Chapter Text
Riza’s father didn’t chase Mustang away the next day. Or the day after. A week later, he was still there, and meals remained as painfully awkward and silent as they had ever been. No one made eye contact. No one spoke.
This didn’t especially bother Riza, who was more than used to silence. It clearly bothered her father’s apprentice, though. Each meal, the furtive observation of the non-interactions of his table-mates grew either less frequent or more subtle (Riza honestly wasn’t sure which), but never quite went away. Still, for all his confusion and curiosity, he seemed to understand that breaking the silence would be unwise. So they ate in silence, and then Berthold and Mustang disappeared back into the study, leaving Riza alone to clean up.
Within a few weeks, this routine transformed from intriguing novelty to ordinary life.
—
Riza’s classmates were, of course, overflowing with questions about her new housemate. Much to their disappointment, Riza couldn’t provide many answers. He came from Central. His family wasn’t hurting for money. He was fifteen. Yes, of course she had talked to him. No, she most certainly did not know whether he had a girlfriend back home. No, she wasn’t going to ask.
Not that she hadn’t wondered, of course. She wondered all sorts of things about Mustang. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind answering her questions, either, if only she could talk to him without her father around to scold her for trying. They exchanged pleasantries when they bumped into each other outside of meal time, but otherwise her father’s apprentice may as well have been a ghost.
If the old alchemist noticed his apprentice and his daughter sneaking curious glances at the other, he said nothing.
—
The hen squirmed as Riza lay it across her lap. Riza guided its head downward and wrapped the edges of her apron loosely around its neck. She stroked the hen gently, calming it down, but keeping her eyes set on the barn, her mind as detached as she could manage. Her left hand held the hen still while her right hand reached for the knife.
Finally, when she and the hen were both calm enough, she took the knife and slit its throat. Blood dripped out from the wound, pooling between her boots. She dropped the knife and, in one clean motion, snapped its lifeless head away from the body, letting it fall into the growing puddle. She blinked hard and swallowed. The worst part was done.
She heard a gasp behind her and turned over her shoulder to see Mustang’s horrified face. She turned to face him, with the chicken still between her knees, silently hoping he couldn’t tell how close she’d come to crying. She wasn’t so lucky.
“Are you okay!? That was horrible.” Riza didn’t understand why, but his earnest, almost frantic concern made her want to cry even more. She took several breaths before answering.
“I’m fine. It’s just… It’s nothing.” She didn’t look at him.
“It’s clearly not nothing.”
“I…I just… I hate this part. I hate the feeling of death on my hands.” She watched him process her words. Horror, curiosity, and sadness all flashed across his face in turns before he settled on concern.
“I’ve never seen an animal slaughtered before. I can’t imagine having to do something so violent, especially not when I was as young as you are. But we have to eat right? It’s the same as equivalent exchange, the basic principle of alchemy. You cared for the chicken and gave it life, and now its life will sustain us.” His usually loud voice softened, and he put his hand on her shoulder. He was patronizing her. She shrugged his hand off.
“You learn alchemy for a few weeks and you think you know everything? You’re just another stupid bookworm. You don’t know anything real.” Riza glared up at him with all the malice she could muster. Again, his face cycled through a series of expressions: shocked, defensive, insulted–and finally– chagrined.
“I’m…I’m sorry. You looked sad, and I wanted to help…but, I should have kept my big mouth shut. Aunt Kris is always telling me I have to think before I speak if I’m ever going to accomplish anything, and I keep thinking I’ve got the hang of it, and then I go and say something stupid and mess everything up.” He clasped his hands behind his back, standing in what Riza could see was a practiced posture. It was meant to look confident, but the whole effect was ruined by the fact that as he spoke, he shifted from foot to foot.
Riza knew he wanted her forgiveness, but she wasn’t ready to give it. She had been honest with him, and in exchange he’d lectured her like a little kid.
He had acted just like her father.
“The next part is kind of gross, so if you’re squeamish, you’d better leave now,” she said, turning away from him as she stood, holding the dead chicken out a little ways. To her surprise, he followed her to the scalding pot hanging over a sunken fire pit and watched as she submerged the chicken, pulled it out, and submerged it again.
He shadowed her for the whole process, right up until the stew pot simmered contentedly on the stove, no longer demanding her constant attention. He didn’t say anything more, and he stayed somewhat distant, but she could feel his keen, curious eyes behind her, studying, observing, learning.
Satisfied with her cooking progress, she turned to him and glared up at him. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence. Then, to her surprise, he answered the question she hadn’t yet asked.
“I’m sorry. I guess I just hadn’t realized how much work you must be doing all the time. Back home, everyone has to help out with chores and cooking and all that, but since I got here I ‘ve been so busy with my studies I hadn’t even thought about the fact that it was just you doing everything. Again, I’m sorry. Aunt Kris would box my ears for sure if she knew I’d been here so long without pitching in.” He stood in the same hands-behind-his-back pose, but this time, the illusion of confidence was ruined by the fact that he was staring holes into his shoes.
Riza didn’t know how to answer him. It hadn’t occurred to her that he could help with the housework, let alone that he should. Berthold certainly never did.
Before she could decide what to say, Mustang started talking again.
“Especially with slaughtering animals. There’s no way you should have to do that when you’re so young, especially since you’re a–”
“A what?” Riza glared at him, challenging him. “Since I’m a what?”
He stared at his shoes again. “Nothing. That was stupid. Sorry. Still, next time, let me do it?”
Riza’s glare sharpened with the edges of amusement that she couldn’t keep hidden. “Sure, City Boy. If you think you can handle it.”