Thank you, Golden Flame 611, for suggesting I do Roy (and Riza) too! And for all your other inspiring suggestions. Here's the first result:
Roy
I lift the spoon to my mouth. The stew smells delicious. The scent seeps into nose and mouth, smoothing warmly down my throat. Ginger tickles my tongue, zaps sharply amidst shreds of tender meat and sweet carrots that have a hint of crunch left. Gosh, I love Riza's cooking.
I want to say so, ask her how she did it. Instead, my gaze drifts to the side.
Master is eating with us.
He never eats downstairs anymore. I doubt he did so before my arrival. He was there twice when I first started my apprenticeship. Riza would make the food for us and leave. I ate alone for a few weeks, Master never even showing hints of hunger, cooped up in his study.
"Father." Her voice would be faint, fragile. She would knock and wait, then wait some more. Sometimes, she would summon up the courage to open the door – either to find him not noticing her nor the food placed on his desk, or to be snapped at to leave. Other times she would give up and carry the tray back downstairs. The tray with food, water, tea, and that tiny vase with a single hurtsickle.
Once I had worked out Riza's purposefully evasive schedule, we ate together in an awkward half-silence that turned into a less awkward monologue on my part.
Now almost three years later, it's become unthinkable not to eat together and chat. Master is nearly always secluded upstairs and doesn't listen, doesn't notice anyway.
Only now he's here and I don't know what to make of it. He wasn't here for the turn of the year, Riza told me. I offered to take her to Central with me for the next holiday but she refused; had to prepare meals for Master, keep an eye on the chickens… I think she secretly wanted to come. I wanted her to come.
Cutlery clinks. No one speaks.
The bare lightbulb above the table flickers dimly.
Master doesn't go back for seconds like I do. When we pass around the bread, it hovers near him, unheeded, has to find a spot on the table on its own. He doesn't take another slice. Not staring at him is as hard as it's easy – you want to know how someone can eat by barely opening his mouth. I don't hear his spoon against the soup plate, nor do I hear him swallow. At the same time, all of those things make you look away. The entirety of him doesn't particularly invite you to ogle.
"Jeffery was at the pharmacy again yesterday," I say into the silence. The name usually conjures a smile onto Riza's lips – at least when I say it. The buffoon. "Mrs Moore says he gets to learn on trial; blend some medicine, so we should stay clear of the pharmacy for the next three days." He won't last much longer.
Riza's eyes briefly flash up at me. Amusement. Yes!
I open my mouth but the words stumble to a halt when Master's dusty voice surprises us.
"It's admirable…"
He pauses. I watch him dab the last crumbs of his initial slice of bread into the stew, his fingers dripping with thick broth.
"… to be accepted for an apothecary position."
Another pause. I think.
I wait for a little longer, balance spring onion on my spoon, but he has ended his speech. Riza's gaze wanders down to her plate and won't come up for the duration of the meal.
Master stands. The chair squeaks across the old floorboards, his steps don't. The stairs alone betray his presence as he ascends.
I have to hurry to catch up. Master hates it when I open a door he already closed.
As fleetly as I can, I gather up our plates.
"Sorry," I begin to say but Riza shakes her head. She jerks her chin towards the stairs and I relent, leaving cleaning to her.
"I need to do homework as well," she tells me softly. Tenuously, I find. I haven't heard her voice being this brittle in a long while. And she finished her homework this afternoon like she always does – she needs all the time she can get at the weekend to keep up with housework or her jobs. Master doesn't exactly provide a solid income.
I don't have the time to ask her about it, hasting up the stairs. Master hates the noise too, but the door-opening is worse. I find him sitting at his desk, wiping his fingers on a holey handkerchief. His alchemy scriptures, he wouldn't sully.
My back is straight and my mind sharp as he reads a passage from a book.
Alchemy homework is nothing like school homework. There's no direct question, no clear answer to be sought. You need to find out what the question could be, how it would be answered, and then hope it was the correct question to begin with. It's research. Your sources aren't pages from the current unit in a book, your sources are the world and its elements. Any book could hold the answer. Any book could get me closer or lead me astray.
Sometimes I think it could be easier. Master is a riddle so he makes my assignments riddles. A different teacher might give me clearer instructions. I'd like to think that I will greatly benefit from this more difficult approach.
It's ten thirty when he ceases replying to my appeals for clues. It's well past midnight when I close the book I deemed the most useful for this task. I can hardly tell the letters apart anymore. My eyes are crusted and dry. Closing them is tempting, but I need to get changed first, brush my teeth…
The divine stew still envelopes my tastebuds. I don't want to get rid of its taste. I would have gone for a third helping if Master hadn't gotten up. Maybe it's not too late to grab a bowl…?
I chance a glance down the stairs. Pitch‑black. Riza must have closed the panel shutters. I should be glad – and I am – that she isn't still up, washing dishes. She wouldn't be at midnight.
There was this one time when she was though. It was after a school trip – puny as it was – to the neighbouring village where they have a foundry to make train tracks or tank hulls. Master must have ignored ingesting life‑sustaining nourishment of any sort for the first two days. When he did eat on the third – unsupervised – it was such a disaster that I'm still not sure it wasn't an alchemic experiment gone wrong. Riza was left to scrub the ruined pan all night. Literally.
I transmuted ice for her bleeding fingers when I found her.
I'm still indecisive about the stew. There's something about Riza's cooking that rivals sweets. It draws you in at unholy hours. It tricks you into tricking yourself. Just one more bite, just one more spoon, just one more bowl and whoops, you emptied the fridge.
Or maybe that's just me. Honestly, I eat like a horse these days. I also sprouted like one over the past three years and I can't emphasise enough how much of a relief it is. Riza was taller than me when I arrived. No wonder with that father.
It didn't matter back then. It does now. To me it does.
Wringing my hands, I war with myself one last time. Stew isn't sweets it's healthy. One less obstacle for the guilty part of the mind to tackle.
Master won't be out of his study any time soon, but I throw a glance over my shoulder anyway, see if some divine power might keep me from hustling into the kitchen and pour ladle after ladle of that strew down my throat.
The light is on. It stills my churning thoughts.
Below her door, a streak of light. Riza's awake. But it's past midnight. She gets up early to let out the chickens; she should be asleep.
I go down the hall, then creep when I pass Master's study. The night is quiet. The wind isn't seeping in through the marred roof. An owl hoots outside, in the distance.
I knock so softly, I don't hear the first impact of my knuckles. My ears are tingling, my head tense from listening. If Master catches me paying a late‑night visit – any visit at all – to Riza's room…
She didn't hear. My hand hovers at the jamb. I hesitate. My palm is sweating. The doors are thick; I'd have to rap with full power for her to notice me. She always says how when I'm in Master's study, she only ever hears my voice, never the low croaking of her father.
I leave for my own room. Grabbing a piece of paper, I scribble a note and pass it under her door with what I hope is a noticeable rustle. Not too noticeable though. My eyes flicker to Master's study. He prefers candlelight for some reason I'll never understand. It's insufferable. But he likes fire and so the glow from beneath his study's door is much fainter than Riza's.
Nothing.
I push my hands into my pockets. A handkerchief, the housekey, a piece of chalk. I take my hands out again. My eyes drift from her door to his, then to mine. Finally, I can't stand it anymore and leave. She must be busy if she's up this late.
The mattress squeaks when I flop down. I turn to grab my pillow, shuffle it under my head. A deep inhale brings the scent of fresh laundry. Riza doesn't usually do the laundry until Saturday, not until she's done with schoolwork. Maybe they have an upcoming test?
Snuggling into the pillow – in my day's clothes; Riza would scold me if she knew – I close my eyes. There must be a way to be of use to her. I helped with homework before. She must not want to be a bother this late not to ask me. I'm great with literature.
A rustle. I shoot up from the bed. A note. Under my door. I skim it more than reading. Wishing me a good night is all I remember, focusing on a noiseless pursuit.
Her door isn't fully shut yet. I hark, sneak up to it, into the cone of light. When the door doesn't close at all, I nudge it open. And look behind me.
No sign of Master Hawkeye. He could appear at any point in time. He goes to sleep and stands up so randomly, his body must hate him.
When I turn around again, Riza is watching me with puzzlement. Without thinking, I enter and close the door behind me. My hand twitches to grab the doorknob, exit on the spot if I'm unwelcomed. This isn't exactly a boundary I've pushed in the past. We joke around, we eat together, I pick her up after school, she'll even link her hand onto my arm on occasion – sweet, rare, heart‑racing occasion – but I've never been to her room, not in all these years.
Off limits is the understatement of the century.
Hand still fumbling nervously with the doorknob, I find I'm not being judged at all, much less considered. Riza is back at her desk.
It's where mine stands in my room, under the window. The bed looks ancient, the wooden frame gnawed on by long‑gone bugs. The difference between her bed and mine is that hers is meticulously made, like that of some fancy Central hotel.
I edge my way towards the desk.
"You're up late," I note. She merely sighs. "Exam coming up?"
"Just studies," Riza says. Her body says so much more.
Tired for one. Her shoulders are slumped – resignment, exhaustion. Her hand is stained with ink. She shifts the pen now and again, stretches her fingers as if they were the bare bones of a corpse, gone rigid. Her head longs to hang, it really does, but she won't let it, not even support it with her other hand which turns the page of what I recognise is a chemistry book.
She could use a massage, it shoots into my head, promptly stoking up my cheeks. Her neck is all stiff and unhappy.
"You don't have chemistry class until next year." I frown at the book. It's too advanced anyway. If she were to pursue a higher education and stay another term past her sixteenth birthday, they might come as far as chapter three, not eight. "Or is this to correct my most avoidable mistakes? Hey, you do want to be my studying partner!" I laugh. Quietly.
I'm about to pat her back, maybe very jokingly, very very lightly do one of those drumming‑karate‑chop massages they do for top athletes before a big match, just for a moment, when she sags against me.
My entire ribcage bolts. My heart chokes me in my throat, a scorching heat rushing down the length of my spine.
Riza sighs again. Her head drops against my chest, eyes closing.
Holy shit.
Hands a flinching mess, I don't know where to put them, whether to put them anywhere at all, how to breathe with my lungs constricting painfully.
If Master enters now – enters her room, where I'm in, at night, his daughter leaning on me – then I will die an agonising, unapologetic death. He will murder me.
"…" I try but fail to pronounce her name.
"I don't care for chemistry," Riza whispers. There's no need to hold my breath to hear her because no breath has entered me yet. "I don't care for becoming a pharmacist either."
A Pharmacist?
Oh…
Breath finally flows. It's my turn to sigh. "Riza," my hands hover, eventually dare enclosing her, "you don't need to become a pharmacist for Master to be proud."
"You're right, because he won't be no matter what I do." She corrects her posture, shuts the book with a snap.
And just like that it's over. I command my treacherous heart to still, for my mind to focus on her, not me. This isn't about us, it's about her. Time to be a friend, a listener, a mental supporter, not a boyfriend— What am I saying?
"It's alright, Mr Mustang. Not even you could get him to see me."
I realise how I haven't pulled my hands away. Gingerly, reluctantly, I do. At least I start to. Slowly. Reluctantly – did I mention that?
"If it's any consolation, he'd see right through me if I wasn't asking about alchemy. In fact, he tried very hard not to see me when I applied, and if it wasn't for my aunt pleading for me to get the apprenticeship, well…"
Hold on, Riza isn't jealous that I get his attention when she doesn't, right? I don't want this standing between us. I can't help it. I need to study alchemy. Also if I don't, I won't be allowed to stay here.
Riza's back expands in another sigh, a mute one. I try to focus on what it means, how many emotions she is supressing in those frequent sighs of hers. Definitely not focusing on how I didn't only feel her back but briefly, her chest against my arm too.
"Don't mind what he said earlier. Tomorrow, he won't be thinking about klutz Jeffery anymore. He probably forgot all about him already."
"I do mind." Riza's brows crease sourly. "Even though I know it's no use."
She falls quiet. I mirror her. We hark into the silence of the house. Mentioning Master, how he might not recall Jeffery this very moment – where he is at this very moment – it makes me uneasy. I think Riza is aware now too.
Her whisper becomes a whimper. "Can I stop now?"
"Of course, of course, you can." I reach for her notes, reopen the book and hide them in there.
"I've been trying to make sense of this since I was ten." She shoves the book further away from her. "What a waste…"
"It's not a waste. You proved to yourself that you can do it."
"But I can't!" she cries. I don't hush her, she hushes herself, eyes flitting to the door. I'm entirely unprepared for her arms around me. She grasps my shirt, squishes her face into my chest. "I'm sorry. Thank you."
And then again, it's over. Winding out, brushing down her skirt, she goes to press her ear to the door.
My heart is leaping, joyous and jittery. It vaults into the ceiling when there's a knock on the door. My face drains of colour. Riza waves for me to hide behind the door and I do, my steps uneven, my vision blurring. Shit, shit, shit! I don't want to leave! I don't want to be kicked out into the night, waiting at the station for the first train of the morning, never to see Riza again.
"Father." Riza opens the door as far as she's wide which isn't very wide at all.
"Where is Roy? His room is vacant."
Did I leave my door open?!
"I wouldn't know," Riza calmly says. "Perhaps we went out to see the stars? I think I saw him go out yesterday to do so."
I strain my eyes to glance out the window without moving my head. It's… moderately cloudy. There might be a speck of sky to inspect but not much. Crap, now he'll pay attention to my nightly outings. Which wouldn't be a bad thing if they were only mine, but they're our outings to spot constellations and listen to cicadas sing.
In the forest, if you venture in deep enough, there is a lake. The moon shines on its surface, and when you throw rocks or wait for fish to upset the water, the light speckles the ripples beautifully. It reflects in Riza's eyes like a burst of starshine.
I jump nearly out of my skin when Riza takes my hand. She— I mean—!
My face is a mess of every shade of blush and some more, my heart in a frenzy. Her father. Is. Right. There! I'm behind the door, one hand clasped over my mouth to muffle my breathing, the other sweating oceans into Riza's delicate one.
"See if he locked the front door."
"Yes, father."
Her thumb circles in my palm, almost ticklishly. Her fingers seek to intwine. I hardly feel it, my arm tingling as if stuck in a termite nest. I can't stop swearing inwardly. I'm so dead but I've never felt more alive. I'm delirious with joy.
I'm also feeling delirious for real.
I'm her mental support, mental, I repeat to myself. It doesn't erase the fuzzy twist in my stomach.
Master grumbles something about me and the key; that if I forgot mine, Riza doesn't have to bother letting me in until morning.
"Yes, father." She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
She doesn't have to tell me she would let me in, I know she would. I'm not upset with Master either – my aunt would let me rot in the dark for a while too to teach me a lesson. Tough love, she calls it. Too lazy to get her cigarette‑cured tush to the door is what I call it. Not to her face of course. Heaven knows I'd be living on the streets if I did.
Master's voice becomes less and less intelligible, but Riza always answers what he wants to hear. He keeps on mumbling as he drifts down the hall. Great. Now it's either climbing out the window and coming back through the front door or waiting for him to retire to his chambers at an indeterminable moment in time.
The bathroom door shuts. Can't pretend I'm in there.
Riza releases my hand and goes downstairs. I wait another moment. He does too. When the key grates in the lock downstairs, Master stops paying attention and the water runs in the bathroom. I dart into my room, shut the door and turn off the light. I could have been in the kitchen, stuffing my face with stew for all he cares.
I change clothes in the dark. I tell myself that I'm not brushing my teeth because Master might hear me, not because I want to keep stew taste in my mouth.
Riza's door closes shortly after. She goes to the bathroom after Master retired, then back to her own. Silence falls.
I lie without making the mattress squeal this time. My heart has almost gotten its act together, almost. When I touch my face, warmth still crowns my cheeks. I turn to the wall that borders Riza's room. This was a lot less scandalous that it felt. My sisters would laugh at me.
But Riza needed it. How long has it been since they've talked alone? Do they talk when I'm not here?
… does it always frighten her this much?