… So much for two weeks, right? Well, in my defense, I had to write this thing twice and found it a very tricky prompt, and then my beta had a very busy life for a little while, though now she got it to me. Thanks to AprilJoy for that. Here you go! Enjoy!

Theme 2: Broken Pieces.

A quaint little thing, a gun was.

So small, easily held in a hand. Just a little powder and a spark in the right place and next thing you knew it was killing like there was no tomorrow. Kind of reminded Roy of himself.

The spark, that is. And the killing.

It was a small little thing, held in his hand. Pointing at his head.

Damned trigger. That was the tricky part—how was he supposed to pull it? Roy's heart was beating fast as he stared at the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes. Die. Just die, Roy, who needs you anyway?

A hundred answers instantly came to mind, but he stubbornly shoved them away. Forget the promises he'd made to Maes just a few short months ago, forget those people, he had to die. (He wanted, needed to die.)

He hadn't expected it to be quite so hard, is all. Should have been easy; why was his soul different from any other?

The meager cushions on the couch in his small apartment supported him from below. Should he kneel on the floor, so he could properly lie down in death? No, there was nothing proper about this. He deserved nothing proper. Just had to pull the trigger… Pull the trigger and end it all, pull the damn trigger, Roy…

His quick breathing and the roaring in his ears drowned out the jiggle of the key in the lock, of the door opening and spry footsteps intruding in his home.

"Yo, Roy, Gracia made some of that spinach quiche! Remember—"

The voice woke him up too late, and there was a crash of porcelain on the floor, and as his head moved slowly through a sea despair, he barely managed to see Maes before he'd been tackled, gun wrested from his hand and face pressed into the couch. He rubbed his fingers together, a reflexive defensive movement, but he'd already removed his gloves and so it was a useless gesture.

"What the hell are you doing?" Maes roared. The gun clattered to the floor, thrown aside, and a second hand joined the first in holding Roy against the back of the couch. It didn't help; Roy wasn't fighting him anyway. Just closing his eyes, wishing he could feel the sting of tears, instead of just the nameless mess inside him gnawing away at anything with any emotion left.

His old friend pulled him back, slightly, still holding tight to his arms, and demanded again in a voice tight with betrayal, "What the hell did you think you were doing, Roy?"

"I'm sorry," Roy breathed. He hadn't meant… People to live for. He had people to live for. He didn't even have the excuse of forgetting that—he knew that when he'd held the gun to his own head.

"Sorry? Sorry? Damn you, Roy, did the promises you made three months ago mean absolutely anything to you or did the words just sound pretty?" Maes growled. "Get a grip. You're not the only killer from Ishval! You are, however, the one who was supposed to end it!" The soldier shoved the alchemist hard against the couch as he rose up to his feet. Fear flashed in Maes' eyes, staring at the hopeless form of his best friend, but there was anger there too.

He scooped the gun up off the floor as he made his way to the door, stepping carefully around the mess of porcelain and food that was what was left of Gracia's heavenly spinach quiche. He paused before opening it.

"I can't make you live, Roy. I can save your life over and over, but you're the one who's got to drag your sorry self back into the light." He sighed heavily, toeing a mostly-intact slice of quiche and wondering if Roy was even really listening to him. "You're missing out on the food. It's kind of messed up—but you seem convinced you're still a dog, so I'm sure you won't mind scrounging it off the floor," he added bitterly.

Frustration and helplessness; perhaps it was just to spite the motionless figure on the couch that he left the shattered mess on the floor.

Roy reclined back on the couch after the door had closed. He felt guilty about that little encounter just now, and damn it all if he wasn't also sorry that Gracia's quiche had been wasted. He considered rising to his feet, but it wasn't worth it, not this time.

The first time this had happened, Maes had completely panicked. Threw the gun across the room, slapped Roy across the face, shook him and shook him and swore at him with a voice as terrified as his eyes. Roy had cried, promised never to do it again, and Maes had got him a drink and they stayed in the living room all night. This time, there was fear, but more anger.

Roy sighed—he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger anyway. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He should at least return the dish to the newlyweds, no matter his personal issues. There was some chalk in the closet by the door…

It twisted his stomach to be using any kind of alchemy, but it wasn't flame alchemy, and so he managed to calm his breathing. The blue light made him flinch and his hands would have trembled if they hadn't been pressed to the circle's circumference.

The porcelain dish and its lid sat in the center of the circle, whole and perfect. The remains of the quiche was not as neat; the only thing Roy was any good at with organic matter when it came to alchemy was burning it.

Roy picked up the dish and stared at it for a long moment, wondering if he really had the strength to go to Maes' home after such an encounter. But as much of a coward as he may be, he couldn't resist the need to see Maes again. It was so much easier to live than to die, and he needed his friend.

So he took a breath, slipped on some shoes, and went out the door.

It was with dread that he rang the doorbell and waited for an answer. Roy really wasn't sure who he wanted it to be; Maes or his apparently flawless wife. But he didn't get to choose.

It was Maes.

Roy felt shaky and stupid, standing there outside the door to Maes' apartment holding an empty dish and lid. There was nothing to say, and he half-heartedly lifted the dish two inches, a motion for Maes to take it.

He didn't. Maes stared at him for at least three full minutes, studying his face, and then finally seemed to notice the dish. Looked back up to Roy's face. And just raised one eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," Roy said wretchedly. "I didn't…" He trailed off, not even knowing what he was supposed to say, and swore softly. "I just came to return the dish."

Maes nodded and stood aside, silently inviting him in. Roy could feel the shadows following him, tainting the quaint apartment space, and wondered why Maes bothered standing beside him even now. They made their way to the kitchen, and Maes finally took the dish from him to put it away in a cupboard.

"Thanks for bringing that back. Gracia loves that dish."

Casually, Maes leaned against the countertop. It didn't seem to be a dismissal, and so Roy remained in the kitchen, half-leaning against the kitchen table, barely able to look at his friend. The image of the shattered dish was imprinted on the back of his eyelids, but he didn't know what to look at if he opened them again.

Broken porcelain was never Roy's favorite omen. He still remembered being seven years old and accidentally knocking that Aerugan vase onto the floor and seeing it shatter into a million pieces. Remembered the tears in Chris's eyes when she received word just the next day that her only son had been killed in a skirmish on the southern border.

Roy didn't want a soldier to die this time, and couldn't help but feel a childish superstition allow him relief, since he had fixed it after it had been broken.

Some things were harder to fix.

"Alchemy's pretty useful," Roy said softly. "Able to fix just about anything that breaks. You just have to use it right."

Maes just looked at him, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow and his friend's random rambling.

"But people break too," Roy continued. "And… alchemy doesn't work so well then. You need something else." Finally, finally he managed to meet Maes' eyes. "That's something I just don't have, Maes. But—you do. And I don't mean to be… a burden, or anything, but… that's what I need."

God. It was next to impossible to ask for help without feeling like an utterly pathetic piece of work. Asking Maes to solve all his problems, what was he thinking? Roy stopped leaning against the table and started for the door; he'd outstayed his welcome.

"Damn, Roy, never thought you'd ask."

Roy paused, turned to his friend with altogether too much hope. Maes had a kind of depressed half-smile on his face and was shaking his head. He strode across the kitchen and clapped a hand on Roy's stiffly surprised shoulder.

"I'm no alchemist. I'm a soldier. And more, I'm your friend. Look, you need help, you got me—all you have to do is ask, ever. We may be a broken mess, but at least I'm pretty sure we can find all the pieces around here somewhere."

Relief. Roy opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the sound was stuck in his throat and for the first time that day he felt tears pricking at his eyes. Thank you wouldn't suffice—no words could.

Instead, he wrapped Maes in a hug, clapping him on the back and trying not to cry on the shoulder of the man who was practically his brother.

Sometimes everything shattered, and that was okay, so long as there was someone to put the broken pieces back together again.

Drop a line if you feel so inclined. XD Thanks for reading!

~UnAdulterated