Seen Through a Grudger's Eyes

"Ow!" I yelp when the needle punctures my thumb. Immediately, I suckle the spot. I can't taste blood, but if the others don't see my finger, they won't know I'm not actually bleeding.

Ms Jenkins doesn't look up. I scowl in her direction.

"I'll have to take a break," I tell Betty from behind my thumb, "or else I'm gonna ruin this." I hold up the fabric on my lap. Listlessly. Betty glances at it, then nods. Good girl.

The advantage you get from retaking needlework class is that you're put with the younger girls. So innocent and naïve, they'd never contradict you.

"Another 'accident', Miss Taylor?"

The disadvantage is that the younger class is taught by the same teacher who flunked me last time.

"Do keep going. I doubt your piece will be of more use to you unfinished than it would be mottled."

"But, Ms Jenkins," I whine. She already turned back to another student. Gosh, I hate her. And this. Why do my tactics work on everyone but her? And why the hell do I even have to pass this stupid handiwork class? Doesn't the school realise we have a maid at home?

Naturally, not everyone has the same luxury, and I'm not ungrateful, but there are people here who don't need to learn this, and there are those who do. Poorer people, people like—

"Brilliant, Miss Hawkeye."

People like her.

"Wow," Betty breathes next to me. Now, of course, she sets down her project – because someone made some corny embroidery, not when I get injured. And this is sewing class, not embroidery! Get over yourselves.

"Marvellous. You can practically see it take flight," Ms Jenkins swoons.

My squint is back. With everyone busy crowding around the table in the far corner, I rise surreptitiously to peer over their heads.

Riza Hawkeye is holding up a handkerchief – lame. It's got a Hawk on it (how creative…); could be any kind of brown bird really. The wings are stretched out, catching the landing, talons perked to grasp onto an invisible prey. I don't believe it – mostly because I refuse to – but Ms Jenkins is right. The wings are layered delicately, imitating feathers.

"Miss Taylor," Ms Jenkins waves me over. I twitch to sit down but everyone's already turned around. My expression irons out, unimpressed. "Come over here." I look elsewhere. Her hand keeps waving, I see from the corner of my eye.

With a sharp sigh, I return my attention to my own table, neatly setting down my project, stamping my lips to my thumb one last time for emphasis. The girls don't say anything when I weave through them.

"I'm not doing embroidery."

"Miss Hawkeye finished her project early," Ms Jenkins respectfully pats the folded fabric on Riza's table, "and kindly agreed to teach you outside of school."

"What?" I recoil. I clear my throat when I hear the other girls pause their work. A growl bubbles in my throat.

First the snake fails me twice, then she sends me to this baby class and now she wants me to keep pricking my finger in my free time? With Freakshow Hawkeye? Ms Jenkins has some nerve. Thinks she can allow herself anything just because she's from East City – a pedagogue – and the youngest teacher here. She's not even that pretty.

"Miss Taylor, this is the last time you can retake needlework. I understand that it's not of much interest to you, but neither is math and I've never heard you complain about its obligatoriness either. See it as a challenge," she encourages. I suppose I should be grateful that she's letting me retake the course more often than is allowed? Please.

"Miss Hawkeye would sacrifice her Saturday morning to teach you. Make sure you bring your current project." She glances past the girls to my desk. "And some extra fabric," she adds under her breath. I click my tongue, indignant. I'm not that bad; I don't ruin things by cutting off too much or something. I just barely do anything at all in this stinking class.

"How kind," I sneer. Riza glances at her feet.

"Time to honour your name," Ms Jenkins says. Haha, how witty – Taylor, tailor. Hilarious. I'm screaming.

Ms Jenkins continues to stroll from table to table, answering the last questions of the day. It's almost winter break. Next time we're here, we'll have to present our final result. The girls are all hasty, exchanging knacks and stuffing as much of the threads and buttons the school offers into their bags to take home. I can already see them at the lunch tables, sewing away throughout the rest of the week.

I get up without another word to either Ms Jenkins or Riza. She said Saturday morning; I'll just drop by when I'm awake. Or later. Her house is forever and a day away, even by bike.

We file out of the room. I consider ordering her to my place, save myself the trip, when someone grabs my arm and pulls me aside.

"Oh my, don't look but your crush is right up ahead!" Selena squeals in my ear. I stiffen.

There he is. She wasn't kidding; he's just there. Inside school. Damn, he's handsome. Leaning casually against the wall, ankles crossed. The only thing missing is a cigarette, but I know as well as him that it would stand out too much – and no matter how cool he looks, I know he's trying to blend in, not stand out.

"You're not allowed in here!" Riza hisses.

He grins from ear to ear. "What are they gonna do? Carry me out?"

"How could they? You're too heavy." She puts her hands on her tiny hips. Roy's eyes flicker from the gesture to her pout. I feel my heart skip a beat. I've never wanted to trade places more with anyone than I do now with little indigent grind Riza Hawkeye.

"Muscle weighs heavier than fat." It takes him two tries, but once they've left the building, she lets him carry her bag.

"I'm sure."

"It's true," he laughs. My ears stretch after the sound. I'd have such a good reply to that, nothing flat like Riza. Something like 'you're going to have to show me' or 'prove it'. Oh, to be lifted into those brawny arms. All summer, I felt like some pathetic doe panting after the way he rolled up his sleeves in the heat, exposing his biceps.

I don't notice that I followed them to the front gates until Selena cackles.

"I'm going to talk to him."

"Don't you dare!" She'd do it, I know. And she's my twin sister – she could tell him anything and make him believe it was me.

"Then you talk to him."

"I will. In fact, I'm going to see him tomorrow."

"You're lying."

"Am not. I convinced Hawkeye to 'teach me' sewing, so I'll be at their house all day." Plenty of time to observe Roy Mustang do… whatever he does.

"Ew, you're going to the Phantom's house?" Fabienne from our class joins us on the way home. "Don't get murdered."

"Relax, dead people can't kill anyone."

"Maybe Mr Mustang will protect you from Hawkeye's ghost," Selena snickers. I blush involuntarily. My mind immediately speeds into wild scenarios, one more desirable than the other. It makes me hate Riza so much more than already. Why does she get to live with that Adonis?

Even worse, she's the reason he isn't interested in me.

Riza is no tattletale, I'll give her that. She'd never rat me out if I was rude to her but even so, and even if I'd be super friendly with her and all that, he still wouldn't see me. He isn't looking – he only has eyes for her.

"Maybe old Hawkeye finally sold her off as a servant," I snap but it doesn't make me feel better. Roy is staying there because of his studies and only his studies, I repeat like a mantra to myself. It doesn't work. I'm not blind like Riza. When I see him look at her, I see myself looking at him.

"Well, if you can't pay the dowry…" Fabienne agrees.

"I'm almost jealous," Selena says, "of you, I mean. You might get to see the secret room."

"Secret room?" Fabienne asks.

"It's just a myth," I dismiss my sister. "We don't believe all the things the postman says about you either." I nudge her. She nudges back with a huff.

"Girls, girls, enlighten me," Fabienne presses. "What's the secret room? Is that where the murders happen?"

"What? No." Honestly, she'll believe anything. "No one's murdering anyone. Hawkeye just looks half dead."

"If he's still alive. No one ever sees him."

"Whatever." I shove Selena away. "The secret room is just a room no one's ever been to. Don't know why that wouldn't apply to all rooms since no one would set foot into that sleazy hovel of their own free will anyway… But it's said the room has some weird alchemic experiment in it."

"Like a torture chamber?"

"I thought it was where Hawkeye kept his taxidermied wife."

"Gross." I make a face. I can't deny that they've sparked my interest. Not about corpses, geez. About the room. About the secrets that apparently make Riza Hawkeye intriguing enough to enthral one Roy Mustang.

The Hawkeye estate. Former estate, I'd say. Sure, they own the moors all the way beyond the hill, and the forest bordering the garden, but the manor… If the sky wasn't so grey today, merging seamlessly with the decaying roof, I think I could count the tiles that aren't chipped or crooked on one hand. I can already smell the moistness wafting off the cracks in the masonry.

One thing is for sure, looking for something incriminating towards her reputation is a cinch.

I raise my hand but flinch away. The doorknocker, cast‑iron and tarnished… For a second I thought the razor‑sharp teeth where the ring dangles from were going to bite me. Whatever this creature represents, I don't ever want to meet it. Nor its creator.

I decide to rap with my knuckles. The door is so heavy, I spook a little when it opens without warning. No steps, nothing could be heard on the other side. Not even screams of murder victims…?

"Good afternoon, Miss Taylor." Riza Hawkeye peeks around the door. She's wearing a deep green skirt that ends just above the ankles and a blouse with delicate ruffles down the placket. Show‑off. She made that blouse in class last year; finished early even. The lace sleeves had Ms Jenkins rambling enchantedly for hours.

And is she mocking me with her stupid 'afternoon'? So what, I didn't show up after breakfast? My world doesn't revolve around Riza Hawkeye and her dumb sewing skills. We didn't even arrange a time.

I sigh more than I return the greeting.

The entrance connects the kitchen on the left and couches and a coffee table in front of a fireplace on the right. There's a door to my right, but it's not what catches my attention the most. Everything's so… clean.

I almost groan out loud. Of course she's the perfect housemaid too. As if sewing and math and English and gym class weren't enough. I'm beginning to wonder if Mustang's father won't actually pay Phantom Hawkeye a dowery to keep the girl around.

Would she do that? Move away? I can't imagine her surviving in the big city, Central least of all. Even now, she struggles to strike up a conversation or keep one going. If there's one thing Riza can't do, it's being a part of society.

I'm so proud I finally found a weakness, I don't question how she slips out of the room to my right. Or when she had gone in. Now I do. The secret room! It must be. And I missed it! Great. She's locking the door again, the key gliding into the pocket of her skirt.

Bloody pockets in her skirt. Did I mention that she's a show‑off?

"I noticed you didn't bring a thimble with you to school. Do you have one with you now?"

"No."

"I have one here." She presents what she probably just extracted from the secret room. A secret room that holds… thimbles. Must be for some sick alchemy experiments. "Would you like a cup of tea before we start?"

"I'm good." I'll be a lot better once I don't have to see her face anymore. The sooner the better.

Riza looks a bit disappointed that I dismissed the tea. I mean, she can make herself some anyway. But no, the perfect hostess must stay perfect, I see, minding the guest. I look around as she guides me past the kitchen isle into the dining room. I walk slowly, trying to take in what a mess this house is. Not in a literal sense.

The dining room is long, a big table for at least eight if not ten people in the middle. The cushions of the chairs are mostly threadbare, but hell, the chairs have cushions riveted in. So fancy. The cabinets against the wall are fancy too, beautifully carved ornaments setting the room in a rococo flair. At the same time, the darn doorway doesn't even have a door. Empty hinges. They're clean, because of course they are.

Just what is this place?

"I thought we could rework the hem of your apron first," Riza says, choosing the chair at the head of the table. It doesn't look like the 'master of the house' has sat in it very often. She has her hand‑turned chain stitch sewing machine in front of her. Not that I know what it's called. I don't care either.

Looks like we're really going to do this dopey project.

Setting my bag onto the table, I slump into the closest chair. Riza waits politely until I've taken out my low‑tier project. I thought it couldn't get much easier than an apron. I was proven wrong.

"I use these to unravel seams." Riza places a pair of tiny, curved scissors between us. I do the same with the apron. When I don't move again for another moment, she takes it and demonstrates. I grin to myself when I get her to demonstrate how to redo the hem too.

"Say, where's your roommate?" I lean on the backrest of the chair with one arm, peering past her into the kitchen.

"Mr Mustang is probably studying," Riza calmly replies. She buys it when I pretend to be afraid of ripping the fabric, of making too many holes, that I don't understand just yet. She isn't fast – she's being meticulous – but I have to say, this project never looked better. Ms Jenkins is never going to believe it was me, but she can't rebut it either.

My ears perk when the stairs creak. One, two three… thirteen confident strides later and he's downstairs. I just know it's him. Torn between staring and definitely not getting caught staring, I lean over the table, tilt my head, generally try to look interested in what Riza is doing.

Water splashes in the kitchen, cabinets are being opened. I sneak a glimpse from the side to see Roy standing at the sink, pondering over something he's seeing inside the overhead cabinets. He reaches in, producing a cylindric tin box. A tea box.

I wince when his gaze comes my way. My eyes fly to the apron. Wow, she's nearly done with the hem. But it's still just the lower hem of a self‑made apron. How does she do it, sewing complete outfits?

Steps come towards us. He knocks on the jamb.

"Pardon the intrusion."

Okay, time to study his outfit. Roy in private, so to speak.

"It's no bother at all." Riza smiles. She sets down the project when he enters.

He's wearing a white button shirt that's making me blush for absolutely no reason whatsoever. It suits him, is all. His trousers look ironed, and oh, he isn't even wearing shoes. I was prepared for a hole or two in his socks but would you believe it, they're perfectly intact. At least so I think, unable to see the black stitching thread on black fabric.

"Camomile tea." Roy sets it down on its saucer next to Riza, then turns the handle to where she would pick up the cup. "And sunflower seeds for the little sunflower." He grins as he offers the snack. Riza's lips curl. She huffs chidingly but there's a twinkle in her eyes she cannot hide. It only makes his grin broaden.

"Thank you very much."

"Oh, and could I borrow you for a minute?" He earns himself a raised brow. His smile returns though, seeing as she wastes no time sipping the desired tea. "I think I've gone and done it again." He sheepishly scratches his nape.

Riza nods. "Just a moment." She turns back to me, and I want to die with how helpless I must look as she repeats what she's been explaining these past twenty minutes. I mustn't be too obvious, not when he's here.

She leaves me with a kind smile I don't deserve. Again, I want to be her. My eyes strain themselves to goggle around the corner but it's no use. Since I don't know when they will be back, I should probably continue this apron…

I can hear them in the parlour. His voice is lowered but it sounds too staged to serve the purpose of a whisper. I can hear zapping and crackling, like electricity or fire or— alchemy. It must be. Riza laughs. He does too, softly. Whatever they're doing has nothing to do with him needing help.

Is he testing me? Trying to see if I paid attention? I can't screw this up.

The front door opens and shuts. I can hear Roy's voice travel around the house outside. I do my utmost to look professionally busy when they pass the window, but even though he's tall enough to peer in, he doesn't. I should have known. He isn't making up a distraction to test me. None of this is about me – it's about her. It always will be.

I drop the apron into my lap. I was about to somehow stick it under the machine, thread a needle get to work, but it doesn't matter. I think for a second that I should do as Selena suggested. Talk to him. He isn't rude; he wouldn't ignore me if I did.

They return with what little lettuce and tomatoes the garden still offers. I sew half-heartedly, uglily along the side of my apron, my eyes flickering to the side. He's making her laugh again (a sound I'm convinced no one at school has ever heard from her), showing off his sandwich-making skills, flipping one around in a pan, accidentally sending slices of tomato flying. One sticks to the ceiling with a slap.

Riza gasps. Roy sputters with wild laughter. He clasps a hand over his mouth, gaze flashing towards the stairs. I hold my breath alongside them. I've only seen Berthold Hawkeye twice in my life – once when I was very little and he saved our house from a landslide and once on the graveyard. I don't recall the funeral of his wife, but I always steer clear of where her grave is – he looked like a spectre that one day, standing, staring, unmoving. Were it not for his size, I would have mistaken him for a tombstone.

Riza giggles, breaking the tension. I tear my gaze off the ceiling where I assume Hawkeye is somewhere above us. Roy has taken a plate that he now comically sways back and forth under the runaway tomato as if it could drop anywhere. His eyes are shining at the way it cracks Riza up.

I slam the apron onto the table and rise to my feet. Riza stills, falls mute as I storm past them and out of the house. I don't know where I'm going, just away. I pass the window of the secret room but it never occurs to me to spy inside. I'm done caring for anything concerning that stupid chit and her stupid non-existent charms.

There's no path. The grass is trimmed but wet, turning the leather of my shoes dark. I stare at them, stare hard, will my eyes not to cry.

Steps swish closer behind me.

"Hey," Roy sounds quizzical, "you okay?" Quizzical and cautious and I hate it.

"I like you." I blurt. I don't want to be cautious anymore, I just want him to like me back.

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

I want to cry. Swallowing at the lump in my throat, I turn around. Maybe he's so taken with Riza because he pities her. Maybe I can make him pity me.

Also I feel like shit. I couldn't keep a straight face even if I wanted to. My chest aches.

Roy pulls a bit of a face, alarmed. Concerned. Oh, how my pathetic heart keens with happiness. "Here, let's—" He looks around, then gestures to a small bench beneath a leafless quince tree. "Let's talk."

We sit down. I don't say anything. My mind is playing tricks on me, sowing hope.

He finally asks, "Did you mean like like?"

"I don't know." Depends on what he'll say. Still, it doesn't change how handsome he is. The tendons of his hand flex fetchingly. I glue my eyes to his Adam's apple, waiting for it to bob, for him to wet his lips or scratch the hints of stubbles on his angular jaw.

My mother would disown me if she knew how much I want to touch his face.

Roy meets my itching eyes. "I'm sorry if I sent you the wrong signals. I didn't mean to hurt you." Handsome and kind. So kind. Gosh, now I want to cry even more. I'm losing the catch of a lifetime. "Did I… send you signals?"

Great. First he apologises and now— What, he wants to make sure he won't hurt anyone else in the future? I'd retake bloody needlework a hundred times if I could rewrite fate and get this boy.

"No," I finally sigh. "Not in a million years. At least not to anyone who isn't…" I gnash my teeth. My throat remains tight but my eyes don't blur. Anger wins this round.

"Phew." Roy sinks into the backrest. "Again, I'm sorry if I hurt you. Or most other girls."

"Only most?"

"I take against bullies."

"Right." I swallow. He means Annabel and the girls from Riza's class. I hope. "I'm sorry too," I say despite myself. "I shouldn't have said that, knowing you have a girlfriend." Even though it was on purpose. In a futile, dumb way. I did mean to hurt her, but him… I guess she doesn't deserve it either.

"Huh?" Roy sits up straight. And is he blushing?

"Never mind." I get up. Screw needlework. I'll get someone to give me their project for the final examination. I can't stand being here any longer.

"I didn't— I mean, did— did she say that?" He bends down to pick a few remaining wildflowers from between the stepping stones that lead to the front gate.

I want to facepalm myself. Better yet, smack him upside the head. "You haven't told her?" Honestly? He shouldn't have to; it's blatantly obvious. Painfully so.

"Told her what?" Roy poorly overplays. Even though he caught on to who I'm referring to without problems… He's still got that tinge of pink crowning his cheeks, and with the measly bouquet in both hands, his voice unsure… Good lord, if I'd known he could act this shyly, I would have never confessed in the first place.

He runs his fingers through his hair as if anything would ever stay in place. No, no, this is only making it worse. Better worse – still attractive. Still cute, shy and all. Maybe even more so. I want to cry again. And leave. I can't let this fool steal himself right back into my broken heart. The bastard.

We enter the house and I grab the snippets of my sewing project and leave right away. I try not to turn on my way down the path to the gate but I can't help it. Roy hasn't closed the front door yet. He's hiding the flowers behind his back for precisely two seconds before presenting them somewhat hastily, charmingly, as if to apologise to his obtuse, oblivious not‑girlfriend about talking alone with me.

Lucky bastards, both of them.

Would love to know what you think of this chapter.

If you have suggestions for situations/POV people, I'd be happy to hear ^^