.
Ok, I think that's it…Enjoy.
Midwinter's day dawns misty and cool, the air just frosty enough to bite, but the snow fresh enough to crunch underfoot as Roy ploughs his way through the crystal-laden paths of the white-velveted park towards Central Headquarters.
Overhead, Night, clad in sable-winter's coat adorned with diamond stars, flips his top hat lined with purple velvet, winks one golden eye at Day, bends over her hand in a graceful motion, and dances away on agile boots as she waltzes after him, her winter dress of feathered innocence, each fibre melding into the other like snowflakes flowering on her sleeves and the glitter of dew on her eyelashes, the edges of her dress spinning in glorious crimson and gold, incandescent, afire below the cold beauty of Day, who sings with her laughter of birdsong, as Night chuckles with the last warble of the blackbird and whistles back in the duet that brings daylight to Amestris.
An uncontrollable grin spreads on Roy's features as he brushes the dark strands of hair out of his face, allowing the icy wind to caress his cheek. He fancies he hears music in the world today, in every rustle of the brown leaves below the trees, in the winter melodies of the birds about him, hidden in the trees that somehow retain their elegance with their mantle of snow about their shoulders, graceful forms of willow and ash about him. Roy halts for a moment, the soft crunch-crunch of his boots on ice crystals stilling, and listens.
Quiet. True, complete silence, where even the birds have muted their singing. Roy closes his eyes and allows it to fill him. And with this perfect moment, he finds silence is not the absence of sound after all; rather, it allows him to listen to the integral melodies around him, humming below his feet and whirling in stringed chords in the sky above. What Roy hears is not blank or void; his mind is like a pure piece of parchment, waiting to be filled with tunes and lyrical strains to build an orchestral melody, painting his path forward...and he knows whom he wants to make music with.
And Roy Mustang, for the first time after the Ishval war, finds himself at peace with the world around him. He would like to remain there forever, but he has work to do.
And a date after.
So when Roy strides into his office a few minutes later with a slightly wondrous expression on his face, Havoc shuffles the papers in his arms and asks breezily, "May I ask what you're thinking of, General?"
Roy snaps out of his reverie with a glare in Havoc's direction sharp enough to scythe clean through that untamed blonde hair. "Nothing at all."
"As usual." Havoc shrugs off Roy's snarl and continues easily, "And these papers are for you, sir." He places the papers on the edge of Roy's desk.
Roy's expression shows that Havoc's hasty cover-up for his careless remarks are not working. Seeing the approach of much grovelling, Havoc touches his hand to his temple and darts off without any more elaboration, though he does take the time to holler back at Roy, "And Colonel Riza wanted me to tell you she's taken the day off work to prepare for the ball."
As Havoc's chuckles fade down the corridor, Roy sighs, sheds his coat, and collapses into his chair, ignoring its protesting creak. This sends wheedling little doubts about his weight flitting through his mind, and as he struggles to fight these off, another stray tendril of thought halts his breathing and injects his veins with lead.
Riza needs a DAY to prepare? Of course, of course, she wants to look perfect…
Roy squeezes his eyes shut. But…where does that leave me?
There are a few things men do when trying to prepare themselves for a high-society ball. They take out their best clothes, and in this case, military uniform; They ask their friends and colleagues for advice as to what to say when they pick up their dates, in the vain hope that they will find someone who isn't half as clueless as they are; Flowers? Then of course, the constant feeling of suspense twisted in their throats, as if they are forever strangled by one single thought: That however much they prepare, however immaculate their clothing and suave their mannerisms, how spotless their gloves or how charming their smile, they will always look like idiots.
The key word in preparation is trying, after all.
As this last, rather depressing, thought bleeds out of Roy's mind like a final few drops of crimson lifeblood, he faceplants onto the smooth walnut surface of his desk with a plunk. He hates feeling useless. It's not something he's used to. But lately, he finds he's been feeling so far too often. And still, one single, terrible question still reverberates in his skull: What if I don't live up to Riza's expectations?
Hide. Grovel. Die. Not the best options.
After a long while, Roy straightens up and reaches for the papers Havoc had left on his desk, pulling the first sheet towards him as he blearily rubs his eyes with his free hand. Before he can stop himself, he lets out a comical groan. Why would Grumman want to see him today? And another thing…Roy's eyes narrow in contemplation. Snatching up his coat, he sprints to the door and slams it behind him.
Grumman owes him some answers.
(:~:)
In the flickering half-light of a too-warm hearth, Grumman sighs as he glares down at the sheaf of papers in his lap. He has feigned strength by continuing his work, but the coming of winter has stripped away this façade, piece by piece, until his age is there for all to see, slowly growing on his visage like the first bite of frost that draws on his breath and makes it shallow, the first snowfall that turns to ice and sets his features into the hard mask of age. This is the true winter. One from which spring will never truly awaken.
Grumman's thin lips stretch in the ghost of a smile. He is Fuhrer of Amestris, and still, he cannot escape the last gate, one which all must pass. How ironic. This brings his mind to matters of more importance…his granddaughter. He cannot bear to leave without her knowing about him, or at least someone knowing.
A polite knock at the door has Grumman turning in his chair. "Enter," he calls, in a voice far too frail for his liking.
Roy inclines his head respectfully as he steps into the chamber. "Good morning, sir." He examines the shadowy walls with his ever-perceptive gaze. The room is so stiflingly dark that the words that have just left Roy's mouth seem inappropriate for the occasion. This is a place where true light will never reach. It is as if Grumman has sealed himself up, hiding from all evidence that with each dawn and twilight, another precious day will slip from his fingers. And yet even in the sable silhouettes on the wooden floorboards, shadows crawl over the weak pools of lamplight like algae over clear water, stretching incarcerating fingers toward the lonely half-circle of firelight, by which an old man is seated, simply waiting for the inevitable.
Roy is startled to find Grumman's gaze still as sharp as ever as it meets his. That, at least, is one thing that will never be taken by time. But now there is understanding and sorrow in those eyes, and Roy finds himself for the first time realising that Grumman is not young anymore.
"Come in, General," Grumman calls dryly. As Roy stands to attention by his chair, Grumman makes an impatient noise in his throat and flicks at him with a wizened hand, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Sit, sit."
Roy doesn't move. Words tumble out of his lips. "You know Riza from somewhere before. You knew–" One glance from Grumman silences him. Grudgingly, with some hesitation, Roy lowers himself into the chair. He feels the questions boiling up in his throat, some phrased in shouts, others in the merest of whispers. But as befits his station, he folds his hands together and waits for Grumman to speak.
"Roy." Grumman rasps. Roy sits straighter, startled by the use of his first name. "Firstly," Grumman continues, "Stop jolting like a startled rabbit. And secondly, I am well aware of your many questions and supposedly great intelligence, but for this one time, just shut up and listen." There is nothing threatening in Grumman's tone. Just a sense of urgency brought on by rapidly lessening time.
A moment of silence. "…I'm listening, sir," Roy says, humbled.
Grumman nods in acknowledgement, his hands tightening on the parchment, no less weak than the frail sheets of paper. "Roy. I'm dying."
His blunt words strike Roy like a blow to the cheek. "Sir…surely…?" Roy exclaims, but he stops short. The shadow of mortality is all too evident in the face before him.
Grumman chuckles. "I'm very nearly there. And of course, the question of my legacy remains." He looks down at the sheaves in his lap, and is overwhelmed by a sudden urge to throw it all in the flickering flames. "I feel privileged to have witnessed this country undergo a change for better, and to have led it for the short time that I have." His face is cast in half-shadow, one side lit crimson by the fire and the other liquid sable. Roy's face is similarly illuminated, but while the scarlet incandescence serves only to sharpen the lines on Grumman's cheek, rather, it curves around Roy's unmarked chin, caressing it in its youth. Grumman stares into Roy's dark gaze, and declares with a wry grin, "I name you as my successor."
Roy's single visible eye widens in the warm light. He stands with a smooth motion, allowing his dark coat to flow about him and meld into the shadows. "Thank you, sir," he says, bowing.
Grumman rolls his eyes and waves Roy back to his chair. "You must follow this piece of advice." He raises a finger.
"Name it, sir," Roy murmurs, leaning forward in his chair.
"Don't be an insensitive idiot, and make an effort to show that you care for your subordinates."
Roy blinks and opens his mouth to retort, but Grumman beats him to it.
"That," – Grumman raises a finger – "is what you need to become a good Fuhrer. But to become the best Fuhrer," – his lips curve in a knowing smile – "pick a strong First Lady. A king cannot survive without his queen."
"Sir!" Roy groans. "This is not the time for humour! You've joked about my taking your granddaughter as First Lady before, but presently–" he stops, the words dying on his tongue as he stares at Grumman. Something suspicious about the way Grumman acted in their last meeting floats on the edge of Roy's consciousness, darting in an out of focus like prey toying with its hunter. He grasps at the solution, but to no avail, as it slips like oiled marble in his fingers. He knows the answer must be right before his eyes…and in his mind's intricate white folds of alternating shadows and clarity, Roy finds his answer.
Roy's eyes dart to Grumman's wry smile. "Of course," he breathes. "How could I have been so blind?" Fumbling with his words, Roy gasps, "Your granddaughter – it can't be – how – Riza?!"
Grumman watches Roy as if Roy is an idiot and nods slowly. "Finally. I was wondering how long it would take for you to realise," He growls amusedly. "Finished hyperventilating?"
"But how?" Roy splutters, gripping the arms of his chair, eyes wide, panting with the effort of accepting this wonderful, shining, long-hidden secret, now secret no more.
Grumman's voice lowers in reminiscence. "When Riza's mother – my daughter – fell for Berthold Hawkeye, I did not approve of the match. Hawkeye was rather…radical in his choice of pursuits. His development of flame alchemy, for example…" Grumman notices Roy's stricken expression and sighs, "It was not your fault, Roy. You were his apprentice. He passed on what he knew to you."
"I know," Roy murmurs. "Please…continue."
"I did not speak to my daughter from the day she married to when she passed away a few years later. That…I much regret." Grumman gives a bitter smile. "When I learnt of Riza's birth, I wanted to see her…but I did not have the courage to set things right with my daughter. She did not tell Riza that she had a grandfather alive, and so Riza does not know of me."
For a while, all that can be heard is the pop of coals bursting in the fire.
"Then…what do you intend to do?" Roy hazards, his voice hoarse. His gaze is shadowed.
"I have lived over twice your years, and yet I am still a coward," Grumman barks a laugh. "I cannot speak to her. Could you tell her? I would very much like to hear her call me Grandfather before I go."
"…I will. That…would be right." Roy nods.
"I have a question for you," Grumman's gravelly voice holds Roy in his chair, never releasing until an answer is given. "What do you think of Riza?"
"I love her." Roy surprises himself with the certainty in his words, and how ly they flow from him. He straightens, a new light entering his eyes, tasting the words. "I love Riza."
A sigh escapes from Grumman; one that rolls out of him as if it contains unbearable relief, leaving him relaxed and no longer tense. "Then all is well. I'm sure you know what to do now?" His gaze turns sharp, and Roy steels himself.
"Yes," Roy answers. He pauses. "Thank you."
"The pleasure is all mine."
Roy stands and bows deeply. He usually would salute, but in this instance, he finds this motion more appropriate. "Farewell, sir," he says. "You'll be attending tonight?"
"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world," Grumman chuckles. "And Roy?" he calls, stopping Roy at the door. "Do try your best to impress her, will you? She is a queen, after all."
Roy's sly smile winks at him as it disappears behind the closing door. "Of course. Who do you think I am?" His strong steps fade down the hall.
Grumman sighs and sinks back into his chair. "Perhaps I need some light after all," he murmurs, calling a servant to open the curtains. In the pool of watery winter sunlight, Grumman smiles. Perhaps the frost can still be delayed for a short while longer.
(:~:)
Clock strikes five-to-eight over Central City.
The snow crunches underneath the wheels of Roy's vintage car as he touches the gearstick and maneuvers the vehicle into a perfect halt in from of Riza's apartment building. Roy pulls the keys out of the ignition in a smooth motion, tucks them in his pocket, and shuts the door with a gentle click.
Roy's pace is slightly hesitant as he darts up the steps, and he glances hurriedly at his pocket watch, straightening his cap. The doorman, an aged man dressed smartly in doorman's garb, grins imperceptibly at Roy's immaculate military uniform and spotless gloves. That, added to the slight air of desperation and twitching in Roy's hands, tells the doorman all; it is a combination he has seen all too often.
"Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll be impressed," the doorman calls after Roy.
Halfway down the hall, Roy spins on his heels and nods thanks at him, before turning with a graceful motion and continuing on his way. The doorman waits until the lift doors have closed over Roy's emotion-ridden face before he collapses in rather undignified laughter.
(:~:)
Riza's nimble fingers slip her second earring into place, and with that, she is done. Although even now, staring at herself in her full-length mirror, she still has her doubts. In the next room, a clock gently chimes eight o'clock. Riza closes her eyes. It's almost time. He wouldn't be anything but punctual, so–
The soft ringing of a doorbell, restrained, hopeful.
For a long moment, the sound washes around Riza in folds of alternating fire and ice, bringing both warmth and apprehension. She forces herself to take calming breaths, as she does in battle, when one movement could mean hitting her target or missing her chance.
She does not want to miss this chance. It could be her last.
So Riza Hawkeye strides easily over to the door and orders Hayate aside, his excited yips of recognition falling on her ears as if through water, from the other side of a dream. With firm fingers, Riza unlocks the door and swings it open fully.
Roy Mustang stares back at her, his face trying desperately not to turn scarlet. It settles on pink as Hayate bounds forward and tries to lick his hands.
"Roy," Riza murmurs, deciding to save Roy from the trouble of finding words. She glances at his long, navy military coat, a row of medals across the front, sable sash of silk and polished signs of rank on his shoulders, high collar intricately embroidered, and shadowed hair hansdomely slicked back over hopeful dark eyes.
"You spent quite a while preparing, I see," Riza chuckles wryly.
"Riza," Roy mutters back, taking in her silken white dress that draws in at her narrow waist and tumbles around her feet, accented by touches of silver at throat, wrists, waist and hem. A single sapphire on a silver chain hangs about her neck, and her hair falls about her shoulders, fringe held in place by a single silver clip.
"You look wonderful," Roy manages in a sort of strangled stutter.
"Thank you," Riza returns sweetly. Roy offers her his arm awkwardly, and she takes it with a graceful motion, shooing Hayate back into her apartment with her free hand. As she turns, Roy finds the broken tattoo on he back well-covered, and her movements light. Then they start off, steps in perfect sync, as if they are already dancing. Each one is quietly impressed by the other's apparent calm. In reality, both have hammering hearts. Riza glances down at Roy's gloved hand, and finds no fire circle upon the crisp white fabric.
A moment of confusion.
"I won't be needing alchemy tonight," Roy says offhandedly, as if reading her mind.
Riza understands; by hiding his fire seal, he has removed nearly all the signs that remind her of what is on her back; he has given her freedom. She gives his arm a warm press of thanks. Roy doesn't acknowledge the motion, but something softens in his smile, and his pace becomes slightly easier.
As Riza's dress rustles over the carpeted hall towards the waiting car, the doorman straightens imperceptibly and gives Roy a discreet wink. Roy grins and tosses him a coin from behind Riza's back. Riza pretends not to notice.
Outside, the air is chilled, but not bone-bitingly so. Rather, like fine champagne cooled to just the right temperature: refreshing, and holding a sweet scent of promise. Roy holds open the car door solemnly for Riza as she steps in, and she bites back a laugh as she catches his expression of intense concentration. His door closes with a click, and they are on their way.
Roy drives cautiously and with some trepidation at first, unsure whether Riza would be comfortable with the speeds he usually screeches along at.
Riza turns slowly in her seat and gives him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow, even as her lips curve in a mischievous smile. "Floor it," she commands simply.
A cocky grin spreads on Roy's features. "At your service." His gloved fingers touch the gearstick.
Smoke billows from the car's tyres as it leaps into motion, Riza and Roy's laughs forming a wonderful, unearthly harmony that flows out the windows and into the night.
(:~:)
The massive ballroom at Central Headquarters is lit with thousands of candles, burning brightly in chandeliers and in their brackets. The imposing building is obviously designed by someone obsessed with airy eaves and maple walls, carved pillar bases and polished wooden floors far too slippery for real dancing. The light flows in a widening bar from the open doors, tumbling down the white marble steps to the cars drawing up smoothly on the cobbles, glinting and sparkling off family heirlooms of diamond and ruby and lapis lazuli and sapphire and amethyst and emerald. Gold medal on silk ribbon on velvet lapel. The same candlelight, filtering through mist, as someone laughs, elegant hand on arm, boots and high-heels on marble, taffeta and gloria and satin, in every hue from cerulean to crimson.
Havoc shivers as he leans against a pillar by the solid ebony doors, hiding himself in the convenient pool of sable that seems to have dripped down one side of the pure white pillar, casting it in half-shadow. He rubs his hands against the bite of winter wind and laughs as it destroys the work he has so meticulously done to his hair, leaving it just as crumpled as it always is, casually spiked and humorously untamed.
The indiscreetly deafening revving of a car engine heralds Roy and Riza's arrival. Havoc turns and watches as, tyres screeching magnificently, the car sweeps in a glorious j-turn before Roy deftly handbrake parks, coming onto two wheels as the gust of wind blows snow in an unbroken wave into the two waiting valets. With supreme indifference, the more senior of the two valets brushes snow off his lapel, tucks his soggy hair behind his ears, and opens the passenger door. In an impossibly slick motion, the driver's door opens, and Roy darts out nimbly, flicking the keys at the soaking second valet, and elbows the senior valet aside, bowing as he hands Riza out of the car. She smiles sweetly at Roy, and he returns it with one of his own, offering her his arm.
The senior valet holds his ribs and tries to smile. "Welcome, sir and madam," he grunts through clenched teeth. He knows who they are just by the signs of rank on Roy's shoulders. "I'll inform the announcer of your arrival." Limping slightly, the valet tries unsuccessfully to return to the smooth pace that all in service perfect as he staggers, unaware, past a smirking Havoc to the double doors.
Havoc watches Roy as he whispers something to Riza and she throws back her head and laughs. That, and the moonlight that seems to cling to them in warm incandescence, lends their movements a shine and their laughter a melodious duet. As they pass Havoc's pillar, Havoc ducks behind the marble, but he can swear Roy glances in his direction, a momentary frown appearing on his brow, before he turns back to Riza as they pass into the warmth. Together, they are perfect. Unlike Havoc and his girlfriend.
Havoc's date hadn't turned up.
Havoc isn't that upset, not really. He had known it wasn't working, but for her to just disappear… Havoc gives a faint snort as he considers the oak floors of the ballroom behind him. He had stepped on to them a few minutes ago, and his feet had found about as much friction as silk on ice. He wouldn't be surprised if Grumman had ordered the floors triple-waxed just for a laugh.
Just as well that all dancing there tonight would be trained military personnel.
Havoc frowns. Another matter. Grumman had appeared well enough the last few times Havoc saw him, but it is only a matter of time… A barking laugh escapes him, quickly stolen by the twirling stars above. "Why, freezing outside a ballroom without a date, thinking heavy thoughts?" he murmurs to himself. "I must be becoming a hopeless romantic."
A voice, warm in the cold air. "I think it's rather adorable."
Havoc turns, mouth half open to explain, but the words die on his lips. He barely recognises the girl standing before him in a lush silk dress, hair pinned up in the most prettily innocent manner. He leans back against the pillar, arms folded, and examines her.
"I know you." The words escape Havoc before he can stop himself. "You helped Brigadier-General Hughes before the revolution with your photographic memory, didn't you?" Her name, her name… "Private Sheska?" The last few words contain barely concealed surprise.
"Sergeant Major now, Major Havoc," Sheska replies blushingly, embarrassed.
"You…look different." Havoc mutters, before mentally facepalming himself. Without her glasses and her schoolgirl hair, Sheska is unrecognisable. Dressed in a simple floor-length dress and with her hair up, she even holds herself differently, with more confidence. And judging by the incredible rise in rank from Second Private, she has not been wasting the last two and a half years.
"Thank you, Major Havoc, sir," Sheska says, her cheeks scarlet.
"Drop the sir and call me Jean," Havoc murmurs, half in a dream. "Why are you out here and not inside?"
Sheska looks away, twisting her fingers together, a momentary return to her old self. "My date didn't show up," she confesses, as if it is something so shameful, it tarnishes her family name.
Havoc finds himself laughing before he knows what he is doing, a real, unrestrained laugh without bitterness or anger. "That makes two of us," he chuckles. He straightens, pushing off the pillar, and offers his hand to her. "Shall we go in anyway? You look like you need a drink."
With some trepidation, Sheska takes his hand. She finds it warm and reassuring beneath his glove. "I'm not good at drinking," Sheska mutters, chewing on the fingernails of her free hand.
"Believe it or not, that makes it easier to enjoy yourself, Sheska," Havoc grins, leaning down to whisper to her as he leads her into the mellow light of the entrance hall, two doormen ushering them in. Sheska finds herself smiling in a crazed, fangirly way as Havoc's gentle hand on hers leads her into the ballroom, under crystal chandeliers, and onto the wooden floors. Havoc glances down at her and hides a grin. She's different from the other women I've dated before. But why not? She's rather sweet. And impromptu dates…who knows? We may click.
Roy and Riza spot them from the other side of the hall, and as their gazes graze over one another, Havoc shoots them a wink. Riza rolls her eyes and smiles at him. Havoc grins back.
"I think Havoc's enjoying himself," Riza murmurs to Roy as he hands her a glass of champagne. "I certainly am." They move to a corner, where the press of people is lessened.
"This would be perfect, if I didn't have to act my place as General and greet every high-level guest," Roy hisses back, plastering on a fake smile as he mock-salutes a portly billionare waddling about, like a moving silk marquee, on the far side of the room. "What did that man have for lunch? An entire roast pig?"
Riza glances discreetly over her shoulder. "I don't think so. He wouldn't go so far as to eat his own kind."
Roy hides his very undignified snort by gulping a large mouthful of champagne. He catches Riza's wide smile and realises something. The change in his expression has Riza tilting her head at him. "Sorry," Roy says apologetically. "It's just that…for the first time since the war in Ishval…you're relaxed. You're enjoying yourself. You can't imagine how happy I am to see that."
Riza, who at first had jolted with surprise, now slowly sighs. "Thank you. You know me well."
Roy chuckles and glances away, grinning. "We have been together for a long time–"
Riza breaks off his words by leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.
Roy stares at her as his jaw hits the floor, crushing his toes and turning his knees to jelly. He thinks in unlikely he'll ever walk again. His heart, however, seems to have leaped into his ears. Riza's hand flies to her mouth, as if she realises what she has just done, and she glances about in embarrassment, terrified that they were seen. Fortunately, the dimness in that particular corner has hidden them from prying eyes, and nobody seems to have noticed except Maria Ross and Denny Brosh, who are about ten feet away. Denny gapes at Roy and Riza as if they have just morphed into homunculi, but Maria slaps him on the arm and maneuvers him away, turning back to grin at Riza.
"Uh…" Roy stammers, staring at Riza. He is sure his face is just as scarlet as hers. "I…Um…"
Roy is saved by the starting chords of a wistful, hopeful waltz.
"Would you care to dance?" Roy says reasonably fluently, relief lending his words a smooth confidence. He bows, proffering a hand. "We've been dancing around each other for far too long."
"Of course," Riza answers, taking his offered hand and allowing him to lead her away. Then a look of confusion darts over her face as Roy's gentle hand takes her not to the centre of the dance floor, but to the side and up a flight of stairs, where a frosted glass door is half-open. Grumman, watching the proceedings from a cushioned chair on the second level, chuckles. All going to plan.
Like the lilting tunes of a violin, the flowing music ushers them out of slippery wood floors onto the white marble of a balcony. There, the frosty stars wheel above and the air is fresh and cold, but somehow bearably so. Riza finds the corners of her mouth turning up in a beautiful smile. They are alone here, without the pressings of society or work, but simply themselves. Roy and Riza. Dancing.
Their first steps are hesitant, Riza's hand trembling on Roy's shoulder, Roy's hand grasping hers like a lifeline. But they have not been together for years for nothing. Slowly, but perfectly, their paces become one, and with the grace and power brought by pure understanding of each other, they twirl and waltz to the faint music of the orchestra and of the world about them, no longer dancing around each other, but together.
Roy feels laughter bubbling up within him, Riza's chiming laugh joining his and falling around him like the crystalline snowflakes flurrying about them. Riza should be cold, but with Roy there, she isn't. Rather, she feels warmth – warmth that starts from within her heart and spreads out to her fingers and the tips of her hair, and lends her steps a fluid grace that has Roy has seen so much of when they had sparred together.
Roy's military cap has fallen to the ground. He ignores it, allowing the wind to whistle through his hair and crumple the dark strands, flinging them about his eyes messily. The pin holding Riza's blonde fringe has become undone, and the silver pin clatters to the ground. Their feet, fleet and unwavering, dance over and around these obstacles with untold agility.
And in this one moment, this one, shining moment of glorious brilliance, all is right in the soft starlight on this white marble, above the bustle of Amestris and below the velvet sable of the night sky adorned with diamonds. The wind rustles about their feet, drawing out Roy's coat in liquid shadow and Riza's dress in purest innocence.
The waltz flourishes and falls about them, a single note fading into the mist.
Roy and Riza's steps slow, and without allowing time for his doubts to overwhelm him, Roy reaches out, touches Riza's chin, and kisses her.
Time stops and freezes in that single, perfect picture, whispering, yes.
When they break apart, Roy finds his brain has become melted pudding, but more importantly, happy melted pudding. Riza gazes up at him, and Roy finds something different about her eyes. Even as Roy finds his heart lightened by this newfound knowledge, Riza sees the same change come over Roy's warm, smiling eyes. They are as dark as they always have been, but only in colour, the colour of sable skies. But they are no longer killer's eyes, and neither are Riza's.
"It seems as if we have finally unburdened ourselves of the war," Roy sighs, as if to himself. He caresses Riza's hands in his.
"I feel…light. And free," Riza agrees. "Thank you. This took you long enough." Her arch smile captivates Roy, and dampens the questions in his heart. Laughing, at his expression, Riza squeezes his hand and remarks, her voice like a darting flute, "You are all gentleman tonight, Roy. Whose advice did you take?"
Roy glances away momentarily. He does not know whether what he is about to say is fair or foul news; that is for Riza to decide. "Riza," he murmurs gently. Riza's eyes widen as she picks up on his uncertainty. "I took the advice of someone who cares about you a great deal."
"Who?" Riza asks, confusion clouding her clear brown gaze.
Roy sighs as he leans down to whisper in her ear, "Your grandfather. Grumman."
Riza tears her hands out of his, but not before Roy senses them tremble, the shock bringing her fingertips to her temples. "What?" she breathes. There is something in the way she steps back haltingly, skirt swinging around her ankles, as if suddenly feeling the acute chill of midwinter air, that Roy has seen only once before. When Roy berated her for giving up, long ago, after the fifth laboratory. Seeing the white in her fingers and the loss of colour in her lips, Roy quietly removes his coat and wraps it around her shoulders, holding the lapels to fit the warm, heavy fabric more closely around her. The way her shoulders are hunched now makes her seem small. Vulnerable, even. Something Roy does not often see in her.
His hands remain on Riza's shoulders, even after she responds by pulling the coat tightly about herself, shaking fingers curling tightly into the cloth. "How is that possible? Both my grandfathers passed away long before I was born."
"Did your mother tell you her maiden name?" Roy asks gently, wrapping her in his arms. The wind blows chill on his thin formal-shirted frame, but he only cares for her warmth.
Riza sucks in a breath, burying her face in his shirt. "No. She always refused…I knew not why. I understand now," she chuckles, seemingly on the edge of tears, her voice muffled.
Roy strokes her hair with one soft glove. "Your grandfather…he would like to explain himself…but he wanted me to tell you of his true identity." He swallows, tears pricking his eyes. Roy hadn't let himself dwell on how much Grumman means to him, as a teacher, a mentor. "He hasn't got much time left."
Spoken words, clear, sure. "I want to speak to him."
Jolted, Roy finds Riza's liquid ochre eyes gazing up at him, the Riza he always knew, still strong, and still fighting. The snow has given her a perfect crown of pure white. Roy smiles, though both their eyes are wet. "I'll be there. With you."
"Thank you," Riza whispers.
They remain in their embrace, finding warmth in each others' arms, not caring for the snow around their feet or the music through the little door, the wind weaving with their hair, Roy's raven and Riza's golden, together, throughout that cold midwinter's evening.
SHAMELESSLY referenced LOTR there. Whatever. Next chapter will be my last, I'm afraid. Next year's exam year. However, my next chapter is going to be extremely fluffily adorably melancholy comedy romantic. (Try to work that out) Haha. Next week, then.