A/N: Here's my contribution to the prompt "Skin" for Royai Week. Enjoy,! :)

Every mark, every imperfection upon their skin is itself a story to be told. Stories that collide and intertwine so severely that telling the stories of only one would do no justice unless the tales of the other be told as well.

Upon her back a story of familial devotion, of betrayal, of dreams that were consumed by flames, and then subsequently raised from the roaring fire like a phoenix. Curved, perfect lines crisscrossing and intersecting to weave and tell the tale of a perfected, deadly art. They form an array so potent and amazing that the only parchment worthy of its inscription is the flawless, impeccable skin of Riza Hawkeye, the artist's daughter.

These lines and their woven tales, however, are interrupted –marred- by the very art they are designated to define. The ugly, raised scars that disrupt them demand their story be told; a tale that is filled with muffled screams and silent tears and whispered apologies that once fell on deaf ears.

Then there is her neck. The raised disfigurement once stained bright crimson racing from her collarbone to her opposite ear tells of heartache and desperation, and a life that dangled by a simple thread. To see it causes a pang of guilt that rocks him to his core, reminding him just how close he was to having his story become a tragedy.

He, however, is not without scars that told his tale.

Upon the skin of his fingers are scars that tell tales of the infernal, fiery beast that occasionally bites him back whenever he calls upon it to do his bidding. Skin forever calloused and rough from the devastating hellfire he used to consume the lives of thousands of innocent souls. These scars and imperfections inflicted upon his skin constantly remind him of the blood that would forever remain on his hands… and hers.

The old wound on his side tells an entirely different tale: a tale of loyalty, determination, and lust for retribution. It has a semblance to the marks on her back; though this is something he could bear to look at without an overwhelming sense of regret…

Using the glow of the moonlight as his guide, Roy Mustang carefully reached out and brushed calloused, guilty fingers across the ugly and twisted skin on her shoulder, causing her to tense.

Inhaling deeply, Riza shifted and rolled over to face him, her brows knitted together with concern. She whispered his name and he shook his head dismissively, muttering that there was nothing to worry about as he smiled lightly.

Unconvinced by this, she reached out and delicately ran her hand down his arm, stopping when she came to his scar. Her eyes wandered to it as she moved her hand from his forearm to his side.

Moving one hand to rest atop hers, he reached out with the other and pressed it against her cheek. When her sherry eyes flickered up to find his, they shared a brief, silent exchange before she accepted his muted claims and ducked away from the hand on her cheek and nestled into his chest, bare skin pressed against bare skin.

Reaching around her, Roy pulled her even closer and rested his chin atop her head. As he absently rubbed small circles on the tarnished skin of her shoulder, he could feel her grip on his side loosen as she began to drift once more, a content sigh escaping her as she once again slipped back into her dreams.

After following suit and closing his eyes as well, Roy soon found that he was lingering aimlessly on the edge of wakefulness and sleep, his mind still swimming with thoughts of blood and fire.

But then… A small breath from Riza bathed his chest with warm air and drew him from his recollections and away from the darkness that had begun to set in. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he closed his eyes again and focused on her quiet breathing and the warmth of her skin against his as he, at last, began to succumb to sleep…

Every mark, every imperfection upon their skin is itself a story to be told. Their skin holds tales of tears and guilt, redemption and love. Stories and lives so intertwined that, without the other, they would be incomplete.