Disclaimer: FMA is not mine.

Song: It's Christmas So We'll Stop – Frightened Rabbit

You're a good girl

I'm a good boy,

Or so I thought

Two figures lay beside each other on a mattress on the floor, draped in white sheets that were still crisp, clearly new. It made sense, really, suited the boxes still stacked around in piles three or four high. Very few things appeared to have been unpacked – some clothes, a few plates and cups and the like. Mostly it was the books. There were books scattered throughout the small apartment, piled around the mattress, on the desk, the kitchen counters, propped upside down like tents, half opened, pages dog-eared. Some were new, the binding still stiff; some were well worn, comfortable to the touch like the hand of a lover.

The couple on the mattress, although they would have disputed you if you had used that term – "couple" – did not sleep. Instead, they laughed, the sound strange and foreign to their lips after the past months. The man, who felt that he was still a boy despite all that he had seen, lay sprawled, his long limbs thrown about, arms folded, pillow-like behind his head. The woman – who had considered herself a girl until that evening – lay on her stomach, both legs folded into the air, her chin resting on her folded arms. A large window above them let in a faint shaft of natural light, rain spattering against the glass and providing music for them, an irregular tribal drum beat.

Perhaps we'll eat breakfast together, he mused, comfortable in their silence. I can make eggs and hash browns. Deceiving himself, he realized that if this were to become a habit, he would have to learn to make something else – surely she would stop coming if the menu were so repetitive.

I wonder if he snores, she thought. In all the years that they had lived together as children, she still didn't know the answer to that. She imagined falling asleep on the pillow beneath her – his pillow – nestled beneath the same blankets, feeling the warmth of his body through the night. It would be nice once the snows set in, she told herself, knowing that by that time it would be just what it was right now, a fantasy.

"Riza?" he asks, trying out her name, saying it slowly as to savor every letter. He has said it before, of course, but never like this. She doesn't say anything in response, but when he glances over, she is gazing at him with just her brown eyes peeking above the curve of her arm. "Riza, is this…" Is this real? "Do you want me to open a window? Is it too warm?"

It is only as he says it that he realized how foolish he sounds, the words that had come out so far from the words he had intended.

She smiles anyways.

"Roy, it's raining."

He liked the way she said his name, like it was familiar, as though they did this every night.

He grins at her. "So?" In a sudden fit of enthusiasm, he scrambles to his feet, half dragging the sheets with him.

She rolls over, shaking her head at him. "Roy! What are you doing?"

He glances down at her, standing naked in the moonlight and grinning like a mad man; suddenly self-conscious, she tugs the sheet up over her chest.

"Opening a window." He did as he said, pushing the glass upward. The jungle rhythm grew louder and a fresh, cool breeze drifted in, raising goose bumps on their skin.

She shivers as he slips beneath the sheets next to her.

"Cold?" he asks, whispering against her shoulder.

She giggles, ticklish, then nods. "You didn't need to open the window."

He slips his arm around her stomach and pulls her back against him. "This just gives me an excuse to be closer to you."

They lie there in silence for a while, their breathing falling into rhythm with one another's. This felt so natural, this comfort between them.

They were silent for so long, that when he spoke, he wasn't sure if she was still awake to hear.

"Riza, do you think you'll ever forget?" He doesn't have to elaborate – she knows what he means.

"No," she replies. The mood has changed – it is solemn now. It shouldn't be as familiar to them as it is. "I don't want to, even if I could."

He understands.

"I…" He hesitates, not sure exactly how to say what he is feeling – it's as though his life was missing something until this, as though she is what will help him to heal, to become whole once more. Right now, he is just a fragment of himself, a china cup, as fragile as paper, and the "hammer of war", fighting for the "common good", has descended upon him at last.

Her hand closes over his, and he recovers his voice.

"I'm glad you're here."

Suddenly uncomfortable, she rolls over, onto her stomach once more, putting space between them with relief, as though he has breached some unspoken set of rules. The distance is what is familiar to her.

He gives a small sigh, almost one of regret, though he too is almost relieved by their return to two separate bodies rather than one. He watches her as she begins to pull her clothes on, fumbling around in the dark to find them. Her back is turned to him, but he no longer even notices the black tattoo – all he sees is the scars. New skin stretches across them, dark, red against the white of her shoulders. Guilt bites, and he thinks of her, walking home alone in the dark, arms wrapped tight around herself and he can't let her do it.

"Riza."

She turns, and he reaches out to take her hand; she shies away.

"Don't go."

She meets his eyes and she sees the sadness in his face, something she feels responsible for. His black hair is a mess, sticking out at odd angles and there are circles beneath is eyes, but to her, he is beautiful.

"I don't belong here," she says. She has pledged her life to this man, this boy-child that means so much to her – it is him that gives her hope for the future. A future that she knows does not exist for the two of them.

He doesn't look away.

"Please?"

A/N: Aha! I am back! Very curious what you think - this is a slightly different style than most of my other things, at least I feel it is.