A/N: The result of an unhealthy three-week Royai obsession. Based on the manga and 2009 anime.
Part One of Two - Roy Mustang.
Title and lyrics borrowed from Breathe by Autozamm.
I've proof-read this but do let me know if there are any mistakes or typos.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It takes all my breath just to say how much I'm feeling
But words keep failing me now
o-o-o-o-o
They stop by her hometown on the way back from Resembool. She had not wanted to but he had insisted.
Berthold Hawkeye's tombstone is half green with moss. He helps her scrape the engraved letters clean and then watches as she stands there and stares with an unreadable face. Over the years, he has learnt the intricate manner in which she works, how to read her body language and subtle tell-tale signs in the ways she frowns or smiles or simply keeps silent, but at this moment, he finds that he has trouble deciphering her. She and he father had had an unusual relationship. Neither had been outwardly affectionate to one another, or perhaps they had, just not in front of him.
Still, it is hard to picture Master Hawkeye focusing on anything else but alchemy. He is reminded of her tattoo, then, and for the thousandth time, can't help but wonder if it had been granted or forced onto her.
They stand at the same spot they did five years ago but now with different postures, different goals, a different outlook on life. They are innocent and naïve no longer.
She asks later if they could drop by the old Hawkeye manor and he agrees. He had spent a great deal of his late-teenage years there, after all, and he is keen for a visit. The place is now a bed and breakfast, and the proprietor—after one look at their military uniforms—is more than happy to let them wander around after she explains. He follows as she walks down old, familiar hallways, looking around with a sense of nostalgia. The walls have been repainted and most of the place has been refurbished but he can still remember simple details like how the living room used to be laid out and that little crack in the bricks on top of the fireplace.
They pass all the rooms without entering and she only stops at one on the east end of the second floor. He knows this room well—it was where he had first seen his Master's fruits of labour. He can recall where the bed used to be, where the desk and closet were pushed up against the walls. He remembers his awe and shock and horror, remembers the way she had shivered under his fingertips.
She walks around the room slowly, only touching with her eyes, and he stays by the doorway to give her some space. Maybe this is cathartic for her, in a way, like the time he scarred her for life. She looks out the window and as she stands there, framed by sunlight and shadow, a vision of a younger, shorter-haired girl flashes in his head. He closes his eyes and turns away, as if not wanting to intrude into her thoughts.
Their train to East City arrives in half an hour. The station is as small and quaint as he remembers, and while they sit waiting on a bench, she thanks him quietly for deciding to stop here. He just smiles in response, then he spies a man and a cart nearby, selling the crusty lamb pies that the town is so well-known for, and his stomach starts to rumble at the sight and smell.
"Would you like one?" he asks, and the way the corner of her lips curve up is enough of an answer.
o-o-o-o-o
Oxygen, he thinks. Carbon. Hydrogen. Calcium. Phosphorus.
Obey the military. Do not create gold. Do not create humans.
He looks down at the newly filled grave and raises his face to the sky. Down, then up again. The smell of fresh soil fills his nostrils. His vision is starting to become blurry. He sobs, holds his breath for a little while, and then breaks down quietly, broad shoulders trembling and gloved fingers pressed against his eyes. She stands close—a motionless, reserved but comforting presence, and does not make a sound as his walls come tumbling down. He will let no one save her see this facet of himself.
When she drives him back later that night, he keeps his mind occupied by going over the what-ifs and theories and conjectures arising from his investigation so far. He is so deep in thought that he doesn't even realise they have arrived until the car slows to a halt. She pulls the parking brake and then they simply sit there in a familial silence. He looks up at his dark, empty townhouse and dreads the sudden loneliness it represents. He can still smell the soil from the cemetery, hear the cries of anguish from little Elicia Hughes. The dagger in his chest twists and plunges deeper.
Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, calcium and phosphorus. It is strange to think that such simple elements make up most of a human being, and it is alarming how his mind is thinking only one thing—Where would I get phosphorus at this hour?
Be thou for the people. Obey the military. Do not create gold. Do not create humans.
Tonight… is going to be a long night.
She reads him like a book, as she always does. "… Do you want me to stay?" she asks softly and it is not First Lieutenant Hawkeye but Riza who speaks. He massages the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily, feeling the back of his cranium throb in rhythm with his pulse. The day has been a whirlwind of emotions and her offer is tempting but he knows better. Now is not the time to be giving into this. They cannot afford to just yet.
"Thank you," he answers gratefully. "But I'll be okay."
She has kept the car going and he is glad for that, because he isn't sure just how firm his resolve would have been if she had turned the ignition off. She reaches over to touch his wrist lightly and her warmth seeps through the fabric of his glove and spreads to his entire being. He pulls the glove off with his other hand and holds onto her, soaking up comfort like a sponge. His thumb runs over her knuckles gently and when he raises his gaze to look at her, he knows her hazel eyes are saying, I understand.
o-o-o-o-o
The Madame places an empty glass before him. "Tonic water," he says and she grunts in acknowledgement. Vanessa sits close to him, pulling onto his scarf teasingly, flirting outrageously as she always does. He flirts back just as daringly, always with a glib mouth but never with his heart. They all know how easily he slips in and out of his second skin and the girls, although disappointed at first, now think nothing of it.
When Vanessa moves onto her next conquest and they are finally alone, Chris Mustang leans against the counter and stubs out her cigarette in a half empty ashtray. He has grown up with the scent of tobacco and soot but still cannot help wrinkling his nose at the smell.
"So," she starts in a low voice. "What happened to Elizabeth?"
"I told you, someone else took her," he replies curtly.
"Huh…" she grunts with a shrug, scratching her head. "I figured she finally got sick of covering your ass and left."
He gives her a small, lopsided smile, despite the situation, and runs a finger along the rim of his drink, uneasiness clouding his onyx eyes, watching a drop of liquid slowly slide down the wall of the glass into the pool below. The ripples disappear as quickly as they had formed. "… I should have seen it coming," he admits quietly. In chess, you learn to predict your opponent's moves, but no, he had been too confident, too bold in his actions, and it has cost him dearly. He wonders how long it will take him to get used to the absence of someone who has been by his side for the past five years.
The Madame's expression indicates that she understands him perfectly, regardless of how vague his words are. "I'm sure she'll be fine," she says harshly, though he knows her well enough to sense the consoling reassurance in her hard tone. She is right, of course, and he doesn't disagree. The Lieutenant should be safe—relatively speaking—as long as he plays his cards correctly. After all, why kill a hostage if you want leverage on your enemy?
It is only the thought of her being so close to a Homunculus—especially one like King Bradley—that frightens him to the core.
Madame Christmas catches the deep frown on his face and asks flatly, "Want me to put some surveillance on her?" Her words make him pause, then he shakes his head firmly, feeling a little guilty for actually considering the proposition. He won't spy on his own people, especially her. He owes her far too much to go behind her back like that.
The Madame sees through him easily enough. She smirks, reaching into her coat for a pack of cigarettes, and slips a roll out. "One of these days, kid, you're gonna regret holding out for so long," she mumbles, lighting up.
He doesn't answer and just lifts the glass to his lips.
o-o-o-o-o
He drives home, flowers and all, stops by the gate and turns the engine off. The road ahead is brightly lit, tiny insects fluttering about the streetlamps, mirroring the emotion in his chest. He still can't get the memory out of his head—the mild strain in her tone, the way she caught her breath. He didn't need to be face to face with her to sense her utter relief. He had heard it right from that subtle, quiet sigh.
Something is wrong. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach. Fingers clenching around the steering wheel, he starts the car again. There is a cautious voice in the back of his head warning him of the consequences of his actions, because who can tell, really, how carefully they are both being watched? If anything, this would only tighten the Homunculi's chain around his neck, and yet, he knows he will end up tossing and turning in bed tonight if he doesn't do this.
Her neighbourhood is quiet at this hour. He parks on the opposite side of the road and peers through the windscreen. When he sees that her lights are still on, his spirits lift slightly. Good. He'll be able to see something, at least.
He spends the next few minutes simply studying the window. He couldn't make anything out. No shadows, no movements, just bright yellow the colour of her hair. The anxiety gnawing at his guts is not easily placated and the logical alchemist within him is beginning to question his actions. Really, what else does he think he can do from here? What does he expect to see? Nothing seems out of the ordinary and yet, there had been something in the way she had breathed over the phone. Has Bradley done or said something to her?
Roy jerks when he suddenly sees a shadow darting across the room. Then a silhouette of her passes by the window and he exhales deeply, not even realising he has been holding his breath the entire time. He opens the door to step out, leaning against the car. Just once more, he says to himself. He just needs to get a better look, just needs see her face to reassure his pounding heart and nagging instinct.
She reappears a moment later to draw the curtains, hair down and a towel around her shoulders, and he straightens up when she catches sight of him, unsure of what her reaction would be. She pauses, then unlatches the window and leans out into the night, looking up and down the street a couple of times before settling on him. She doesn't say a word.
They stare at one another silently. He swallows the lump in his throat and sighs again, heartened by her countenance. He knows from her expression that things aren't absolutely right—how can they be, with everything that has happened? There is no surprise or curiosity on her face, however, just plain gratitude and he realises, then, that he has done the right thing—for himself and somehow, for her also—by coming here tonight. She is safe and alive, and that is all he needs to see.
He notices after a while that she is pondering over the flowers in his backseat. Shrugging, he gives her a sheepish smile, raising a hand in a half salute. She returns the gesture, then he jumps back into the car and heads home for the second time that night.
o-o-o-o-o
He'd thought that letting the homunculus Envy live was the hardest thing he has had to do in his life. He is wrong—so very wrong—because this, here, now, is a million times harder than that.
He struggles and screams and pulls with all his might but all he ends up with are burning muscles and a sweat filled vision, an indifferent cackle in the background and beautiful blonde hair soaking in a puddle of blood. He heaves against his captors, fingers straining to a curl, anything that can give him a spark because that is all he needs to render them all to a burning crisp. I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch! I'll fucking kill you! The thoughts of rage hammer violently in his head and he only realises that he has roared the words aloud when the man holding onto that glowing vial of red widens his grin and taunts him again.
He had been prepared to do human transmutation once—months ago as he had stood by the tombstone of a murdered comrade. And now, through the whirlwind of contradicting ideas in his mind, he finds himself actually trying to remember the principles and theory of the forbidden alchemy (Oxygencarbonhydrogennitrogen—), trying to ignore the small part of himself that is urging him to stop, trying to form a coherent plan amidst the mental haywire that is telling him that he has to save her.
Not like Maes. I won't lose you like Maes. He won't be burned twice. I can't lose you like Maes.
And yet, just one look into her eyes—honey brown with a fiery defiance even in this moment of despair—and he understands how this will end. He chokes back another scream of anger and frustration. I can't lose you. He breathes hard, his struggling gradually ceasing, feeling his energy draining at the realisation. I can't lose you, but I can't make this mistake again. His head hangs low in defeat.
He has betrayed her once and hurt her twice already, and if these precious seconds are to be their last together, he can't bring himself to go against her will. He won't be this selfish, no matter how hard it is to see her in pain, no matter how hard it is to watch the life seep away from her.
"… Alright," he whispers hoarsely. He won't be this selfish, no matter how much he needs her. "Alright, Lieutenant."
o-o-o-o-o
Young Elicia stares up at him with round, emerald eyes as he sits on the couch, her small, chubby fingers playing with the hem of her skirt. Her eyebrows are raised and her forehead furrowed, as if she is thinking hard about what to say. He can't help but realise how different she seems now. Can't help but see a shadow of Maes Hughes in her profile.
Gracia returns from the kitchen with a tray and he accepts the cup of tea gratefully. Elicia then turns her attention to Riza, who is next to him, and studies her fixatedly, loitering by her mother.
"It's rude to stare, Elicia," Gracia chastises gently and the little girl turns red and buries her face into her mother's dress, evoking a smile from his adjutant. The conversation moves on to ordinary issues—how are he and the Lieutenant recovering? Is the military coping alright with the events of the past weeks? And what about the Elric brothers and Winry Rockbell?
"They're very well. I'm sure they will drop by for a visit soon," he says, lifting the cup to his lips. There is a pause as he takes a sip and it grows into a pregnant silence. He shares a quick look with Riza and her head inclines slightly in response. Placing her cup and saucer on the coffee table, she clears her throat and slowly stands up. Gracia blinks in surprise at first, then catches his meaning as his eyes hover over to the small girl in her lap.
"Elicia dear, why don't you show Lieutenant Hawkeye the doll you got for your birthday?" Gracia says gently, patting her daughter's head. Elicia brightens up visibly, as if pleased with any opportunity to show off her toys. "Do you like to play?" she asks Riza shyly.
"Uh-huh," Riza beams and that is enough of an answer for the toddler as she scampers off excitedly. The Lieutenant gives him a sidelong glance as she leaves and he nods his thanks. He waits until he and Gracia are alone and then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and says quietly, "I found him."
Gracia stares without a word and he knows from the way her hands start to tremble that she understands exactly who he means. She sets her cup down and closes her eyes, a hand to her mouth to muffle a choked sob, and her demeanour crumbles. He sits rigidly as her tears start to fall, feeling a cold chill wrap around his heart. Should he have kept this from her? Is this what Maes would have wanted? He reaches into his pocket and offers her his handkerchief.
"… Did you kill him?" she finally whispers, as if knowing all along that that had been his intention. They are ugly words from someone so placid, so hidden from the brutality of war and violence of the military.
"No," he answers and tries to ignore the fact that there is guilt in his voice. "But he's dead." And why does he sound so defensive?
Another sob and she dabs her swollen eyes with the silky fabric. "Tell me everything," she says, and it is a demand, not a request.
He obeys and only omits one detail. There is no need for her to know exactly how Maes had been caught off guard.
o-o-o-o-o
It is moments like this with her that he treasures deeply, when all they share is a warm silence and a distinct awareness of one another. He likes that they can simply sit side by side without a word and bask in each other's presence. She is quiet as she leans an elbow against the car window and looks outside, shadow and light taking turns to blanket her face at each streetlamp they pass. Her hand rests by her seat, mere inches from his own on the gear stick. No doubt she is as fatigued as he is. It has been a long day for both of them.
The roads are mostly deserted at this hour of the night. He tells her that he may be heading to Ishval next week to see how the next phase of the rebuild is progressing. Would she like to come?
"You know you don't have to ask, sir," she answers, glancing over to him and he gives a low chuckle. "Just wanted to be polite," he counters. Even with his attention on the road, he can almost hear the tiny small on her lips.
They reach her place five minutes later and then, both of them simply sit there in their seats, unmoving. He finds himself staring at the steering wheel, going over his usual thoughts about how he doesn't want her to leave just yet and wondering why all he can hear is her breathing. When she turns to him, he automatically meets her gaze. "I appreciate the ride. Good night, sir." Her tone is level and formal as she opens the car door a crack.
It started with two people in a cemetery a decade ago and maybe, just maybe, he thinks now, it can finally change here with two people in a car in front of her apartment block.
"Riza," he calls and catches hold of her hand. Her caramel eyes dart straight to him and one look into them is enough to convince him and allay what little uncertainty he has. Leaning over, he pulls her close and kisses her softly, fingertips tracing her jaw and the dip in her neck. He hears a muted gasp and isn't quite sure if it's his or hers, and then she is gradually pressing up to him and her fingers are weaving around his lapel and collar and through his hair and he decides that he quite likes having them there.
When they part, taking in short, shallow breaths, foreheads touching and noses bumping, he feels her sigh, an almost inaudible "Mmm..." against his cheek and that simple sound says more than she ever could. He closes his eyes and takes in her scent and knows that this connection between them—right here, right now, a chemistry even more ancient that alchemy—is the life force that has kept him going all this time and it is all he wants to feel for the rest of his existence.
She sighs again, sharing his quiet contentment, and finally murmurs, "Good night, Roy." Her hand trails down the front of his jacket, filling him with warmth and longing, and the way his fingers linger on her skin when she slowly pulls away tells her the words he doesn't need to say out loud. When he is left alone in the car, he watches with wild, racing thoughts as she crosses the street, leaning back in his seat just as she gives him one last look before disappearing behind the double doors.
He stays motionless, the low rumble of the engine rattling his bones, closing his eyes and feeling her against him and drawn to that last alluring glance from her. This sensation, this response—is it only this intense because they have waited so long, or simply because they have always been two halves of a single soul?
Yes. Perhaps they can finally afford to have this changed tonight.
He turns the car engine off and opens the door.
o-o-o-o-o
All I ever needed was you, to wait
To breathe as one, to breathe as one
A/N: Feedback is much appreciated.